Chapter 3: Northern Road
The refugee convoy stretched along the Kingsroad like a wounded snake, twenty wagons and twice as many people fleeing the capital with whatever they could carry. I'd joined them at dawn outside King's Landing's gates, just another displaced servant with a story of barely escaping the chaos.
The story wasn't entirely false. I had escaped chaos—I'd just caused most of it first.
My dying servant's body had stabilized further during the night, though I still felt the echo of sickness in my bones. The system's healing had patched the worst damage, but recovery would take time. Time I'd spend walking north toward Winterfell, blending with the exodus of northern sympathizers fleeing Joffrey's reign.
[Current Status: Recovering Servant]
[HP: 67/100 - Healing progressing normally]
[New Mission Available: "The Road Home"]
[Objective: Reach Winterfell and establish northern network]
[Bonus: Disrupt Lannister forces along route]
The convoy was a mix of merchants, minor nobles, and displaced servants—people with enough sense to recognize that King's Landing under Joffrey would be dangerous for anyone who'd shown Stark sympathies. They moved slowly, burdened by possessions and children, vulnerable to any bandits or soldiers who might decide they looked profitable.
Which made them perfect targets for harassment.
The first Lannister patrol found us three days north of the capital.
I spotted their crimson banners while the convoy was stopped for midday rest, a dozen riders cresting the hill ahead. Mounted soldiers in mail and leather, led by a young knight whose gilt armor caught the afternoon sun.
"Seven hells," muttered Willem, the graying merchant whose wagon I'd been sharing. "That's Ser Addison Hill. Bastard son of some Westerlands lord, with a reputation for creative taxation."
Creative taxation. I'd encountered the type before, in other stories. Soldiers who used their authority to extract "tolls" from travelers, keeping most of the coin for themselves.
Time for some creative counter-taxation.
"Stay here," I told Willem, slipping away from the wagon. "I need to... relieve myself."
The patrol was riding down the hill now, taking their time, letting anticipation build. Ser Addison sat his horse like he owned the road, which in Joffrey's Westeros, he probably did.
I circled wide through the scraggly trees that bordered the road, using enhanced reflexes to move silently. The system had been right about the improved reaction time—I could anticipate where branches would snap, where leaves would crunch, staying invisible while closing the distance.
[Stealth Mode Active]
[Enhanced Reflexes providing +50% stealth bonus]
[Prank Opportunities Detected: Multiple]
The soldiers had made camp uphill the night before; I could see the remains of their fire, the area where they'd hobbled their horses. More importantly, I could see their supply packs, left unguarded while they rode down to extract tolls.
Their wine skins were hanging from a dead branch, easily accessible.
I uncorked each one carefully, emptied the wine into the dirt, and refilled them with vinegar from my own supplies. The system had been generous with inventory space—twenty slots that could hold far more than should have been physically possible. Enough vinegar to ruin a dozen drinks.
But that was just the beginning.
Their spare clothes were folded neatly in leather packs. I found their breeches and set to work with needle and thread, sewing the leg openings nearly shut. Not completely—that would be too obvious—but narrow enough that getting into them would be a struggle.
[Crafting Skill Unlocked: Sabotage Sewing]
[Ability to modify clothing for maximum inconvenience]
[Stealth bonus when working with fabric items]
While I worked, I could hear voices from the road below. Ser Addison demanding to know what goods the convoy carried, merchants pleading poverty, the usual dance of extortion and submission.
I finished with the clothes and moved to their horses. Beautiful animals, well-trained warhorses that represented significant investment. I didn't want to hurt them—they were innocent in all this—but they could certainly be... startled.
I rigged small noisemakers in the trees around their camp. Hollow reeds that would whistle in the wind, bits of metal that would clank together, anything that would create mysterious sounds when the breeze picked up. The horses were trained for battle, but they were also herd animals. Unexplained noises in the dark would make them nervous.
[Trap Setting Skill Unlocked]
[Ability to create environmental hazards and distractions]
[Animals respond predictably to audio stimuli]
The final touch was their written reports. Every patrol carried documents—orders, supply requests, correspondence with their commanders. I found Ser Addison's personal scroll case and examined the contents.
Supply requests. Prisoner reports. And what looked like a personal letter to some lady he was courting.
Perfect.
I carefully altered the documents, turning supply requests into love poems, changing prisoner reports to include embarrassing personal confessions. Nothing treasonous—I didn't want the man executed—but enough to make him look foolish when the papers reached his superiors.
[Forgery Skill Unlocked]
[Ability to alter written documents convincingly]
[Reputation for bureaucratic incompetence: Devastating]
By the time I made it back to the convoy, the patrol was finishing their "inspection." Ser Addison had claimed two silver pieces from each merchant and was looking pleased with himself. The convoy would be allowed to pass, but they'd remember the cost.
"Generous King Joffrey's subjects, contributing to the realm's defense," the knight announced with false cheer. "Safe travels, and remember—the crown protects those who serve loyally."
The patrol wheeled their horses around and trotted back uphill toward their camp. I watched them go, counting the minutes.
It started with the wine.
Ser Addison was the first to take a drink, probably feeling thirsty after his morning's work. Even from the road below, I could hear his spluttering curse as vinegar hit his palate. His men tried their own skins and got the same nasty surprise.
Then the noisemakers caught a breeze.
The horses began to dance and whinny, spooked by sounds they couldn't identify. Trained warhorses don't bolt easily, but they'll make their riders work to keep them calm. I watched armored men struggle with increasingly nervous mounts while mysterious whistles and clanks echoed from the trees.
Finally, someone made the mistake of trying to change into fresh clothes.
"Seven bloody hells! Who sewed these shut?"
The cursing that followed would have made a sailor blush. I grinned, feeling the adrenaline rush that came with a well-executed prank. This was what I was good at—not grand gestures or dramatic confrontations, but the kind of subtle sabotage that undermined authority through humiliation.
[Prank Combo Successful!]
[Multiple simultaneous pranks for multiplied effect]
[Reputation: Lannister Forces -15]
[Reputation: Northern Sympathizers +5]
[Skill Advancement: Stealth, Sabotage, Psychological Warfare]
The convoy was already moving again, wheels creaking as wagons rolled north. I climbed back into Willem's wagon, trying to look innocent.
"Strange business, that," the merchant said, glancing back toward the increasingly frantic sounds from uphill. "Almost like the gods are laughing at Lannister pride."
"The old gods have a sense of humor," I agreed. "Especially when it comes to people who forget their place."
Willem gave me a sharp look, but said nothing more. Smart man. He'd survived this long by knowing when not to ask questions.
The days blended together after that—long stretches of walking, brief stops at roadside inns, conversations around evening campfires. I listened more than I spoke, gathering information about the state of the realm.
Robb Stark had called his banners and was marching south with an army. That much everyone knew. But the details were more interesting—Theon Greyjoy had been sent to the Iron Islands to secure Ironborn support. Stannis Baratheon was gathering forces on Dragonstone. Renly had declared himself king and was holding court in the Reach.
The War of Five Kings was beginning, just as I remembered from the show. But I was in a position to influence it now, to prevent the worst tragedies while ensuring the right people survived.
"The realm's torn apart," said Mira, a blacksmith's wife traveling with three young children. "Kings everywhere, each claiming the throne. How's a common person supposed to know who to follow?"
"Follow your heart," suggested Old Tom, a farmer whose lands had been burned by Lannister foraging parties. "Follow the one who'll protect your family and let you live in peace."
"Peace," laughed Ser Donnel, a hedge knight with a Northern accent. "There'll be no peace while the Lannisters hold King's Landing. They've shown their true nature now, executing Lord Stark like a common criminal."
I studied Ser Donnel carefully. He was a minor knight, probably sworn to some northern lord, with the kind of weathered face that spoke of years campaigning. The kind of man who might be useful in the network I was planning to build.
"You knew Lord Stark?" I asked carefully.
"Served under him during the Greyjoy Rebellion," Donnel replied. "Best man I ever met. Honorable as summer is long, and he treated common soldiers like they mattered. His death... it changes things. Makes a man think about what's worth fighting for."
Perfect. A loyal Stark man with military experience, already thinking about resistance. Time to plant some seeds.
"I heard stories in King's Landing," I said, adopting the servant's deference that had served me well. "Servants' gossip, but still. They say there were irregularities during the execution. Things that didn't go according to plan."
Several people turned to listen. In a convoy of northern sympathizers, any story about the execution would draw attention.
"What kind of irregularities?" Willem asked.
"Well," I lowered my voice conspiratorially, "they say Lord Stark's death inspired more loyalty than fear. That people saw him die with honor and remembered what the North stands for. And there were... disruptions. The city watch couldn't keep order, Stark loyalists escaped who should have been captured."
I pulled out a small piece of leather, one I'd prepared during my sleepless nights in King's Landing. Scratched into it was the symbol I'd left for Arya—a running wolf beneath a crown of stars.
"Found this near the Sept of Baelor after the execution," I lied smoothly. "Don't know what it means, but it wasn't there before. Someone left it deliberately."
Ser Donnel leaned forward, his eyes widening slightly. "That's... that's a northern symbol. Old one, from before the conquest. Means 'the wolf endures' or something like it."
Actually, I'd invented it on the spot, but if a northern knight wanted to read meaning into it, I wasn't going to correct him.
"Someone's still fighting," Old Tom said quietly. "Someone's still loyal."
"The North remembers," added Mira, bouncing her youngest child on her knee. "That's what my grandfather used to say. The North remembers."
[Information Warfare Successful]
[Northern Morale +10]
[Stark Loyalist Network: Foundation Established]
[Social Link Created: Ser Donnel (Northern Knight)]
[Reputation: Northern Sympathizers +10]
I let the conversation continue without me, watching how the story spread through the convoy. By evening, everyone would know about the mysterious symbol and what it might mean. Hope was a powerful weapon, and in a convoy full of displaced northerners, hope for resistance was exactly what I needed to plant.
That night, as we made camp beside the road, I had another visit from the system.
[Random Encounter Generated]
[Lannister Patrol Approaching]
[Estimated Arrival: 2 hours]
[Same unit as previous encounter]
[Morale Status: Extremely Low]
[Recommended Action: Observation/Avoidance]
I slipped away from the campfire and climbed a nearby hill, using enhanced reflexes to navigate in the darkness. Sure enough, I could see torches moving along the road behind us—Ser Addison's patrol, riding hard to catch up.
They'd been following us for hours, but something was wrong. Their formation was loose, their pace erratic. When they finally made camp a mile behind the convoy, I crept close enough to listen.
"I'm telling you, this whole region is cursed," one soldier was saying. "First the vinegar, then the ghost sounds, then my breeches tried to strangle me."
"And those reports," added another. "Did you see what got mixed in with our dispatches? Ser Addison's love poetry to that Westerlands girl? Command's going to think he's lost his mind."
"Maybe he has," muttered a third. "Maybe we all have. I say we head back to King's Landing and let someone else chase northerner refugees."
Ser Addison himself sat apart from his men, staring into the fire with the expression of someone questioning all his life choices. The golden boy knight had been reduced to a figure of ridicule by a few simple pranks.
Perfect.
[Psychological Warfare: Highly Effective]
[Enemy Morale: Critically Low]
[Pursuit Likelihood: 15% and decreasing]
[Bonus Objective Completed: Route Harassment]
I made my way back to the convoy, slipping into my bedroll without waking anyone. Tomorrow we'd reach the northern border, and Ser Addison's patrol would probably give up the chase rather than risk whatever supernatural forces seemed to be protecting the refugees.
The next morning dawned clear and cold, with the bite of northern air that meant we were getting close to home. The convoy moved with renewed energy—people could smell Winterfell ahead, could feel the promise of safety and familiar faces.
And then we saw the banners.
Stark banners, flying from a small keep that guarded the northern approach to Winterfell. Home. Safety. The place where I could begin the real work of changing this story.
[Journey Complete: Convoy Safely Delivered]
[Reputation: Northern Sympathizers +15]
[New Mission Available: "The Wolf's Den"]
[Objective: Infiltrate Winterfell and establish intelligence network]
[Warning: Theon Greyjoy arrives in 72 hours]
Winterfell's gates loomed ahead of us, massive wooden barriers bound with iron. Home of the Starks for eight thousand years, seat of the Kings of Winter, the heart of the North.
Time to see if I could help it survive what was coming.
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