Watching others bustle about, Ethan sat motionless on the grass, a blade of grass dangling idly from his mouth.
From the moment he entered Linhai Village and saw corpses strewn everywhere, a fire had ignited inside him. It burned fiercely through the battle—only now, finally extinguished by pirate blood—leaving behind an unexpected sense of peace and satisfaction.
The gentle clatter of hooves sounded behind him. Ethan turned to see Rodney riding up at a leisurely pace.
"Sir Ethan Cole, your valor today exceeded even my highest expectations."
Rodney reined in his mount and looked down at him with genuine admiration.
"I truly cannot imagine what would have become of me and my lands without your presence in this fight."
Ethan gave a small, tired chuckle.
"Probably a catastrophe. But since it didn't happen, let's not dwell on it."
Rodney laughed heartily—the sound carrying real relief.
"You're right! We've won. Why waste time imagining what might have been?"
He paused, gazing out over the forests and meadows now bathed in sunset gold, then spoke more seriously.
"Sir Ethan—where do you plan to go next?"
Ethan shook his head.
"I haven't decided. This land is still very unfamiliar to me."
Rodney nodded slowly.
"The North is harsh… but we still offer bread and salt to friends. Once Harry returns, I'd like to invite you and your squire to rest at my manor for a few days. Would that be presumptuous?"
"Of course not," Ethan replied easily. "I'd be glad to visit."
He had no reason to refuse a local lord's hospitality—and he was genuinely curious about how a minor lord lived in this world that so closely mirrored medieval Europe.
To return the courtesy, he asked with real concern:
"Has Harry gone after the stragglers? Do you need my help?"
Rodney shook his head.
"No need. I sent him with men to locate the pirates' camp. If we don't burn their longships, even one or two survivors could bring back a whole new fleet in a matter of days.
You know how it is with these barbarians—they're like flies on rotting meat. You can never kill them all.
Besides… they plundered my people and stole a fortune while I was unprepared. I intend to take it all back."
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
"And then? Return it to the victims?"
Rodney gave him a strange look.
"Return it? These are spoils of war—mine by right. Why would I give them back?"
Ethan nodded slowly and said nothing more.
He gazed into the distance, letting the silence settle.
The battle—two hundred men clashing—had lasted barely half an hour from first contact to victory.
But clearing the field took three times as long.
The site wasn't far from Single Bridge Village. Leaving dozens of corpses in the open would draw wolves and spread sickness.
Enemy dead were buried in mass graves. Comrades were cremated so their ashes could be carried home.
Kevin's collected heads were to be presented to Rodney for verification and bounty payment.
By the time everything was finished the stars were already bright.
The fighting had been too brutal; many men were wounded and the column was in no condition for a long march.
Rodney therefore led everyone back to Single Bridge Village for the night.
By then the villagers had already extinguished the fires the pirates set. The air still stank of smoke and wet ash.
Corpses had been gathered from the streets for burial.
Survivors cheered as the victorious militia entered—relieved to be alive and grateful for vengeance.
Rodney's men were familiar faces here. As the column dispersed, militiamen were welcomed into homes by relatives and neighbors from Single Bridge.
At the warm invitation of one of the village warriors, Ethan and Kevin also accepted lodging for the night.
With the main pirate force annihilated and the survivors scattered and fleeing, they no longer posed any real threat.
Once Harry located and burned their longships, any stragglers would either starve in the woods or become food for wolves. Whether they wandered into another lord's territory was someone else's problem.
After organizing a watch rotation and settling post-battle compensation according to custom, Rodney gave the order to disband.
All but the seriously wounded—who were left in Single Bridge to recover—departed one by one.
Each man carried the remains or ashes of fallen comrades from his own village.
Three days after the battle, Ethan arrived at Redstone Village with Rodney and his personal guard.
Redstone took its name from a massive exposed outcrop of reddish-brown rock at the village entrance.
Originally just another insignificant coastal hamlet under House Corbray, it had been transformed over more than a decade of Rodney's careful stewardship into the most prosperous settlement in his domain—almost a small town.
As Rodney rode slowly through the streets, villagers paused in their work to bow.
Rodney returned each nod with a raised crop, proudly gesturing toward the well-kept roads and sturdy houses.
"This is my manor," he said to Ethan. "What do you think? Not bad, eh?"
"Indeed—not bad at all," Ethan replied sincerely.
Along the journey he had passed through villages with rutted, muddy tracks, low damp cottages, and hollow-eyed inhabitants.
Redstone at least had paved streets and people with healthy color in their cheeks.
It seemed Rodney might be poor at battlefield command, but he was genuinely skilled at domestic governance.
Legally the entire village belonged to Rodney, but in practice his personal residence occupied only a modest compound in the northeast corner.
A three-story timber house stood inside a two-meter stone wall.
Thick log gates were flanked by two wooden watchtowers—each manned by an archer.
The gatekeeper spotted Rodney's party approaching, hurried out, and took the reins of his lord's horse, leading it inside.
It was just past noon.
After dismounting, Rodney instructed servants to show his two guests to their rooms to wash and rest.
Fresh clothes were brought; then Ethan and Kevin were escorted to comfortable guest chambers.
They bathed and lay down.
As dusk settled, the manor steward knocked softly on their doors.
"Your lordships—the master invites you to dinner."
"Yes, thank you."
Ethan replied, then led Kevin downstairs after they changed.
A lavish spread already waited on the long rectangular table.
Rodney sat at one end as host, leaving the opposite end for Ethan.
On one side sat a slightly plump middle-aged woman and two girls—one older, one younger.
On the other sat Harry, fresh from the field.
When Ethan took his seat Kevin was guided to sit beside Harry.
Rodney nodded to Ethan and made introductions.
"Sir Ethan—this is my wife, Dalia of House Corbray. These two are my daughters: Keith, my eldest, and Jenny, my youngest."
He turned to the little girl—six or seven years old, long curly brown hair, bright curious eyes—and said warmly:
"Jenny—this is the great hero I told you about. The one who helped us slay the brutal pirate captain—Sir Ethan Cole—and his brave squire, 'the Headcutter' Kevin. Shall we welcome them?"
Jenny stared at Kevin with wide eyes.
"Daddy… why do they call him the Headcutter?"
"Because he cut off sixteen pirate heads on the battlefield and traded them to me for a whole gold dragon!"
"Wow… amazing!" Jenny whispered in awe.
Rodney smiled indulgently, raised his goblet, and declared:
"Let us welcome the noble knight, the mighty warrior—Sir Ethan Cole!"
"Welcome, sir!"
"Welcome—welcome!"
"Welcome to Redstone!"
Amid warm cheers and raised cups Ethan drained his silver goblet of red wine in a single long pull.
The meal passed in excellent spirits.
Rodney—high in emotional intelligence—easily found topics everyone enjoyed.
Though Lady Dalia asked a few slightly embarrassing personal questions (family size, land holdings, livestock count), they stayed within polite bounds.
Ethan deflected skillfully—mixing truth with light humor.
Host and guests enjoyed the evening.
After dinner Rodney invited Ethan to his private study.
A servant brought two goblets of good wine.
Rodney pointed to a rough hand-drawn map hanging on the wall.
"Between the Free Cities and the North lies a narrow sea. If you intend to continue east, the best route is southwest."
He tapped the black dot marking Redstone Village and traced a line south to a bay.
"Go first to White Harbor. From there you can find a ship and cross eastward."
Ethan studied the map, committing landmarks to memory.
"What if I want to travel around Westeros with my squire?"
Rodney nodded.
"If you wish to wander, I still recommend White Harbor first. It is the North's greatest trading port—the mouth of the wolf.
Everything flows in and out through White Harbor, then up the White Knife River to the heart of the North.
An adventurous man can easily find fortune there."
"And beyond White Harbor?"
"From White Harbor you can take a merchant vessel south to King's Landing—the capital of the Seven Kingdoms and the richest city on the continent.
There you will find everything: beautiful women, vast wealth, high titles—if you can pay the price.
And King Robert loves to host grand tourneys. A warrior of your caliber would stand out easily."
*But my identity might not survive close scrutiny…* Ethan thought, then asked:
"Sounds promising. Any other options?"
"Winterfell. Seat of House Stark—capital of the North.
Follow the White Knife north, disembark near Winterfell, and you can visit a castle with eight thousand years of history."
"Eight thousand years?!"
Ethan was genuinely startled.
"Yes—according to the records, Brandon the Builder raised Winterfell with the help of giants eight thousand years ago.
Of course, as the Stark family seat, common folk cannot enter the keep itself. You'll likely see only the outer walls. Even I have only been as far as the Great Hall and the tourney grounds."
Ethan wasn't concerned about access.
Having lived in 21st-century China he had seen far grander architecture.
What astonished him was how a civilization spanning eight thousand years still operated at roughly medieval European productivity levels.
Where had they been all that time?
Or was there some unseen force keeping their progress stagnant?
Rodney continued:
"Winterfell is the political and military heart of the North. Problems too large for local lords to handle eventually reach the taverns outside its walls.
The environment there is far friendlier to wandering knights who live by the sword."
He smiled wryly.
"Not every lord commands a loyal standing force. When a weak lord faces trouble he cannot solve—and is unwilling to beg his liege or neighbors—he posts notices in Winterfell's market square openly recruiting mercenary knights.
Dealing with sellswords is simply a matter of coin—no messy feudal obligations."
"With your skill, I suspect you would rise quickly in that world."
*Indeed—the Sunwalker, Grand Lord—I know the feeling well.*
Moreover the strange game text the angel had shown him before his crossing still lingered in his mind:
*"While the southern kingdoms are plunged into chaos caused by war… a threat from the northern ice plains…"*
Though he didn't yet know the exact nature of the northern danger—or why war had erupted in the south—Ethan understood one thing clearly:
In times of chaos, individual strength was never enough.
Only by gathering trusted companions could he hope to achieve anything grand—perhaps even find a way home.
He had already made his decision.
He bowed slightly to his host.
"You're right. In that case I won't impose further. Thank you for your hospitality. My squire and I will set out for White Harbor tomorrow."
Rodney blinked—surprised by the sudden decisiveness—then quickly raised a hand.
"No need to rush. You don't know the road to White Harbor. Rest here a few more days.
Every three months I organize a caravan south to White Harbor. Travel with us—it will save you asking directions everywhere.
I'd also like to ask you to escort the caravan for part of the journey.
This fight cost me dearly—several of my regular guards fell. I haven't yet found suitable replacements.
If you're willing to ride with us to White Harbor, I think it would benefit both sides."
Ethan considered briefly, then nodded.
"Fair enough. When does your caravan leave?"
"Not long—only a few days."
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