“Huh?
What the hell are you talking about, my friend?” The bard slipped the silver coin into his pocket and studied Aragorn, who was absently touching the emerald on his chest.
He was more convinced than ever that this was some sheltered young lord from Lys who had run away from home.
Aragorn knew this world was no longer the one from the game, but after three hundred years he had no idea what it had become.
He needed to ask his questions carefully.
“My knowledge of Westeros comes from books,” he said.
“They might be old.
Do you know the current situation?” “You asked the right man.
I’ll make sure you’re satisfied.” The bard launched into what sounded more like a fairy tale than history.
It helped, but a lot of it was vague.
The one thing that came through clearly was this: the Targaryens had conquered Westeros three hundred years ago.
The Seven Kingdoms lost their kings and became vassals.
The last emperor, the Mad King, had ruled like a tyrant until he was overthrown seventeen years ago by the current king, Robert Baratheon.
Now the realm was in a time of growth and peace.
Aragorn went quiet, digesting it all.
“Friend, my name’s Marian.
I’m a well-known singer in Westeros.” The bard plucked a string on his harp.
“Let me sing you a song to chase away your troubles.” “No thanks.
I just want to eat in peace.
Don’t bother me.” “Your loss.” Marian saw that Aragorn wasn’t interested and left without another word.
Earning a silver coin just for telling stories had made his day.
He planned to spend it on something fun.
Aragorn went back to his meal.
A little while later Jenny Hyde brought over a small plate with a thick slice of roast meat.
“I didn’t order this.” “It’s on the house.” Under Jenny’s watchful eye, Aragorn took a bite.
It was good.
Damn good.
The meat was tender and slid across his tongue.
The juices and broth melted together.
He bit down hard and swallowed.
Today the innkeeper had turned a nice profit.
Aragorn was nearly finished when the lively common room suddenly went dead quiet.
Three men pushed through the door.
The one in front was tall and bloated, with a massive frame.
His left ear was missing a chunk, his right ear was half gone, and a huge scar ran down his left cheek.
He swept a crude, greedy gaze across the room, then slammed the butt of his battle axe on the floor with a heavy thud.
“Meat and wine.
Now.” Jenny Hyde immediately hustled Willow Hyde upstairs.
The scarred man walked over to a guest who was still eating.
The man scrambled to a corner table without a word and started ordering food in a hurry, like his life depended on it.
Scarface looked around.
Everyone kept their heads down.
Anyone who met his eyes looked away fast.
He smiled, clearly enjoying the fear he caused.
Then his gaze landed on Aragorn.
Most of the customers were peasants, hedge knights, or sellswords—rough men in rough clothes.
Aragorn stood out.
His black outfit had red silk patterns on the cuffs and collar, and the large emerald on his chest caught the light like it was glowing.
Scarface stared at Aragorn’s face, then at the sword on his hip, then at the emerald.
His eyes went wide and didn’t blink.
It was nearly the size of an eyeball and sparkled with inner fire.
“Big brother!” one of his companions hissed, voice thick with excitement.
This was better than highway robbery or working as muscle.
The kid looked like a clueless rich lordling who had wandered out with nothing but three moves and a fat purse.
They’d seen plenty like him before—ended up crying their way home after getting cleaned out.
Aragorn didn’t react to the greedy stares.
He calmly finished the last bite of meat, then lifted his head and looked straight at Scarface.
A thin sheen of sweat broke out on the scarred man’s forehead.
That single glance had carried an enormous amount of killing intent.
Aragorn stood up and walked upstairs without another word.
Scarface let out a long breath and ignored his companion’s suggestion that they rob the kid anyway.
One of the men spat on the floor.
“Fuck, I’m pent up.
Later I’m gonna go find a couple of whores and really let loose.” Back in his room, Aragorn drew his sword and examined the blade.
Complex patterns rippled across the steel, giving off a faint silver sheen.
The hilt was carved in the shape of a rearing mythical beast, its eyes set with rubies.
It was a rare Valyrian steel sword from the game.
Fewer than a thousand players had ever owned one.
Aragorn had gotten his by pure accident.
He took it in his right hand and gave it a practice swing.
The weight felt natural—another gift from the game.
He casually sliced a corner off the wooden table.
The edge was razor sharp.
A small, frightened scream came from the half-open door.
Willow Hyde was peeking in through the gap, eyes wide with shock.
Aragorn sheathed the sword and stood it against the floor.
“Sorry for scaring you.
I’ll pay for the table.” Hearing that, Willow edged into the room, but she stayed pressed against the wall and wouldn’t come any closer.
She was still holding her broom.
“…Ah, did I interrupt you, ser?” “No, no.
I was just stretching.
You can put your things down.
And this is for you—call it compensation for the fright.
Mental damage fee.” He chuckled.
Willow smiled too, but her cheek kept twitching.
“By the way, there are some dangerous men downstairs.
You should stay up here.” “Mm.
That’s what my sister said too.” Shouting erupted from the common room below.
“That’s my sister’s voice!” “Stay here.
Don’t come down.” Aragorn pushed the door open and headed downstairs.
“Let go of me!
Stop!
Don’t touch me!” “She’s a good girl, not some whore.” Thud.
Thud.
Everyone in the common room looked up as Aragorn came down the stairs.
Near the bar, Scarface had grabbed Jenny Hyde by the wrist.
His two companions stood guard with weapons drawn.
In the game it never felt this lawless.
Aragorn drew his sword as he descended.
Scarface let go of Jenny.
She bolted for the kitchen.
He yanked his axe up.
“What the fuck are you trying to do, you bastard?” “Watch your language.” “You gonna fight us?
By yourself?
Ever heard of Scarface the Menace?
If you want to beg for mercy, drop the sword and your valuables right now.” “Too much talk.” “Don’t kill anyone in here!” the innkeeper shouted.
Scarface had been wary, but he was a brute at heart.
With a roar he swung the heavy axe straight at Aragorn.
Clang!
The axe was knocked aside in a shower of sparks.
Before the stunned onlookers could react, another flash of steel cut through the air.
Scarface went down hard, sword buried in his chest.
He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t getting up either.
His two companions turned and ran.
Aragorn flicked his wrist and sent two throwing knives spinning after them in wide arcs.
Both men took blades to the thigh and crashed to the floor.
Aragorn tossed a silver coin to the armored sellsword who had been watching quietly from the corner table the whole time.
“Trouble you to tie them up and hand them over to the local lord?” “Happy to, my friend.” Bronn stood up and gave Aragorn a grand, theatrical bow.