The best way to hide a drop of water is not to seal it in an iron jar and bury it in a cellar, but to pour it into the sea.
The White Knife was the commercial artery of the North, a massive river connecting White Harbor to Winterfell and passing through the lands of several great lords. Countless villages and towns dotted its banks, connected by roads teeming with merchants, sellswords, and travelers. Leaving Bell Toll, Aldric and Kevin melted into the flow of humanity, vanishing without a trace.
Although they no longer had to worry about pursuit from the Long Fish Gang, Aldric's physical condition worsened with every mile.
His breathing became shallow and rapid. He was plagued by a crushing headache, nausea, and vertigo. The nine wounds on his body—previously just shallow cuts and deep bruises—began to seep blood and yellow pus constantly.
With every step of Old Bones, every shift in the saddle, Aldric felt the muscles around the wounds spasm, sending drilling pain through his nerves.
Aldric knew exactly what this was. Infection. Sepsis.
If he didn't get treatment, his body would poison itself, and he would die.
He didn't tell Kevin about the agony. He just kept moving, his jaw set stubbornly. A dark, intrusive thought even tickled the back of his mind: If I die here, will I wake up back on Earth? Back to a world where I don't have to butcher a dozen men in a tavern just to feel human?
Aldric endured the torture in silence. Finally, on the morning of the third day after leaving Bell Toll, his body simply shut down. Without warning, he pitched forward, rolling off Old Bones and crashing heavily into the dirt.
Kevin leaped from his mare, scrambling to his master's side and cradling his heavy head. "Master? Master, what's wrong?"
Aldric didn't answer. His face was flushed a brilliant, feverish red. His breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps, and his eyes rolled back, showing only the whites. He looked moments from death.
"Master, drink some water... water will help..."
Kevin frantically uncorked his leather skin, shoving the wooden spout past Aldric's cracked lips. But the water just spilled down his chin and soaked into his collar. He couldn't swallow.
"Master, it's okay. You'll be okay."
Kevin panicked. He heaved his towering master back onto Old Bones, tying him securely to the saddle horn, and turned the horse around.
Yesterday, they had passed a small farming village. Kevin wanted to take Aldric back there to find a hedge wizard, or a woods witch who knew herbs—or at least a clean bed.
Retracing their steps for over an hour, Aldric's condition showed no sign of improving. His delirious, feverish muttering burned Kevin with anxiety.
Ser John Turner had told his sons that on the battlefield, countless brave warriors survived the melee only to die days later from a single, filthy scratch. Before they died, they were just like this—burning with fever, their minds lost in a fog.
The thought of his invincible master dying silently like this, taken by invisible poison, broke the boy. Tears streamed down Kevin's face uncontrollably.
"Master, you have to get better! You have to!" Kevin wiped his tears with a clenched fist, spurring his horse to a trot.
"Young man. Is this your father? He looks gravely ill."
A bald man in a grey, hooded robe, carrying a worn travel pack, stopped on the side of the road and spoke to Kevin.
Kevin stopped his horse, looking at the man warily. The stranger returned his gaze with open, calm eyes. After a moment, Kevin noticed a small metal pendant carved in the shape of a hammer hanging around the man's neck. Suspicion turned to desperate joy.
"Are you a Brother? A servant of the Seven?"
The man nodded. "I am Brother John, dedicated to the Smith. I am following my mentor's path, on a pilgrimage through the realm."
Kevin bowed in the saddle. "I am Kevin of House Turner, from the Fingers. This is my master, Ser Aldric. I am his squire."
Brother John quickly scanned the giant slumped over the saddle. "Your master is wounded. May I ask how?"
"A few days ago, my master fought a den of cutthroats in White Harbor to avenge a murdered child. He took nine wounds. The fever took him this morning."
Brother John nodded solemnly, stepping closer. He gently pulled back Aldric's tunic and examined the cuts. "The injuries are putrid. He has the fire fever. If the corruption spreads to his heart, he will die. Your journey ends here, Kevin. If you keep moving him, you are only digging his grave."
Hearing the blunt prognosis, Kevin panicked. "Can you help us? We have coin! I can pay the Sept!"
"Speak of coin later," Brother John said gently, closing the tunic and looking around the terrain. "Let's find a cool place to lay him down first."
Under John's direction, Kevin led the horses off the Kingsroad down to a flat, shaded bank by the White Knife. He unloaded their supplies, gathered thick branches, and used their woolen blankets to rig a simple tent to block the sun.
Once the giant was settled on a bed of pine needles, Brother John ordered Kevin to boil river water. The monk then vanished into the forest, returning shortly with a handful of pungent, dark green leaves and small white flowers.
When the water boiled, Brother John meticulously cleaned the pus from Aldric's wounds. He crushed the fresh herbs with a smooth river stone, smeared the stinging green paste deep into the angry cuts, and re-bandaged them with strips torn from a clean linen shirt.
Then, he steeped the remaining herbs into a bitter soup. Once it cooled, he carefully spooned it past Aldric's lips.
Not long after swallowing the medicine, Aldric's ragged breathing smoothed out, his chest rising and falling evenly.
Brother John pressed his ear to Aldric's chest, listening intently for a long moment. He sat back, wiping his brow.
"I have done what I can to draw the heat out," John told Kevin. "But your master is in perilous shape. He needs a real roof and proper rest before nightfall. I will go up to the road and watch for a merchant wagon. May the Mother grant us a kind soul to give us a lift. You stay here and watch him."
Brother John hiked up his grey robes and scrambled back up the embankment. Kevin sat alone in the shade, swatting away river gnats, watching his master's face.
An hour later, Aldric's eyes fluttered open. Seeing Kevin kneeling beside him, his face pale with terror, Aldric managed a weak, grim smile.
"I passed out again..."
Looking at his master—this towering, invincible warrior now pale, weak, and shivering on a blanket—Kevin felt a sudden surge of grief mixed with anger. He couldn't help but complain.
"You should have taken me with you to the Fish Hook."
"The point was to send you away," Aldric whispered, his throat dry. "My gold caused the problem. It was my mistake. I had to fix it myself."
"It was too dangerous! Rushing into a gang den alone with just a sword... it was..." Realizing his tone was disrespectful, Kevin lowered his head. "...It wasn't a wise strategy, Master."
"Sigh. Yes," Aldric admitted, staring at the canopy of leaves above. "But what could I do? Stay in the city for days? Observe their routines? Plan a silent assassination?"
Aldric closed his eyes. "From a purely tactical standpoint, yes. I should have watched the den, planned an escape route, and struck their boss on a dark, windy night while he slept. It would have been cleaner."
"But I didn't dare wait. I was afraid that if I waited, the cold rage in my heart would fade. I was afraid I would realize I am actually a coward who prefers comfort over justice."
Aldric turned his head, looking at the boy. "I was afraid that once I calmed down, I would start calculating if it was 'worth it' to fight a whole syndicate over an orphan I had met twice. Kevin... do you think it was worth it?"
Kevin thought about it, remembering the bruised, broken body of little Jimmy. "I don't know, Master. But my father told me that upholding justice and protecting the weak is the foundation of knighthood. He said it is worth guarding with one's life."
Aldric nodded slowly. "Your father taught you well."
Aldric didn't tell Kevin that the last words Ballard Big Mouth had spoken were a desperate plea asking if Aldric knew 'Ser Gadry of the Inner City.' The gang had noble backing.
"Actually," Aldric continued, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, "before I kicked open that door, and even after—while I was hiding underwater, freezing, listening to the guards search for me—I was asking myself if it was worth it."
"And what is your answer?"
Aldric looked straight into Kevin's eyes. "My answer is that Justice has no price. Therefore, 'worth' does not apply."
He turned his gaze back to the sky. "Everyone has their own measure of justice. To a lord, your justice might be worthless. To you, it might be worth a thousand gold dragons."
"But beating an innocent, hardworking child to death in the mud just to rob someone? That will never be justice. Not in any era. Not in any world."
Aldric's breathing hitched, his fever spiking again. "To the high lords, this is nothing. The murderer pays a blood-fine to the victim's master and walks free. But Jimmy was an orphan. He had no master. No one would pursue it. He came into this world silently, and they would have let him leave it silently."
"It shouldn't be," Aldric rasped, his eyes losing focus. "The world shouldn't be like this. Good people dying for their kindness in alleys, while bad people live fat and happy on their evil."
"It shouldn't be... The butcher wears a crown of gold, while the builder dies in the mud... A man shouldn't be forced to..."
As he spoke, Aldric's face flushed a deep, unhealthy red. His mind blurred. The language he spoke shifted from the Common Tongue of Westeros to the strange, sharp, melodic tongue of his homeland—a language Kevin couldn't comprehend.
Kevin touched Aldric's forehead. It was burning hot again.
He frantically dipped a cloth in the river and placed it on his master's brow. "Master, please. Rest now..."
Aldric continued to rave in his fever dream, trapped in memories of Azeroth and Earth.
A long time later, Brother John returned. He had flagged down a farmer driving a wagon loaded with root vegetables. The driver agreed to take them to the next village for ten Copper Stars.
Kevin paid the driver—handing over a silver stag and telling him to keep the change—and together with John, they lifted the giant onto the pile of turnips.
Brother John sat with the driver. Kevin rode his mare, leading Old Bones and the packhorse behind the wagon.
The nearest village was ten miles away. It was too small to have an inn.
Fortunately, wandering Brothers of the Faith had a sterling reputation among the smallfolk. Even in the North, where the Old Gods held sway, commoners were willing to grant them shelter out of basic human decency.
With John negotiating, they rented a dry, empty barn from a local farmer. The three settled into the hay.
That night, Aldric woke again. A torrential downpour was hammering against the wooden roof of the barn.
Listening to the violent storm, Aldric's mood turned bleak. The fever was burning him from the inside out. He felt his strength entirely gone.
He called Kevin to his side.
"Kevin," Aldric whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain. "If I don't wake up tomorrow, you inherit everything in my packs. The gold, the armor, the weapons. Take them. Ride south. Find a good life."
"Master, stop—"
"Promise me one thing," Aldric interrupted, gripping the boy's wrist with shocking, desperate strength. "Find a sunny spot for my grave. I don't like the cold. I don't like the dark."
Aldric closed his eyes. "And put up a stone. Just write: Aldric. An unlucky bastard who died before he could finish the quest."
Kevin frowned deeply, tears welling in his eyes. "Master, don't say that. Brother John knows the healing arts. Just rest. When you recover, we will ride to Winterfell together."
Aldric shook his head, released the boy's wrist, and closed his eyes, waiting for the end.
However, Aldric's body—forged in the fires of Azeroth and enhanced by his transmigration—was far stronger than mortal flesh.
After burning with a terrifying fever for two more days, on the third morning, his temperature plummeted back to normal. The angry, red inflammation around his wounds vanished, replaced by healthy, itchy scabs.
By the tenth day, he was fully healed. Aside from nine ugly, jagged pink scars scattered across his limbs, he suffered no lasting damage. His self-pitying deathbed speech to Kevin now felt profoundly embarrassing.
This miraculous recovery speed surprised even Brother John. Is the poultice recipe the High Septon taught me actually that potent? John wondered.
Honestly, Brother John was a novice healer at best. Cleaning with boiled water, applying crushed leaves, and feeding the patient broth—that was the absolute extent of his medical training. He didn't know how to balance humors or perform surgery. For ten days, aside from changing the bandages, he mostly just prayed over Aldric.
That Aldric survived, in John's eyes, was pure, undeniable proof of the grace of the Seven.
Aldric disagreed completely. He wasn't a believer of the Seven; why would they intervene for a Sunwalker? If anyone protected him, it was his own ridiculous, game-system constitution.
But he couldn't voice such heretical thoughts to John. First, his cover story as a wandering knight had to be maintained. Second, John did save his life by stopping the initial infection. He couldn't insult the man's faith.
Of course, for saving his life, a simple "thank you" wasn't enough.
Aldric pulled a heavy Gold Dragon from his pouch and offered it to the monk.
John refused instantly, holding up his hands. "Ser, I did not save you. The Smith forged your strength, and the Mother granted you mercy. They simply used my hands. If you must give thanks, donate coin to the next Sept we pass. The poor will benefit from your generosity."
Aldric couldn't agree to that. He had read enough history on Earth to know exactly how organized medieval religion functioned. Indulgences, golden altars while peasants starved, political corruption... Giving money to a massive church institution? He'd rather throw the gold in the White Knife just to hear the splash.
So, Aldric stepped forward and forcibly shoved the gold coin deep into the pocket of John's grey robes.
John cried out in absolute despair, trying to pull it out. "Ser! Stop! Please! Do you want me to be walking down the Kingsroad, accidentally pull out a Gold Dragon to buy an apple, be seen by cutthroats, followed into the woods, and bashed over the head with a club?!"
Hearing this, Aldric froze.
He remembered little Jimmy in White Harbor. The silver stag that bought a death sentence.
Aldric resentfully withdrew his hand, taking the gold back.
"Fine," Aldric sighed, slipping the coin away. "Brother John, you said you were making a pilgrimage through the realm. Are you heading toward Winterfell?"
John nodded, adjusting his robes. "I am, Ser. The North is vast, and few brothers walk its paths."
"I happen to be going there myself," Aldric said, patting Kevin on the shoulder. "Let's travel together."