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You can also visit the Pat** on at: CaveLeather By late afternoon the caravan reached a wide, flat stretch beside the Kingsroad.
They started setting up camp for the night while the sun was still high.
Sherlock said spots like this were common along the road.
Strangers often camped together for safety and shared watches.
Some of the merchants and the hired guards worked together to raise the tents.
A clear stream ran nearby, so water wasn’t a problem.
The apprentices handled fetching it.
Aragorn sat with a few of the sellswords, drinking and talking.
“This is the last of the good stuff.
Hope we can still find wine like this in the North.” The caravan carried better wine, but it was inventory, not for drinking.
“Lord Stark will have good wine,” one of the guards said.
“We’ll drink better red at Winterfell.
They say he’s got the best cellars in the North.
His family’s ruled there for thousands of years.
They’re rich as hell.” “He’s close with the king too.
They almost became family.
They took down the Mad King together.
Prince Rhaegar stole Lord Stark’s sister, but she died.
If she’d lived, the Starks might’ve been second only to the king.
Maybe that’s why Robert’s heading north.
The Hand is dead, and Lord Stark would be the best choice to replace him.” “Lord Stark will like the South.
Southern girls are warm.
Maybe one of them can thaw that cold northern heart.” “Lord Stark’s supposed to be an honorable man.” “Honor?” A sellsword knight spat and ran a whetstone down his longsword.
“He’s got a bastard.” The easy laughter died.
The air got awkward fast.
Everyone knew bastards were a touchy subject in Westeros, where bloodlines and family honor mattered.
“At least Lord Stark keeps the boy with him instead of tossing him away somewhere.” Noblemen fathered bastards all the time.
Most hid them or sent them off.
Ned Stark had brought his home and called him “son” in front of everyone.
That was rare.
“Better to leave him elsewhere.
At least he wouldn’t have to eat shit every day.” If a nobleman brought his bastards home and raised them alongside his trueborn children, his wife had every right to make their lives miserable.
Most bastards in that situation lived hard.
While the group was still trading uneasy comments, one of the sellswords turned to Aragorn.
“Heard you came from across the Narrow Sea.” The man had been watching him for a while.
Aragorn had changed into lighter armor—breastplate, leather guards, tunic, and cloak.
Clean-shaven and young-looking.
“Yeah.
That’s right.” Aragorn gave the same story he’d told a dozen times already.
“I still can’t believe you crossed alone from Essos.
That’s insane.” “Must’ve been rough getting here safely,” another guard said.
“Forget the pirates and sellswords on the way—just the sea voyage itself would kill most men.” “You went through a lot, didn’t you?” “Not really.
I met a lot of friendly people.
Guess I was lucky.” Aragorn took a bite of apple and kept his expression easy.
In his mind the game world’s dangers were nothing compared to real life.
This was just another adventure.
“Friendly?” The men exchanged doubtful looks.
“Yeah.
Very friendly.
Some of them even gave me everything they owned.” The sellswords stared at him.
One of them blinked slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
The sun was dropping when one of the caravan men came over and told them dinner was ready.
It was a good spread.
Black rye bread, milk, wine, smoked fish soup, thin slices of chicken, boiled eggs, and a big pot of stew.
The stew had generous chunks of wild boar—Aragorn’s kill from before.
Night fell.
Sherlock found the guard captain who was organizing the watch.
“You look worried about something.” “I am.
Those mountain clans we ran into before we reached the inn.
They’re a pain in the ass.
Hoping the rest of the road stays clear of that kind of trouble.” The captain frowned, tired and uneasy.
If Aragorn hadn’t used that salve right away, one of their men would be dead.
“I thought sticking close to the king’s route would keep us safer.
Figured we might even get to wipe out a few of those clans while we had the chance.
Turns out nobody’s stupid enough to attack three hundred knights.” Sherlock shook his head with a bitter little smile.
“We’ll tighten the watches from now on.
Think we could ask that kid to pitch in?” “He’s still a guest.
It wouldn’t feel right.” Sherlock looked uncertain.
He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.
Right then Aragorn walked up.
“Sherlock, I want to buy something.” “No problem.
Whatever it is, I’ll give you a fair price.” “A book.
Thick, beautifully bound.
High spine.” “Ah.
That one.” Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sorry, it’s not really for sale.
A noble used it as collateral on a debt he couldn’t pay.
Looks like he won’t be able to redeem it, so we’ll probably put it up for sale soon.” “Sell it to me now.
I don’t care what it costs.” Sherlock nodded.
“All right.
Books are expensive anyway—everything’s handwritten.
Most people can’t afford them even if we tried to sell them normally.” Aragorn hesitated, then asked, “Do you know where I could buy more books?” He’d been wanting sources of information since he arrived.
But literacy was low here.
Most smallfolk couldn’t even write their own names.
Farmers might have a village head who could read a little.
Martha knew enough to run the inn and do basic math with coin, mostly copper and silver.
Marian spent his time bragging or trying to scam people.
Bronn, Kiggen, and the other sellswords could usually sign their names and that was it.
Tyrion had been the most educated person he’d met, but the timing hadn’t been right to ask.
In the game you couldn’t just walk into a shop and buy books either.
After he crossed over he’d asked where to find a bookstore and got laughed at.
“The Citadel in Oldtown sells them,” Sherlock said.
Aragorn blinked.
He’d completely forgotten about the Citadel until that moment.
He kept the thought to himself.
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