Hearing this, Rodney shot Don Quixote a surprised look and smiled.
"Didn't expect you to know a thing or two about merchant trade, Ser Don Quixote.
"You're right. The North isn't too bad; the prices of goods are pretty much fixed everywhere.
"Running back and forth only nets a thin margin, but at least you don't lose money.
"But head south, or across the Narrow Sea to Essos, and you've got to know the market prices before you trade.
"Otherwise, one slip-up and you're eating a loss. Take grain, for instance—scarce up here in the North.
"But down in the warm, wet, sun-drenched South, where the wind always smells of flowers and fruit... to Northmen, it's a land of endless summer.
"Food is the last thing they lack.
"As for Essos across the Narrow Sea, their customs are totally different from ours, and they value goods completely differently.
"So merchants running between the North and the South, or Westeros and Essos, tend to pull in way more coin, but the risks are far greater!"
Don Quixote nodded and smiled.
"Profit always walks hand in hand with risk."
————
The next day.
Under a pale, bone-white sky heavy with frost, the town was already half-awake.
Merchants packed their goods, sellswords checked their weapons, and grooms watered the horses.
Tavern hands pushed open creaking wooden doors.
Don Quixote's crew and Rodney's caravan had already finished a hurried breakfast.
They had also sorted out their cargo and baggage.
Before long, the draft animals swayed gently in the early morning, plodding step by step out of Barrowton.
Wheels ground into the cold, wet mud, heading toward White Harbor.
Riding a tall warhorse out of Barrowton, Don Quixote glanced back.
The town, nestled between ancient tombs and the wasteland, drifted in and out of the fog.
Like a silent giant sprawled across the earth, guarding this stretch of the North.
In the distance, he could see the four gatehouses of the wooden walls and the town watchtowers flying the banner of House Dustin: two crossed rusted longaxes beneath a black crown on a yellow field.
On a golden-yellow background.
Two black-hafted, rust-edged longaxes crossed in an X.
A black crown rested between the axe heads.
————
————
The caravan stretched into a medium-length line.
Eleven canvas-covered four-wheeled wagons rolled in the middle, their wheels rumbling dully over the gravel and dirt.
Rodney's guards flanked the wagons.
The four men of the Bloody Hand Mercenary Company rode further out, scattered around the perimeter.
Like four vigilant falcons, keeping the entire area around the caravan locked in their sights.
They rode on for a while.
Passing a barren slope, they hadn't seen a single passing herdsman the entire way down.
Even the cawing of crows in the wasteland had grown sparse.
Riding on the right side of the caravan, Don Quixote's eyes suddenly darted.
A dark shadow flashed on another barren slope far ahead.
When he narrowed his eyes and frowned to look again, the shadow was gone.
"Something's wrong."
Don Quixote trusted his excellent eyesight and sharp instincts.
Even though most men wouldn't be able to see a damn thing at that distance, no matter how hard they squinted.
He didn't hesitate.
Drawing his longsword, he bellowed:
"Possible enemies ahead! Stay sharp and watch your surroundings!"
Hearing the shout, Tom and the other two instantly snapped to attention, their eyes scanning the area with heightened vigilance.
But the caravan guards just froze, looking at each other in confusion. Nobody moved.
There wasn't a soul in sight out here in the wasteland. Where would enemies come from?
Rodney's face instantly went rigid.
He yanked his reins hard and roared at his guards:
"Move! Move your fucking asses! Listen to the Knight!!"
Only then did the guards draw their weapons and take up defensive positions.
Time ticked by slowly.
The wind was dead silent. No strangers appeared in the surroundings.
"Ser Don Quixote's probably just too jumpy. Mistook a rock by the road for a person," one guard muttered.
The man next to him snorted quietly:
"Likely. Look how young he is. Probably hasn't ever seen a real raider.
"Maybe he thinks those terrifying bastards are stupid enough to let him spot them!"
The complaint hadn't even fully left his mouth.
When all hell broke loose.
"Shut up!"
The guard who spoke first suddenly felt his heart stop, holding his breath in terror.
Three or four dark figures on horseback were charging in from the distance.
Two more on the left.
Shadows on the right, too!
The guard instinctively looked back and saw three dark figures rapidly closing in from the rear.
Almost simultaneously, chaos erupted from all sides of the caravan!
Don Quixote reacted the instant the three figures on the right broke cover.
His gleaming blade cut a cold arc under the pale sky.
He rapidly charged three raiders clad in battered chainmail and wielding rust-spotted longswords.
Their eyes burned with vicious intent, like a pack of starving wolves.
They also knew Don Quixote, in his full plate armor, wasn't someone to mess with.
So they tried to bypass him and dive straight for the caravan in the center.
Don Quixote cleanly intercepted one raider.
"Fuck!"
Seeing the massive figure blocking his path, the raider cursed under his breath, frantically trying to yank his horse around and flee.
His horse had barely turned.
He didn't even have time to steady himself in the saddle.
The snow-bright tip of a sword slipped precisely past his loose, worn chainmail.
It thrust through a large gap in the rings, driving straight through his chest.
"In a fight, never lose focus and never turn your back on the enemy."
Don Quixote yanked his longsword free, analyzing the kill as he spurred his horse after the second raider.
Moments later.
Don Quixote caught up to the second raider.
"Hey, look left."
The second raider flinched, instinctively looking left, but saw nothing.
"Fell for it!"
By the time he realized it, a sword had already sheared off his right arm.
A bloodcurdling scream made the chaotic battlefield even messier.
The raider lost his balance, slamming hard into the side of his horse.
But because his feet were still jammed in the stirrups.
And his terrified horse was bolting wildly.
His screams were shredded by the pounding hooves and howling wind.
Within seconds, all that was left was the wet, bubbling sound of blood in his throat, and then... silence.
By this time, Don Quixote had wheeled his horse around and intercepted the third raider—the last one on the right flank.
The raider caught a glimpse of his two butchered companions.
His fragile nerve broke instantly. All fight drained out of him.
Right then, hoofbeats exploded like thunder in his ears.
The third raider frantically swung his sword to parry, but hit nothing but air.
He only felt a cold breeze on his neck.
Carried by the momentum of the charge, Don Quixote's longsword carved a savage arc.
No flashy moves.
Just a clean, brutal decapitation.
"Told you guys over and over. Don't lose focus in a fight, don't lose focus. Why won't you listen!"
Breathing steadily, Don Quixote scanned the battlefield.
...