The fisherman's words echoed in my mind. Aerys Targaryen. I was well and truly fucked. The knowledge was a cold stone in my gut, a promise of fire and blood in a future I now had to navigate.
Yet, beneath the dread, a spark of excitement flickered. This was real. The shows, the books, the fanfictions—they were all just pale shadows compared to the salt-tanged air and the gritty reality of this shore. I was in Westeros.
Before I left, the fisherman, whose name I never learned, offered me breakfast. My stomach growled in agreement, and I didn't refuse the kindness. His wife brought a wooden bowl of fish stew. It was salty and simple, but to my ravenous hunger, it was a feast. When I tried to press a copper penny into the fisherman's hand, he refused with a nervous shake of his head.
"Greed for gold is a dangerous thing, m'lord," he muttered, his eyes downcast.
A wise man in a world that punished wisdom. I placed the coin firmly on the stump he used as a chopping block. "For your boy, then. For his future." The grateful, fleeting smiles from his wife and son were worth more than the coin.
I gave my farewells and found the coastal road. Luck was with me; I soon came upon a merchant packing a wagon with barrels. A fish trader, he said, heading for King's Landing. His name was Rolf.
I asked for a ride. He gave me a long, appraising look, from my armored boots to the greatsword on my back. Then, a jolly smile broke across his face.
"Aye, I've room. If you don't mind the smell of my wares, Ser…?"
"Harlane," I said, the name coming to me easily. "Ser Julius Harlane."
"Then climb aboard, Ser Harlane. The company will be welcome."
I hauled myself onto the seat beside him. The wagon gave a terrifying groan, the wood protesting under the combined weight of the fish, the trader, and my own heavily armored form. Rolf's smile faltered for a heartbeat, but when the axle held, he chuckled nervously and clicked the reins.
He was a talkative man, curious as a magpie. Where was I from? Why come to Westeros? I spun him a tale I hoped would hold: a merchant's son from the Free Cities who found more profit in a sellsword's blade than a ledger book. I spoke of a journey to see the wonders of the Seven Kingdoms, and a shipwreck in the recent storm that claimed all my companions and possessions, save for what I wore and carried.
He clucked his tongue in sympathy. "A harsh fate, ser. The sea is a fickle mistress."
Seeing an opportunity, I steered the conversation to practical matters. "My education in currency was always in Essosi coins," I lied. "I find myself unfamiliar with the King's money."
Rolf raised an eyebrow but, thankfully, didn't question why a merchant's son would be ignorant of such things. "Simple enough, ser," he said. "One gold dragon is thirty silver stags. A stag will get you fifty-six copper pennies. You can buy a loaf of bread for two pennies, and a night in a common inn might cost you ten."
I did the math in my head. The ten gold dragons in my pouch were a small fortune. I exchanged one for a handful of silver, pressing two extra stags into Rolf's palm for his trouble and his information. He protested, but less forcefully than the fisherman.
Our conversation meandered, eventually landing on the favorite topic of men everywhere: women. Rolf was particularly fond of a certain woman at a brothel in King's Landing, describing her "entertaining" talents with vivid enthusiasm.
When the laughter died down, I ventured a more dangerous question. "And the King? What is the mood in the capital regarding Aerys?"
Rolf's jovial face darkened instantly. "Best not to speak of the King on the open road, ser," he said, his voice dropping. "They say… they say his Grace has a fondness for wildfire. That men are burned, sometimes for no crime at all, and denied the Black." He shook his head, a shadow of genuine fear in his eyes. "It is not a happy time."
I took the hint and changed the subject. "Are there any tourneys to look forward to? A man must make a living."
His smile returned, relieved. "Aye! A great tourney has been announced, to be held at Harrenhal in a year's time."
My face lit up. Harrenhal. The year was 280 AC. The pieces were falling into place. A tourney. As a swordsman, the melee was my obvious path. Jousting was a different skill, one I had no confidence in. I fell silent, lost in plans. I needed a helmet, more gear, and a way to earn more gold, fast.
(Rolf's Point of View)
It was a fine day for travel. Good weather means good trade, my father always said. But today was strange indeed.
I met a knight—or a man who looked like one—outside the village. By the Seven, he was a sight. Tall as a tower and built like a bull, with a face that wouldn't look out of place in a song. Handsome, in a grim, intimidating way.
He introduced himself as Ser Julius Harlane, a sellsword from Essos. He asked for a ride to the capital and offered to pay. I agreed. What harm could it do? He wasn't going to steal my fish.
When he sat beside me, the wagon let out a groan that near stopped my heart. I thought the axle would snap and I'd be skewered by one of those monstrous swords of his for my trouble. But the Mother was merciful, and the wood held.
He was a curious man, Ser Harlane. A good listener, but he asked the oddest questions. About currency, like a babe who'd never held a coin. Still, he was from far away, so I suppose it made sense. He paid me well for the ride, too.
We spoke of many things, but when the topic turned to the King, his face grew grim. I told him what little I dared—whispers of madness and fire. He had the sense to let it lie.
After we made camp, I offered to help him out of his armor. He refused, saying he was accustomed to it. He told me to sleep, that he would take the first watch. I won't lie, having a man like him standing guard brought a comfort I haven't felt on the road in years.
That comfort was shattered in the dead of night by shouts and the clash of steel.
I scrambled from my tent, my heart hammering against my ribs. The scene before me was one from a nightmare. Bodies lay scattered around the fire, dark shapes in the flickering light. Then, movement—a man with an axe raised, charging straight for me.
I froze, certain I was dead.
But he fell, a black hilt sprouting from his back. He crumpled to the ground, and behind him stood Ser Harlane. The knight was drenched in blood, not his own. His greatsword, gleaming and terrible, was in his hand. He moved through the chaos not like a man, but like a force of nature. Each swing of his blade was final, cleaving through leather and bone with horrifying ease.
When it was over, he was calm, his breathing steady. "Search them," he commanded, his voice flat.
My hands trembled as I obeyed. Nine bodies. Six were hewn apart by his sword. Two more had tried to flee, only to be struck down by the daggers he threw with lethal accuracy. The last had surrendered, and now sat trembling, bound by his own belt.
I could not sleep after that. The image of Ser Harlane, a blood-soaked specter in the moonlight, was burned into my mind. I had heard rumors of outlaws on this road, but I had never faced them. Tonight, I learned what kind of man I traveled with. He was my savior, and the sight of his work was the most disturbing thing I had ever witnessed.
What a strange day, indeed.