Brother John stared at him, eyes wide. "Aldric, you cannot read? From the way you speak, I took you for a man of letters."
Aldric offered a helpless shrug. "I cannot read the script of this land, John. Where I come from, I read more books than most Maesters see in a lifetime. The two are not as contradictory as you might think."
John slapped the table, a resolute look on his face. "It is decided, then. Starting tomorrow, I shall teach you the letters of the Common Tongue. In the month it takes us to reach Winterfell, I will ensure you can recite the first chapter of The Seven-Pointed Star."
Aldric smiled. He had wanted to tackle the language barrier for weeks, but survival and blood had kept him busy. Having a literate monk as a personal tutor was a stroke of luck.
"Are the three of you truly bound for Winterfell?" Rennel the bard asked, leaning over his harp. He looked genuinely delighted. "What a coincidence! I am heading for the Stark's seat myself."
Aldric eyed him skeptically. "A coincidence? Or did your destination change the moment I mentioned the eighty-one trials?"
"Perish the thought!" Rennel waved his hands dismissively. "Winterfell was always my goal. There is no better place in the North for a man of my talents. But tell me—what business brings a giant and his boy to the Wolf's Den?"
"I am a hedge sword," Aldric replied, using the term he'd adopted since traveling with John. "Lewie Seres. I'm taking my apprentice, Kevin, to Winterfell to find honest work."
Since traveling with a genuine Brother of the Faith, Aldric had stopped impersonating a knight. Pretending to be an anointed warrior of the Seven in front of a man who actually spoke for them felt unnecessarily risky.
Kevin offered Rennel a polite nod.
Rennel sighed, a theatrical sound. "Truly, it is fate. A bard and a sellsword are not so different, after all. We both wander, we both trade our skills for coin, and we both rarely have a roof to call our own. Master Lewie, do you not see the Father's hand in our meeting?"
Aldric chuckled but didn't answer.
"Consider this," Rennel pressed. "You are new to these lands. You are a 'hedge sword'—not even a knight. Why would a Northern lord hire a stranger? Hiring a bad bard only costs a man his evening's peace. Hiring a bad sword costs him his life."
Aldric frowned. He hadn't considered the lack of a reputation. In Redstone, he had proven himself with Skagosi heads. Here, he was just a large man in strange armor.
"What are you suggesting, Rennel?"
"Travel with me," the bard grinned. "Tell me the stories of Brother Xuan. I will weave your name into the epic. I will sing of your lineage, of the warriors of the East who guarded the saint. As long as your blade can back up the songs I sing, you will never want for work."
Rennel paused. "And even if your skill is... average... it matters little. Fame is a shield. People hire the man they've heard of, not the man who is best."
It was a solid marketing pitch. Aldric, who understood the power of branding from his old life, recognized the value immediately.
"Master Rennel," Kevin interjected eagerly, "can you make my master's battle with the Skagosi into a song?"
Rennel's eyes lit up. "Oh? A Skagosi raid? Tell me everything."
Kevin recounted the battle at Lone Bridge, describing how Aldric had cleaved the chieftain in two. Both John and Rennel listened in stunned silence.
"Aldric," John asked, confused, "if you are truly that formidable, how did a few wharf-rats in White Harbor nearly kill you?"
"That," Aldric said, feeling a flush of embarrassment, "is a story for another time."
He turned back to Rennel. "I accept. You travel with us. I provide the stories and the protection. You provide the reputation. If a lord hires me because of your songs, I'll grant you a share of the commission. Do we have a deal?"
Rennel extended his hand joyfully. "A deal!"
The next day, their small company grew by one.
Rennel, unlike the ascetic John, preferred comfort. He rode a horse—though "horse" was a generous term. The beast was so incredibly skinny and listless that Aldric wondered if it was actually undead. Yet, miraculously, it carried the bard and his instruments without collapsing.
When Aldric asked why he didn't buy a sturdier mount, Rennel laughed. "And give the bandits a reason to kill me for the meat? This old girl is my protection. No one robs a man riding a skeleton."
He pulled a plain, razor-sharp dagger from his belt, twirling it with surprising grace. "I can defend myself, Ser, but why invite the trouble?"
On the long road north, Aldric began the process of "localizing" the epic.
The Monkey King was renamed Vilcon, a barbarian king of the distant eastern tribes. The Heavenly Court became the Empire of Dawn, a mythical realm of sorcerer-emperors. The Western Heavens became the Sevenfold Heavens of the Faith.
John had some initial theological objections, but after hearing a few chapters, he found himself listening as intently as Kevin. A story that placed the Seven at the pinnacle of a grand, cosmic struggle was good for the Faith, even if it was clearly fiction.
Fitting Aldric into the lore took some creative work.
"Aldric, this Vilcon... he was born from a stone," Rennel mused one afternoon. "Did he have sons? I need to link your blood to his."
"I suppose so," Aldric said. "Why?"
"Authenticity!" Rennel cried. "The story must feel rooted in history. It must feel like something that happened a thousand years ago so the audience can imagine your ancestors walking the jade-jungles. We shall call your progenitor Vilcon Seres."
And so, the Monkey King became a Seres. Aldric could only hope that if the real Sun Wukong existed, he wouldn't show up to lodge a complaint.
By day, Aldric rode with Rennel, spinning tales. By night, Rennel performed them in the common rooms of the inns they frequented. The reaction was electric. The exotic, high-stakes nature of the "Western Journey" was unlike anything the Northmen had heard.
While Rennel sang, Aldric sat in the corner with John and a worn copy of The Seven-Pointed Star.
Learning the alphabet was child's play compared to navigating Westerosi politics. Aldric discovered his high stats from the game had translated into a photographic memory. He only needed John to point to a word once, and it was etched into his mind forever.
By the time they passed Castle Cerwyn, Aldric could read the holy texts fluently. This deeply wounded Brother John, who had spent two years mastering the same task. The monk began to wonder if Aldric was secretly blessed by the Crone.
On the final evening of their journey, the massive silhouette of the capital of the North appeared on the horizon.
They arrived at the Winter Town outside the East Gate of Winterfell. The town was a sprawling collection of log houses and stone dwellings, largely empty in the summer heat but bustling with a permanent population of traders and craftsmen.
"Where do we stay?" Kevin asked, looking at the massive granite walls of the Stark stronghold looming just a hundred yards away.
"The Smoking Log," Rennel suggested. "It's the most famous inn in the town. Warm hearth, cold ale."
They stabled the horses and entered the common room. The atmosphere reminded Aldric of a busy hub in a game—filled with rumors, travelers, and the potential for quests.
Rennel immediately went to charm the innkeeper for a stage, while Aldric approached the bar. He slapped a Copper Star onto the wood.
"My friends and I seek a place to stay," Aldric told the waiter. "Not just a room, but a small courtyard. Somewhere quiet, away from the main thoroughfare. Do you know of such a place?"
The waiter pocketed the coin with a practiced flick. "It is summer, Ser. Half the town is empty. The owners would be glad for the coin. I can show you a few options in the morning."
Aldric turned to John. "Brother John, why don't you join us? You'll need a base of operations if you're to build your community here."
John hesitated. According to his vows, his journey with Aldric should end here. He shouldn't continue to rely on the sellsword's gold.
"Prepare two rooms for tonight," Aldric told the waiter before John could speak. "Put them on my tab."
John let out a helpless sigh. "You are a difficult man to refuse, Aldric."
"I've been told that before," Aldric grinned. "Let's get some sleep. Tomorrow, we find a home."