The next morning, thin mist still hung over the river.
Aragorn sat on the bank with a fishing rod in his hands.
The line suddenly yanked hard.
He grinned and started reeling it in fast.
It took real effort, but he hauled up a huge, fat fish.
The thing gleamed in the early light, its flesh marbled thick with fat.
Perfect eating.
He cleaned it quick, skewered it, and set it over a low campfire.
He kept the fish well back from the flames so it would cook slow and stay juicy inside.
To kill time he stood and drew his longsword.
The blade caught the firelight and flashed.
He swung it in a clean diagonal cut from low left to high right, working the motion until it felt natural.
The fight with Scarface yesterday had been easy, but his body still carried a dull ache afterward.
That small tiredness hit him like a warning.
This world wasn’t the game.
Here, one careless moment could let an enemy grind you down until you were dead.
The smell of the roasting fish finally pulled him back.
It was golden and fragrant from head to tail.
He took a bite.
The meat was tender, clean, and tasted better than anything he’d eaten in weeks.
He pulled a bottle of red wine from Lys, worked the cork free, and took a slow sip.
The wine was rich and carried bright notes of pomegranate—sweet, tart, and warm like summer sun.
For a second he understood why some men drank to forget their troubles.
Water killed thirst.
Wine eased something deeper in the chest.
Good food, good wine, and a quiet morning by the river.
What more could a man want right now?
He took another bite of fish and let himself enjoy it.
Over the last few days he’d gathered enough scraps of talk to piece the bigger picture together.
The Targaryens had conquered the Seven Kingdoms three hundred years ago.
Seventeen years back, the Baratheons overthrew them.
Now the Baratheons and Lannisters were bound by marriage, and the Lannisters held real power.
At the king’s camp yesterday he’d seen two main banners flying in almost equal numbers.
The red-and-gold lion of House Lannister.
The crowned stag of House Baratheon.
Even some of Robert’s own guards wore lion sigils on their cloaks.
“Looks like the king doesn’t hold as much real power as he pretends,” Aragorn muttered.
It was another uneasy peace.
No big wars for seventeen years, the realm quiet on the surface, but the calm felt thin.
The queen’s open contempt for Robert told him how the Lannisters truly saw the king.
Other lords probably smiled in public and schemed in private, ready to back whoever served them best—or even raise rebellion.
A voice spoke right beside him.
“Is that the famous Valyrian steel sword?” Aragorn shot to his feet and looked around.
Nobody was there.
“Down here, boy.” He looked down.
Tyrion Lannister, the queen’s dwarf brother, stood at his knee.
“My lord.
What brings you out here?
The camp has to be more entertaining than this riverbank.” Tyrion stepped closer.
“The king loves your candy so much he carries it with him even when he takes a shit.
His laughing was driving me mad, so I came out for some air.
Mind if I look at that Valyrian blade?” Aragorn hesitated, then nodded.
“It’s heavy.
You sure you can swing it?” “Fuck off.
Are you insulting me?” Tyrion snorted.
He took the sword anyway and gave it a few surprisingly solid swings.
“Every story I’ve heard is true.
My father would shit himself with envy if he saw this.
He’s wanted a Valyrian steel sword as a family heirloom for years.
How did you come by it?” “Pure chance,” Aragorn said.
He couldn’t exactly explain that a game company had sent it as a birthday gift.
The blade had been a reward for being the first player on the entire server to earn the God Archer title.
Only two thousand existed.
Most players preferred swords and axes, so archers were rare.
When he hit the title, the company mailed him the sword.
“Gods damn you, that’s actually enviable,” Tyrion said, staring at the blade with open hunger.
“The gods really do favor some men.” Aragorn frowned.
Envy?
The gods favoring him for what—growing up an orphan, dying young and alone, or waking up in this world after death?
“Did I offend you?” Tyrion asked.
He didn’t sound sorry.
“Apologies.
Dwarfs have never been famous for tact.
We pick it up from the old performers who juggle and sing for coppers—loud mouths with no manners.
I learned from the best.” He grinned.
“Still.
You really are enviable.” Aragorn stayed quiet.
He just gestured for Tyrion to keep talking.
“You’re tall.
I barely reach your waist,” Tyrion said, looking up at him.
“You’re not as pretty as my brother Jaime, but you’re still better looking than me by a mile.
I have more gold than you could spend in ten lifetimes, yet you own the one thing my father has wanted for years.
He’s offered fortunes to ruined houses for their Valyrian blades and been turned down every time.
And while you see me as highborn, my own father treats me like I’m barely better than a bastard.” “But you’re still a Lannister,” Aragorn said quietly.
“Unless your father doubts your mother’s faithfulness.” Tyrion gave a short, bitter laugh.
“Maybe that’s exactly why he keeps me around.” “I don’t even know who my parents were,” Aragorn said.
The words came out flat.
In his old life he’d grown up in an orphanage.
“At least they were a man and a woman,” Tyrion replied.
His smile was sad.
“Remember this, kid.
Every dwarf in the world might get called a bastard, but an orphan doesn’t have to carry that name too.” “You crossed an ocean and stood in front of the king.
That already puts you ahead of most men.” He turned and walked back toward the camp, small back hunched, disappearing into the mist.