Having agreed, Ethan would truly become a mercenary.
He hesitated for a moment. He didn't particularly want a profession built on killing for coin; becoming a blacksmith—or any honest trade—felt more suitable.
Besides, as a transmigrator he carried countless ways to make money in his head. Even one or two good ideas would be enough to support a comfortable life for several generations.
Yet according to everything he had read before crossing over, this continent called Westeros was on the verge of chaos. No amount of wealth mattered without the strength to protect it.
Thinking of that, Ethan gave a self-deprecating smile. He already had five lives on his hands—what was there left to be coy about?
So he asked directly, "What's your offer?"
Rodney stroked the signet ring on his finger, choosing his words carefully.
"Besides you, I already have my caravan guards. I can pay you at their rate—fifteen silver stags a day…"
"Caravan-guard wages?" Ethan shook his head. "Too low. Guards don't fight every day. From what I've heard you already clashed with the pirates yesterday and you're preparing to pursue them now. Joining you means kill or be killed. That's worth far more than caravan rates."
Rodney smiled faintly. "So what do you propose?"
"If the rest of your men are on Eric's level—I'll take five shares each."
Eric, sitting nearby, slapped Ethan hard on the shoulder plate. "Hey, kid—I'm not *that* bad!"
Ethan gave him an apologetic grin. "Sorry, wasn't targeting you. Just being honest."
Rodney considered for a moment.
"If word got out that I was paying you ten silver moons a day the other men would resent it. Street brawls and battlefield combat are two different things. I can't justify five times the rate just because you dropped five men in a tavern yard."
One silver moon equaled seven silver stags. Ethan thought the number was fair, but he also understood Rodney's position. From ancient times to now, people cared far more about fairness than about absolute scarcity. A good leader knew how to keep his men equal.
So Ethan offered another idea.
"In my homeland there was once a system where frontline merit was measured by heads. Every enemy killed, you cut off the head and brought it back to the supply officer for reward. Very fair, very clear."
Rodney gave a dry chuckle. "Your homeland sounds brutal—but efficient."
After a short pause he nodded.
"I'm willing to pay ten silver stags per pirate head—provided you kill them yourself and the fight is clean."
"Deal. Very fair."
Rodney spat into his palm and extended his hand.
Ethan hesitated only a heartbeat—then spat into his own palm. Their hands clasped tightly.
"Done."
With the contract sealed the table relaxed into easy conversation.
Ethan—of course—played up his Azeroth career, carefully omitting the parts where his combat power far exceeded anything Westeros could produce.
Even so, his tales of leveling, dungeon runs, and monster-slaying sounded remarkably like the life of a true sellsword.
After all, Azeroth players would kill gods themselves for better loot tables.
In return he learned a little about his future comrades.
Rodney's full name was Rodney Corbray—cousin to the current head of House Corbray, vassals of House Royce.
Normally a cadet branch member wouldn't carry the family name, but Rodney had grown up close with the baron and distinguished himself in several major engagements. As reward he had been granted Rockfall Village and four neighboring hamlets—roughly equivalent to a large landed-knight holding in the south.
The curly-haired young man beside him was Harry—Rodney's eldest son.
For this campaign every village under Rodney's protection (except Rockfall itself) had contributed men. The force of 150+ represented everything he could muster.
Most garrison commanders would simply drive raiders out of their territory. Rodney couldn't afford that luxury.
Beyond farming, his villages hunted furs and fished rare seafood. Rodney bought the goods and ran caravans south to White Harbor and north to Winterfell, trading for other necessities.
Those caravans brought considerable wealth to him and his kin—one reason a mere cadet branch could hold five villages.
This campaign wasn't only about protecting smallfolk; it was about safeguarding the trade routes that kept his family prosperous.
That was the main reason he was willing to pay premium coin for Ethan's blade.
Early the next morning, as soon as the sky lightened, the militiamen—who had received orders the night before—began to emerge from their billets. One by one they donned gear and gathered in the village square.
Ethan and Kevin stepped out of the tavern and merged naturally into the crowd.
One wore full plate that caught the dawn like molten gold; the other wore crisp new leather armor and carried weapons of different lengths, including a three-meter iron-tipped spear.
They stood out sharply among the fur- and wool-clad levies—like two destriers among plow horses.
When the square was full, Ser Rodney, his son Harry, and four guards Ethan didn't recognize rode out on armored horses.
After a quick inspection of the ranks to confirm everyone was present, Rodney raised his riding crop and shouted:
"Move out!"
A handful of cavalry screened Rodney at the front. The rest of the militia followed in loose groups.
The column of more than 140 men stretched along the country road like a long, ragged snake—about the size of four fifth-grade school classes on a spring outing.
Yet despite the casual appearance the formation maintained a strange discipline. No one fell behind.
Ethan guessed the veterans scattered throughout the column were the glue holding it together.
Besides the handful of cavalry around Rodney, the force included a dozen chainmail swordsmen with shields, twenty or so spearmen, and seven or eight longbowmen with short blades at their hips.
The remaining eighty-odd "peasant levies" wore plain wool or linen and carried an assortment of farm tools—axes, mattocks, billhooks—clustered protectively around the veterans.
Even the most experienced-looking men wore armor that was patched, rusted, and dusty.
In fine plate and walking under his own power, Ethan was one of only two people in the entire column who didn't look like he belonged to the smallfolk levy.
He couldn't help thinking he should buy a couple of horses for transport.
He clenched his fist in sudden realization.
"Why didn't I think of that back in the village a few days ago!"
As they reached the village outskirts Kevin nudged Ethan and pointed quietly.
"Teacher—look."
Hanging from a large roadside tree was a blackened corpse.
Ethan glanced up and studied it closely.
The face was unrecognizable—bloated and distorted—but the hair and clothing matched the short-haired prisoner he had handed over to Unite.
The body looked several days old. Hands and feet had been hacked off. The rags were blood-soaked and torn; putrid fluids dripped from the stumps, drawing flies that buzzed in thick clouds.
Ethan sighed.
"Looks like his information didn't save him. Feeling sorry for him?"
Kevin shook his head.
"He deserved it. But… I think he might have been luckier if you'd finished him yourself."
"Probably."
Ethan knew Kevin was right.
While he was lethal in combat, he wasn't practiced at torture or interrogation.
If he had kept the prisoner, he likely wouldn't have extracted anything useful—and he wouldn't have handed over an intact tongue.
"Hey—is that the pirate you caught?"
A boy of sixteen or seventeen—wearing patched, oversized clothes—approached Ethan curiously.
Ethan glanced at him.
"How'd you know?"
"Alvin told everyone yesterday. Said you killed half a dozen pirates yourself and dragged one back alive."
"You from Rockfall too? I didn't see you the other day."
The boy grinned sheepishly.
"Nah—I'm from River Fork Village. Heard Lord Rodney was raising men to fight pirates, so I came all the way here."
An older man carrying a rake—walking not far behind—overheard and came closer in surprise.
"Stupid Evan? What are you doing here? Did Boss Jon even allow this?"
Evan glanced around nervously. When he was sure the big figure riding ahead wasn't looking back, he relaxed slightly and whispered,
"I followed secretly. Hid outside the village all last night."
He quickly changed the subject, turning back to Ethan.
"Big guy—are the pirates really that strong? I heard you killed several all by yourself. Are they weak?"
Ethan laughed.
"Someone like you? I could handle several of them too. Never seen pirates before and you still dared to come?"
"I heard the militia who fight get fed every day." Evan licked his lips unconsciously. "The old soldiers said after we win, Lord Rodney will throw a big feast—meat and wine. Last time I had smoked meat was two years ago when Brother McGonagall got married…"
His eyes glazed over at the memory.
The old man with the rake sighed and shook his head.
"This lad's parents died of fever a few years back. He scrapes by doing odd jobs around the village. Not an easy life."
He tapped his own temple.
"Stupid Evan—if fighting actually breaks out, don't charge in like a fool. Hide behind someone. Don't throw your life away before you earn anything."
Evan blinked back to reality.
"Huh? Lose what? Who lost something?"
The old man sighed again.
"Just… don't lose *yourself*."
Kevin chuckled quietly.
Ethan stayed silent, suddenly aware he had eaten smoked meat almost every day recently.
Back on Earth he'd carefully limited meat to lose weight.
A wave of unexpected sympathy hit him. He clapped Evan on the shoulder.
"Kid—stick close to me for a while. When we get back I'll treat you to smoked meat."
"Really?" Evan's eyes lit up. "I want the greasy, shiny part!"
Perhaps because they were close in age, Kevin and Evan quickly fell into easy conversation, whispering behind Ethan as they marched.
Ethan himself spoke as little as possible—saving energy and staying mentally sharp for whatever lay ahead.
He noticed scouts slipping out of the trees every so often—lean, quick-moving men who spoke briefly with Rodney at the head of the column. The reports were coming more frequently.
They were closing on the pirates.
Sure enough, after the latest scout whispered to him, Rodney wheeled his horse and shouted back down the line:
"Forced march! Destination—Single Bridge Village!"
Single Bridge lay three leagues ahead—roughly fourteen kilometers.
Veterans rode up and down the column, barking at the levies to pick up the pace. Shouts of "Faster! Faster!" rang out constantly.
Under forced march the three leagues fell in just over an hour.
Single Bridge Village sat beside a fast-flowing river that cut straight through its farmland and houses.
For easier crossing the villagers had lashed several thick logs together into a crude bridge—hence the name.
When Rodney's column reached the riverbank they found the bridge already torn apart. Broken logs floated downstream.
On the far bank, smoke rose from the village.
Cries of men, women, and children carried clearly across the water—filling every fighter with helpless rage.
But every man was loaded with weapons, packs, and armor. Swimming was impossible.
Trying to ford the swift current would likely end in drowning.
Rodney had no choice.
He ordered the column upstream to a shallower ford about a kilometer away.
By the time the scattered 150+ men had all crossed and regrouped opposite Single Bridge, half an hour had passed.
The pirates were already gone—leaving behind only the wounded, the dead, and the burning houses.
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