The next morning, Erwin set out for camp with Willem and the three sellswords, driving a few horses and cattle taken from the bandit den, loaded with heavy crates and barrels, sacks of the gang’s stored grain, and whatever else was worth carrying.
The dead, bandits and sellswords both, got piled together by Willem and the others and burned to nothing.
Not before they’d stripped every body of anything worth taking, with Erwin’s quiet approval.
Whatever they found went straight into their own pockets.
One thing did turn up worth mentioning.
A gold coin on Griff’s body, handed over to Erwin.
The same coin Erwin had given the guide as his reward.
Erwin had promised to let the man walk free.
Griff had cut his throat instead and pocketed the coin before anyone noticed.
Riding at the head of the column, Erwin turned the coin over in his fingers, thinking.
Coin moved men in ways nothing else could.
Bandits robbing travelers, Griff’s betrayal, a guide murdered for one gold piece, every bit of blood spilled on this road came back to the same thing in the end.
Greed, plain and simple.
If common men killed each other over this little, what did that say about the lords who actually ruled this continent?
Every named soul in this story, willing or not, got pulled into the same fight for power, and most of them ended up dead for it, often before they saw it coming.
Once he reached King’s Landing, Erwin knew, he’d be in that fight himself.
He knew roughly how the story went.
But his own presence here had already started changing it, which meant he couldn’t afford to walk in careless.
One wrong step might be the last one he got to take.
Tonight had already proven that much.
Without Willem’s loyalty, and the dumb luck of waking at the right moment, Griff would have opened his throat in his sleep.
He could avoid King’s Landing altogether, of course.
Stay clear of the whole mess.
But a foreigner with no name and no backing wouldn’t last long doing that either.
Sooner or later, someone would pick him clean.
Besides, what kind of transmigrator had a system and a dragon both and settled for staying small?
King’s Landing, a patron with real weight behind him, a proper title.
That was the plan.
Build slowly from there, keep his head down, and find some way to mend things with Onyxia along the way.
When the War of the Five Kings finally broke the continent apart, he’d play the dragon as his trump card and take whatever the chaos left on the table.
The Iron Throne, if the cards fell right.
That was the road ahead of him.
…
Still turning it all over, Erwin rode back into camp.
The two sellswords and the farmers who’d stayed behind had already heard the story from Willem, and it left them stunned.
Seeing the crates and barrels come in heavy with whatever Erwin had recovered, they couldn’t help wondering just how much was in there.
None of them let the wondering turn to greed, though.
Griff’s fate had settled that question for the whole camp.
They’d take their wages and be glad of them.
That night, once supper was done, Erwin called Willem and the five remaining sellswords together and asked whether they’d take service under him for good.
“You know my situation.
A foreigner, cut off from my own men for now.
I mean to build a new household around men I can trust.”
“I’ll be at the King’s tourney soon enough, and I intend to earn myself proper standing among the lords of this land.
Serve me, and you’ll have steady work worth having, and maybe more than that.
A knighthood’s not out of reach.
Even a lordship of your own, in time.”
“So.
What do you say?”
Excitement passed through the group at that, glances trading back and forth.
Willem was first to move, dropping to one knee and drawing the sword at his hip, holding it up flat across both palms.
“My lord.
I swear it before the Seven.
From this day I am the blade in your hand.
I’ll guard you with my life and cut down any man who comes against you, and I won’t give a single step of ground while I’m still breathing.”
“Good.” Erwin took the sword from him and laid the flat of it against Willem’s shoulder.
“I, Erwin Augustus, accept your service, before the gods and in the name of my house.
There will always be a place for you at my hearth and a share of my table.
As second son to a Great Lord of House Augustus, I name you knight.”
Willem went rigid, then looked up with something close to shock.
“My lord…
this is…
I’ve done nothing to earn such a thing…”
Erwin pulled him back to his feet, smiling.
“Don’t undersell yourself.
You stood between me and Griff’s blade.
That’s earned plenty.”
The other five watched with open envy, and one by one drew their own swords, knelt, and swore the same oath in their own words.
Erwin let himself smile at the sight and accepted every one of them.
He held off on knighting the rest, though.
None had earned it the way Willem had, not yet.
Raising Willem alone was as much a spur to the others as it was a reward, something to work toward.
He’d already seen what Willem was made of.
A bastard, and nothing more than a common sellsword by birth, but a man who held honor and his word above his own skin.
He’d never have stood his ground against Griff otherwise.
This world ran on men like that, rare as they were, same as it ran on men who’d sell anyone out for the right price.
Willem belonged to the first kind, and that alone was worth more to Erwin than any skill with a blade.
“You’re all mine now.
Sworn men of House Augustus.
I won’t shortchange any of you for it.”
He brought out the same handful of gold coins he’d used to turn Griff’s men earlier and handed them to Willem.
“Take two for yourself.
One each for the rest.
Hold onto what’s left, you’re keeping the accounts from here on.
Come to me if you run short.”
The promise of more coin sent smiles around the fire, and the men fell over themselves thanking him again.
“Get your rest tonight.
We ride for King’s Landing come morning.”
“Yes, my lord.”
…
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