The path to the Kingsroad stretched across a rolling expanse of fields, interrupted here and there by low hedges and the occasional solitary oak bent by the wind. The sun sank slowly, staining the sky a sickly orange that mirrored itself in stagnant pools of water. The grass was tall and yellow, dried early by the autumn, and now and then a pheasant would take flight with a sudden whir, startled by the sound of hooves. The lean man's horse—a grey gelding, its coat grimy but hardy—followed obediently, tethered to Alex's saddle, the reins swaying gently. Two horses meant options: one to flee, one to carry baggage or a potential prisoner. Alex had no intention of leaving them behind.
The pain in his side throbbed with every step, a damp, heated reminder beneath the mail shirt. The wound was shallow, yet still bleeding, and the leather of the armor chafed against torn flesh.
For the first time, he thought of the flesh he had split with his sword.
He felt no remorse. He felt almost nothing: only a calculated coldness, as if he had crushed an insect that threatened him. And yet it mattered. It was the first time he had killed with his own hands. In his previous life, the greatest he had done was a punch in the cage or a knee strike in training. Here he had felt the blade enter, the resistance of flesh, the final gurgle.
Easier than I thought, he reflected. And it frightens me less than it ought to.
It was not euphoria. It was awareness: the world had already changed him, or perhaps it had merely stripped away the thin veneer of civilization that had held him in check.
Another thing concerned him more: the wound.
It was not serious—a shallow cut, perhaps two inches—but in a world without antibiotics, infection could kill faster than a blade. Better to prevent than to cure. He needed a Maester, or at least a competent herbalist. The Kingsroad was busy; there would certainly be someone capable of stitching or administering a potion against rot.
The inn appeared as the sun hung low: a stone and dark-wood structure, two stories high, with a wrought-iron sign swaying slowly in the wind—a broken crown, symbol of the Crossroads of the King. It was larger than the previous village inn, with proper stables, a paved courtyard, and a stone fountain at its center. Warm lights glimmered through the windows, and the sounds of voices, laughter, and clinking tankards drifted outward.
A place for merchants, wandering knights, and travelers carrying heavy coins. Perfect.
Inside, it was spacious, warm, and crowded. Tables of massive oak, tallow candles and torches casting long shadows. The scent was of roast, spiced ale, and peat smoke. Behind the bar stood a sturdy woman, brown hair pinned in a bun, apron clean: Masha Heddle, the canonical innkeeper.
Alex approached, placing a golden dragon on the polished wood.
Masha's eyes widened.
"A golden dragon," she murmured, almost reverent. "Haven't seen one in months, ser. Welcome to the Crossroads of the King. What may I do for you?"
Alex kept his tone calm, measured, every word a signal of control.
"Food and lodging. The best room. Secure stables for two horses. Full meals, and the finest wine you have. How long will all this last with the dragon I've given you?"
Masha calculated swiftly, her eyes alight with admiration and surprise.
"Twenty-five days, ser. A room with a fireplace, featherbed, meals fit for a lord—roast kid, fresh bread, goat cheeses, honey, dried fruits. Wine: Arbor gold of 287, the last good vintage before the wars. A sip worth a day of a peasant's labor. With this," she indicated the coin, "you shall eat and live like a king for nearly a month."
Alex nodded.
"Done."
Masha smiled, a broad, genuine smile, then lowered her voice, noticing the wound.
"Do you require anything else, ser? A guide, or a healer to tend to recent injuries?"
Alex tilted his head. "Yes. An experienced guard, hired immediately. And a Maester or herbalist for a fresh wound."
Masha discreetly gestured to a table at the back of the hall.
"Seated there, ser, is Bronn. A mercenary. Skilled with the sword, loyal so long as paid well. And in the room next door works Mistress Lysa, expert in remedies and bandaging: she knows her trade."
Alex acknowledged with a nod.
Dinner arrived like a feast: thick, steaming leek-and-lamb soup, still-warm crusty bread, creamy goat cheese, slices of smoked ham, apples baked with cinnamon and honey, and a carafe of Arbor gold, shining like liquid gold in the glass. Alex ate slowly, savoring each bite, but never lowering his guard. The gazes of the nearest patrons never left him.
After dinner, Alex ensured the horses were stabled, then ascended to the room.
It was the inn's finest, yet still rustic. The scent of aged wood, peat smoke, and beeswax dominated. At the center, a large oak bed with feather mattress—a rare luxury—covered with heavy, rough-spun blue blankets. A sturdy table held a ceramic jug and basin. A small stone fireplace burned, casting dancing shadows on irregular plaster walls. Through the small, opaque leaded glass window, the Kingsroad stretched beyond, accompanied by the constant murmur of the common room below.
He hid the remaining twenty-nine dragons beneath the mattress, wrapped in cloth.
He lay down, the pain in his side a dull, steady throb. The night passed quickly.
In the morning he came down to breakfast: fresh bread, scrambled eggs, grilled sausages, cheese, and a light ale. He ate heartily, but without dropping his guard.
After breakfast, Alex went upstairs following Masha's directions. Mistress Lysa's room was the last on the left, small and cluttered, saturated with the scent of dried herbs, alcoholic tinctures, and resinous ointments. Shelves lined the walls: opaque glass jars of twisted roots, dried leaves, colored powders, corked vials. A rough wooden table held mortars, pestles, and clean cloths, while at the center, an iron stove kept a copper cauldron slowly boiling, filling the room with the scent of mint and myrrh.
Lysa was middle-aged, brown hair streaked with gray tied in a practical bun, knotted yet dexterous hands, pale eyes assessing without haste. She wore a linen apron stained green and brown, betraying daily use.
Alex entered without knocking, stopping at the threshold.
"Masha says you tend wounds," he said calmly.
Lysa lifted her gaze from the mortar.
"Show me."
Alex removed his tunic and mail. The cut on his side was red, swollen at the edges, crusted with dried blood. Lysa approached, brushing her cool fingers along the surrounding skin.
"Clean, but inflamed," she noted, practicality in her voice. "Five centimeters, spared the organs. You did well to come immediately. Waiting a day or two could have meant fever or rot."
"How serious is the risk of infection here?" Alex asked.
Lysa took a clean cloth and a small vial of clear liquid.
"High, if untreated. The air is damp, mud brings filth, people seldom wash hands. But with disinfectant and ointment, it can be controlled." She poured the liquid—a mixture of spirits and bitter herbs—onto the cut. Alex gritted his teeth, soundless.
"Burns," Lysa remarked, a hint of a smile. "Better: it kills what you cannot see."
She then applied a dark green ointment—scent of moss and mint—and wrapped it with clean gauze and tight bandage.
"Change twice daily. Avoid sudden movements in the coming days. If it grows hot, red, or pus appears, return immediately. Drink boiled water and eat fresh meat and vegetables."
Alex nodded, noting everything.
"How long for complete healing?"
"Ten days if you do not reopen it. Fifteen if you strain yourself."
"What herbs prevent infection?"
"Comfrey leaf and willow bark. I'll give you some for twenty copper stars."
Alex nodded, letting the cost be deducted from his advance to Masha.
"Thank you."
Lysa inclined her head.
"Take care, ser. Wounds heal. Men who inflict them do not."
Alex descended to the common room. Bronn sat at the back table, with a red-haired woman whispering in his ear. Lean, agile frame, short dark hair, hollowed face with high cheekbones, alert, mischievous black eyes. He wore worn but tidy black leather, short sword at his hip, dagger in boot. He smiled like one already knowing how it would end.
Alex approached without hesitation.
"Bronn. Masha says you are skilled with the sword and take jobs. I need a guard. Good pay, dangerous journey, no moral questions."
Bronn looked up, appraising him in a second. The red-haired woman fell silent, curious.
"I like directness," Bronn said, low, drawn voice. "How good is 'good'?"
"One golden dragon a month, plus board. And another dragon upfront if you train me with the sword. I am no knight, but I want to learn."
Bronn chuckled softly.
"Honest. Many come with tales of honor and glory. You do not. Upfront is costly, but if given now, I accept. I'll teach you not to die like an idiot."
Alex placed the dragon on the table. Bronn took it, bit to check, then stuffed it into his bag.
"Done. When do we leave?"
"When I am ready," Alex replied, pointing to his bandaged side. "After training, I want to know I can survive."
Bronn shrugged.
"Then tomorrow morning, courtyard. Bring your sword. And do not complain if I make you bleed."
The red-haired woman laughed.
"Seems you've found a rich pupil, love."
Bronn shrugged.
"Or a rich corpse. We shall see."
Alex smiled faintly.
"We shall see."
Over the next seven days, training was intense but measured. Bronn avoided striking the wound directly, focusing on lateral thrusts, parries, and distance management. Alex adapted MMA techniques to the sword: footwork, simulated clinches, precision strikes.
On the first day, cobbled courtyard: high guard, low guard, lunges, parries. Bronn struck hard, tripped him, cursed him.
"Move your feet, don't stand like a post! Stand still, you die."
Second day, Alex parried a blow aimed at his shoulder. Bronn nodded.
"Not bad. You have instinct, but against a knight that is not enough."
Third day, Alex counterattacked for the first time, grazing Bronn's arm. The mercenary laughed.
"Good. Now do it without me cutting your throat."
Fourth day, the wound reopened slightly; Lysa intervened with tight stitches and fresh ointment. Alex resumed exercises cautiously, respecting the bandage limits.
Fifth and sixth days: Bronn taught using armor weight and body movement as shield, integrating footwork and strikes. Alex began disarming Bronn in controlled simulations.
On the seventh day, at sunset, Bronn stopped.
"Enough for now. You can wield a sword and survive the first blows. To become skilled takes months. But on the road, you will manage."
That evening, in the common room, a drunken man—a red-bearded cart driver—shouted:
"After the Hand's assassin, they say the king has gone North! Recruit Ned Stark as First Knight! Robert to Winterfell!"
Alex, seated with Bronn, listened without moving. Two hundred ninety-eight, or nearly so. Robert alive, Ned at home, the wheel turns.