Seventh Moon of 269
The Hour of the Goblet (7 P.M.)
Outskirts of Lannisport
After spending two days flying and walking, he finally saw it: Lannisport. It was entirely different from anything Alaric had ever seen in his life in Westeros.
Growing up isolated on Bear Island, he never had the opportunity to see other cities or get a sense of what life was like on the continent. So, when he began his flight to Lannisport, he took the chance to pass through several towns. The first was Deepwood Motte, which, much like Mormont Keep, was underdeveloped and made of wood, so he passed it by without much thought. The second and final stop of the day was Torrhen's Square, which reminded him of traditional villages seen in medieval Hollywood movies. As his four-hour transformation limit was nearing its end, he stopped there, paid for a room at an inn, and only woke up eight hours later during The Hour of High Sun (11 A.M.) to continue his journey by wing once more.
The first and only stop of that flight was The Twins, where he arrived after a hurried flight, managing to land just as he hit the four-hour limit. The reason for his haste wasn't a desperate urge to reach Lannisport, but rather because the two potential stops in between were completely unviable: Greywater Watch, the moving castle in the middle of the swamp belonging to House Reed, and Moat Cailin, the ruined fortress above it.
Considering that magic seemed to have manifested in the Starks earlier than expected, he didn't want to linger in Reed lands to see if the same had happened to them—especially since they served as instruments of the Old Gods and the Children of the Forest in the original story, who certainly wouldn't be happy about him going to war. Moat Cailin, while safer, was too close to Torrhen's Square; stopping there would be a waste of his transformation time. Thus, he set The Twins as his destination and forced himself to fly at maximum speed before the four-hour limit expired. Fortunately, he made it.
Witnessing the fantastic architecture of The Twins, he easily ranked it as the most incredible sight he had witnessed in Westeros. Perhaps in days past, Moat Cailin—which he saw from a distance—might have been more impressive, but it was so ruined that no glory remained.
Alaric resumed his journey by heading down the Green Fork on a ferry. He could have tried to force himself to sleep for another eight hours, but he wasn't tired and had no medicine to induce it. The trip began during The Hour of the Hearth (5 P.M.), and by The Hour of Ghosts (12 A.M.), the ferry had only made it halfway to its final destination, Lord Harroway's Town. Since the turn of the day had recharged his transformation, Alaric asked the ferryman to pull over so he could disembark, using the excuse that his destination was Fairmarket on the Blue Fork, just a bit further west.
Stepping ashore and walking until he was out of sight, he turned into an eagle once more and continued his journey southwest. On the way, he flew over Riverrun, the castle surrounded by water. Even from a distance, he could see it would be a difficult castle to storm without magic. Pushing further and quickening his wings, Alaric stopped at Golden Tooth, less than three hundred miles from Lannisport. Walking to an inn to spend the night, he noticed a stark difference in the ratio of men to women, with the latter being far more present.
'The war,' Alaric deduced easily.
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Paying for another night's sleep, he woke during The Hour of the Throne (12 P.M.), isolated himself from the village, and began the final flight of his trip. An hour later, he soared over Sarsfield; another hour after that, he finally reached Lannisport.
Waiting in the queue at the gates of Lannisport, Alaric observed the various camps pitched around the city. In their center, numerous banners flew, representing the houses gathered there. Although most were from the Westerlands—the boar of Crakehall, the yellow pyramid and sun of the Leffords, the green arrow of the Sarsfields, and the golden tree of the Rowans—there were also banners from other regions, such as the red apple of the Fossoways of Cider Hall and the naked pink lady of the Pipers.
Upon further observation, it was clear the camps were separated by region. Houses from the same area grouped together, and if their Great Lord was present, they clustered around him. At the moment, just over two weeks since the ravens were sent calling Westeros to war, it wasn't surprising that this only applied to the forces of House Lannister (whose lands were the gathering point) and House Tyrell. The Reach was not only the second closest kingdom to Lannisport after the Riverlands, but it also boasted many houses with port cities—like Hightower and Black Crown—and towns on rivers near the sea, such as Highgarden itself, Longtable, Cider Hall, and Ashford. This proximity clearly helped when House Tyrell called their banners.
Despite the absence of several other regions, Alaric knew it was only a matter of time before the other kingdoms arrived to fill the outskirts of Lannisport with their own strength. He knew this because, on his way there, he had flown over several armies marching through the Riverlands, including the Tullys, who were leading a large coalition of houses along the River Road toward Lannisport.
One thing he noticed about the Tully forces, however, was that the number of men was quite small compared to the number of houses represented. Looking at the Westerlands and Reach forces around him, he realized the same was true here. The reason wasn't hard to guess: bringing an entire army to fight just one kingdom would be overkill, and it was physically impossible to house that many men on ships. Consequently, every kingdom was sending smaller, almost symbolic forces that formed a massive army when united. A prime example was the Reach; they had fewer men present than the Westerlands despite a much larger population, but they clearly compensated with their ships, filling Lannisport's harbor with their fleet.
'They'll definitely use the fact that many houses without a navy, like those from the Riverlands and Stormlands, will have to man their ships as an excuse not to fight on the front lines, arguing they've already done enough,' Alaric analyzed, noticing the Reach forces present couldn't even man half the fleet they brought without losing efficiency.
Finally reaching the gate of Lannisport, the guard performing the checks stopped him. The man looked at Alaric's common clothes and the spear held in his right hand, rolled his eyes, and asked with a sigh:
"Name and intentions."
Taking his own breath before speaking, Alaric acted out the script he had prepared.
"I am Garren. I've come to enlist in the war against the Ironmen. I lived in a village near the Ocean Road that was attacked by them a month ago," Alaric performed, forcing a sorrowful face that looked more like a grimace.
Even if he wasn't a good actor, he had to try. It was either this or sneaking onto a boat.
"I couldn't join the forces of—"
"Wrong line, boy," the guard cut him off.
"What?"
"Wrong. Line. Boy. If you want to fight in the war, you have to go over there." He pointed toward the Westerlands camp, specifically the Lannister section at the center of it all. "See those men?" He wagged his finger toward a line of men holding weapons. "That's the recruitment line."
Alaric looked at the line, jaw dropping.
"I thought they were already soldiers."
"Thought wrong."
"Some of them are wearing chainmail."
"That's your competition. We don't have enough ships for every man, so we have to make every space count. Take it as a divine sign, boy, and go home."
Still staring at the distant men, Alaric turned and began walking toward them, leaving the guard behind to sigh once more.
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This time, the line moved quickly. Alaric soon found himself in front of a man sitting behind a wooden table, writing. Beside him sat a Maester also writing on a parchment, and flanking the table were two guards holding spears and wearing gambesons. After the seated man asked for his details, Alaric restarted his speech.
"I am Garren. Ten-and-five name days. I've come to enlist in the war against the Ironmen. I lived in a village near the Ocean Road that was attacked by them a month ago. I couldn't join the forces of Lord Crakehall or Old Oak because I was taking care of my mother who—"
"Do you know how to use that spear?" the man interrupted, pointing his quill at Alaric's right hand.
"Yes. My father served during his time in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and taught me, serving under—"
"Did you fight during the raid on your village?" he questioned again.
"Yes..." Alaric replied, realizing his concern over a detailed backstory was useless; no one seemed to care.
"Go over there." The man pointed toward a clearing where several men holding weapons were gathered, all looking in the same direction. "Join them and wait your turn to be tested."
Moving away from the table and joining the men, Alaric could see over the shoulders of the crowd: two men were sparring in a circle. One was blonde, appearing to be in his early thirties, wearing a red and yellow gambeson and wielding a longsword and a wooden shield. The other looked to be in his mid-twenties—young, but much more muscular—wearing only common clothes, rags compared to the quality of his opponent's gear, and wielding a wooden axe and shield.
It was obvious to everyone watching that the first man was far more skilled. He easily knocked the younger man down and told him to leave his shield and axe on the rack and depart from the Westerlands camps, suggesting he try his luck with the other kingdoms. Despite the shame the axeman felt at being rejected, Alaric detected no malice or arrogance from the evaluator—only indifference.
Once the rejected man had put away his gear and walked away with his head low, the first man looked at the crowd and announced:
"Next!"
No one stepped forward. From the large and muscular to the small and agile, everyone seemed to have reached the same conclusion: having just seen the evaluator easily drop a man much taller than himself, waiting for him to tire seemed like the best strategy.
But not Alaric.
Having already assessed the evaluator's style, Alaric predicted that even without using magic, he would do just fine.
Pushing through the crowd, Alaric entered the yard and faced the evaluator. Leaning on his sword—which was stuck in the ground—with one hand, the evaluator looked Alaric up and down, sizing him up.
"How many name days do you have, boy?" the evaluator questioned.
Through his Insight, Alaric could see the question was laden with weariness and frustration. Having been responsible for evaluating new cadets in his past life, Alaric didn't need to read the man's mind to know where those feelings came from.
"Ten-and-five." There was no point in exaggerating or aiming too high, but by making it clear he wouldn't back down, Alaric met the evaluator's gaze with the greatest intensity he could muster.
With a sigh, the evaluator relented. "Put that spear of yours away and grab one of the blunt ones from the rack."
[New Common Quest Received!]
Title: Test by Combat
Description: Convince your evaluator to pass you through your skills.
Reward: 100 XP.
Ignoring the notification for now and obeying the order, Alaric went to the rack and returned not only with a new spear—testing its weight and balance in his right hand—but also with a wooden shield.
"Strikes aimed at the neck or head are forbidden; any attempt will result in immediate expulsion. Ready?" the evaluator asked, dropping into a combat stance with his shield forward and his sword tucked just behind it.
Stopping the spear's motion, Alaric took his battle stance: legs slightly bent, shield raised, and spear leveled over the upper right rim of the shield. He shouted, "Yes!" peering intently at the evaluator with eyes just visible above the shield's edge.
The evaluator, not expecting a green peasant to know how to enter a guard—let alone such a disciplined one—faltered for a moment while staring at Alaric's form, but he quickly returned to the task at hand.
"We begin, now," the evaluator said, beginning a slow advance toward Alaric.
Despite the evaluator being the one advancing, it was Alaric who struck first. He lunged, delivering a horizontal sweep with the spear toward the evaluator's feet, arching his body forward in the process and raising his shield over his head, ready to catch any overhead counter-strike.
The evaluator, caught off guard by the speed of the attack, was nearly hit but leapt back just in time. Letting Alaric's spear pass, the evaluator took a long stride forward, reclaiming the lost ground, and slashed downward toward Alaric's raised shield, wanting to test if the boy's defense was as solid as his speed.
But Alaric wasn't interested in a test of strength. Seeing the blow coming, he leaned to his right as he stood up, throwing his shield backward and causing the evaluator's sword to miss his head by mere centimeters. Alaric didn't just see the blade graze his hair out of the corner of his eye; he felt the air pressure distort as the sword whistled past.
This was a maneuver Alaric couldn't have imagined performing before he had invested his two attribute points into Dexterity.
Alaric counter-attacked immediately. With the evaluator so close, his spear was useless, so he used the shield instead, swinging it back to its original position at high speed and driving it toward the evaluator's chest.
The evaluator checked the blow by slamming his own shield into Alaric's. Despite having less room to build momentum, the evaluator hit with much more force; the impact made Alaric's arm throb with vibration and released the dry, sharp crack of splintering wood.
Failing to push the evaluator back and being dangerously within his reach, Alaric made a desperate leap away, reset his guard, and faced his opponent again. The evaluator was standing with his guard lowered, showing no sign of attacking, but looking thoroughly frustrated.
"Don't pull any more of those risky stunts. Just because my sword is blunt doesn't mean it's harmless," the evaluator warned. "No... forget it. New rule: if my sword hits your head, you're out. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," Alaric replied, still watching him as if an attack could come at any second.
The evaluator resumed his stance and the fight continued, though without any more of the wild maneuvers from before. Not that they were needed; the intensity of the fight dropped drastically after that first exchange.
Alaric, sensing the evaluator had acknowledged him and was now merely gauging his technical limits, allowed himself to relax and focus on showcasing his fundamentals. After three minutes, the evaluator lowered his guard and, without showing a hint of fatigue, spoke:
"Enough. That's plenty. What's your name, boy?"
"Garren," Alaric answered, his breathing coming a bit heavy.
"Congratulations, Garren. You'll fight in the war. Try not to die in the first battle. It would be a damn waste of a slot."
[Mission Accomplished]
Title: Test by Combat
+100 XP
Total: 5,985 / 6,500
"Thank you, sir," Alaric said. He showed no outward joy, but he felt the satisfaction blooming inside.
"Join them." He pointed toward a distant group of four men standing near a tent, who had been watching the spectacle from afar. "Once I'm finished for the day, I'll take you all to where you'll be stationed."
With a respectful nod, Alaric retrieved his own spear and joined the group. Three of the men were standing, while one sat on the ground, all watching his approach. The standing men appeared to be in their mid-thirties, with faces bronzed by the sun and etched with small battle scars. All three looked grim.
The one sitting was the opposite. He had a youthful face, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties. Although his skin was darker than average, it wasn't the tan of someone who spent too much time in the sun; it was his ethnicity.
Despite never having met a Dornishman in person, Alaric knew instantly that he was looking at one. It wasn't just the skin tone, but other features he hadn't seen in any other inhabitant of Westeros so far.
As Alaric sat on the ground to rest without greeting anyone, the Dornishman was the one to initiate contact.
"You actually know how to handle a spear, boy. Well... at least against someone focused only on grading you. I don't doubt Ser Lyonel Lannet was holding back against you just as he held back against me... but still, who did you learn from?"
Even without turning toward the man, Alaric could guess from his relaxed, confident tone that he was wearing a smirk.
"You look only four or five names days older than me, so don't call me 'boy.' And as for who I learned from, I've already explained myself to the one who matters," Alaric replied, still not turning, preferring to watch Ser Lyonel test the other men.
The Dornishman gave a short, light chuckle, undeterred by Alaric's cold response.
"Right, right. My bad. Forget the first part. But come on... where did you learn to fight like that?"
Alaric continued watching Ser Lyonel in silence.
Again, the Dornishman wasn't discouraged. Even though Alaric wasn't looking at him, he placed a hand over his heart and spoke dramatically, as if performing for an audience.
"Is your heart so cold that you would resent a man for following his curious nature? Would you deny him an answer, especially when faced with such a mystery?"
Nothing.
"I just wonder. You dress like a peasant, but you don't fight like one..."
Leaning closer to Alaric's ear, he whispered so only the two of them could hear:
"You don't talk like one, either. Your accent, your pale skin... you aren't a Westerner... are you?"
Alaric finally turned to look at him, causing the Dornishman's smile to widen. After staring into the man's "nothingness" for a moment, Alaric answered.
"I don't resent anyone, especially someone who doesn't know me. I just don't see a reason to fraternize with someone I'll never see again after the war—someone who might very well die in it. But since you insist, I will answer your question, 'O man tormented by the thirst for answers.'"
Alaric leaned toward the Dornishman with a deadpan expression. The other man mirrored the movement, his smile reminding Alaric of a child about to receive sweets.
"After you answer MY question," Alaric said, his voice dropping lower than the Dornishman's. It was like a bucket of cold water, causing the man's eyebrows to shoot up. "What is a vulture doing so far from the Red Mountains?"
With those words, the Dornishman's smile vanished. His brow furrowed as his mood shifted completely.
"How?" he asked.
"Have you not learned yet that it is better not to ask questions?"
With that, Alaric went back to observing Ser Lyonel Lannet, leaving Andrey Blackmont to figure out how his identity had been compromised all on his own.
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