A rabbit nibbled grass in the trees, ears twitching every few seconds as it checked for danger.
Once it felt safe it went back to eating.
A tiny red dot appeared above its head.
Only Aragorn could see it.
He drew his bow, activated Eagle Eye, nocked an arrow, and loosed in one smooth motion.
The rabbit jerked once and went still.
“Got it.” He called it a day on hunting.
King Robert had liked the candy so much he’d granted Aragorn seven days of hunting rights.
“Seven hells, you brought back this much again?
What are you trying to do, feed an army?
Even if every person around here pitched in we couldn’t eat it all, and it’ll spoil before we get through it,” Martha Hyde shouted, hands on her hips.
“What?
You can actually eat all this?
Rabbits sure, but lizards and snakes too?
We’re not Tyroshi mud-eaters.” “People in Tyrosh like them,” Aragorn lied.
“That’s disgusting,” Jenny Hyde said, shaking her head.
She looked at the pile like it might bite her.
“You ought to be called the Animal Killer.” Bronn stared at the mountain of game spread across the inn yard.
“What the hell is that meat mountain, a wild boar?” “Yeah.
It was too big so I had to cut it up first.
Here’s the hide and tusks.” Aragorn kept sorting while he answered.
The Valyrian steel sword made butchering stupidly fast.
“You getting used to it yet?
Not puking anymore?” The inn cook watched Aragorn work with practiced hands.
In the game, skinning and gutting had been one button press.
Here it was real blood and guts.
He still knew what to do, but the thick copper smell hit him hard.
He’d thrown up twice already.
If he wanted to survive in this world, this was part of the price.
He forced himself to keep going until the job was done.
“Good enough.” He finished peeling the last rabbit and set the pieces aside.
The door suddenly burst open.
A man rushed in, wild-eyed, and slammed both hands on the bar.
“Innkeep!
Wine!
And hot water—now!” “Slow down.
What happened?” “Someone’s hurt bad!
We ran into bandits on the road.
His shoulder’s split open and he’s bleeding everywhere.” Aragorn followed the man outside.
Among the line of wagons he found the wounded guard.
The leather armor over his shoulder was torn wide open.
Blood had already soaked through the makeshift bandages.
His friends were shouting at him to stay awake.
“Stay with us, damn it!” “Fuck, the bleeding won’t stop!” The cut looked deeper than they’d realized.
Aragorn dug into his pack and pulled out a small tin of game ointment.
In this world with its limited medicine, it might actually help.
Three hundred years later it probably wasn’t cutting-edge anymore, but it was better than nothing.
“That won’t work.
We already tried everything.” “You want to stand here and watch him bleed out?
Try it.
Worst case he dies anyway.” The guard’s companion took the tin, smeared the ointment on a clean cloth, and pressed it over the wound.
The smell hit like a steel spike up the nose—sharp, chemical, and eye-watering.
Everyone nearby winced and turned their heads.
“What in the seven hells is that stench?” “Doesn’t matter if it works.” The bleeding slowed, then stopped completely.
The man had lost a lot of blood and needed rest, but he was out of immediate danger.
They lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him into the inn.
“Gods… I’ve never seen a wound seal up like that.
Where did you get this salve?
I’d like to buy every jar you have.
And your name, if I may.
I’m Sherlock, leader of this caravan.” Sherlock looked at Aragorn with open curiosity and respect.
The inn sat at the crossroads of the Kingsroad running north-south and the east-west roads through the riverlands and the vale.
It was prime merchant territory.
“I’m Aragorn.
Just a traveler.
The ointment was a lucky find.” He didn’t feel like explaining further.
The NPC who’d taught him the recipe had been dead for three hundred years.
If the man was famous, Sherlock might think he was crazy.
“I understand.
A merchant shouldn’t ask too many questions about supply lines.” With the caravan flooding the inn, business exploded.
All the meat Aragorn had brought back would actually get eaten.
“Our shop is on Steel Street in King’s Landing.
If you ever need anything or have goods to sell, please think of us.” Aragorn asked the name of the place.
“Just look for the mockingbird sign.
Everyone in the city knows it,” Sherlock said proudly.
After a while the earlier tension faded.
Merchants traded grain and vegetables, swapped goods, and bought everyday supplies.
The common room buzzed with voices.
“About that salve of yours—it’s rare as hen’s teeth.
I meant what I said.
I want to buy it.
Name your price.” Aragorn hesitated.
The ointment was basic early-game stuff, worth maybe fifty copper in the old system.
Selling it would probably fetch half that.
Looking at Sherlock’s eager face, he held up two fingers.
“Twenty copper a jar.” Sherlock looked stunned for a second, then broke into a huge smile.
“Done.
Twenty gold dragons per jar.
How many can you spare?” Aragorn’s brain stalled.
Twenty gold dragons?
One gold dragon was worth two hundred and ten silver stags or nearly twelve thousand copper.
Ten gold dragons could buy a riding pony.
He’d spent one silver stag on room and board for days.
He forced his face to stay calm.
“Uh—yeah.
That price works.” Sherlock bought ten jars for two hundred gold dragons.
Aragorn’s inventory had five slots with a ninety-nine stack limit each, but he kept the sale small.
Drawing too much attention would be dangerous.
He also sold the three horses and weapons he’d taken from the bandits.
Sherlock worked the beads on his abacus, muttering as he counted.
“Three horses, a bit old but solid… weapons are nicked, armor’s got some rust… but this axe is good.
Whoever used it knew what he was doing.
You actually took these men down?” The merchant gave Aragorn a new look of respect.
That night the common room was packed.
Villagers, merchants and their families, and the caravan’s hired guards made it three times louder than usual.
Aragorn listened to the talk.
The caravan was heading north.
The king was going north too.
Aragorn still had no real destination.
Traveling with the merchants might be safer than going alone.
When he mentioned it to Sherlock later, the man looked genuinely pleased.
On the road, caravans had to worry about being robbed by soldiers or bandit groups.
They had enough men, but a skilled fighter like Aragorn was welcome protection.