In Azeroth, Ethan had completed countless escort quests. Most were simple: follow a clumsy NPC, kill a few annoying mobs, collect the reward, and move on.
Only one quest still haunted him—the "Of Love and Family" chain in the Western Plaguelands.
There he had met Tirion Fordring, the exiled paladin and former lord of Hearthglen, living in seclusion in a hidden valley. Learning of Tirion's past honor and sacrifice, Ethan decided to help reunite the old man with his son, Taelan Fordring.
Disguised and carrying the toy warhammer Tirion had carved for his boy years ago, Ethan infiltrated the Scarlet Crusade stronghold in Hearthglen. He found Taelan—now a high-ranking commander—and revealed the truth about the Crusade's corruption and Tirion's unwavering love and expectations.
When Taelan saw the childhood toy, realization struck. He renounced the Scarlet Crusade and resolved to leave with Ethan to find his father.
Together they fought their way out of the valley, cutting through wave after wave of pursuers. Just as freedom seemed within reach—right at the edge of Hearthglen territory—High Inquisitor Isillien appeared out of nowhere and delivered the scripted killing blow to young Fordring.
Though the quest marked as complete and Ethan received his reward, the image of old Tirion arriving too late—kneeling broken before his son's corpse—remained burned into his memory.
Even if he had killed Isillien afterward, even if he had razed the Scarlet Crusade's holdings in Northrend—what difference would it have made?
The boy was gone. Irretrievable.
To avoid repeating that regret in Westeros, from the very day the caravan departed Redstone Village, Ethan volunteered to march fully armored at the head of the column—scanning every bridge, treeline, and ridgeline they approached.
Craig Cobb, the caravan master, was pleased. Every boss appreciates diligent, responsible employees.
Still, he worried Ethan was pushing himself too hard. A week or two of hyper-vigilance was fine—but what if it continued for months?
The entire caravan now relied heavily on Ethan's martial skill.
More importantly, Craig knew this route like the back of his hand. He could walk it blindfolded. There was no need for such constant tension.
He decided to find a moment to speak with Ethan.
Five days after leaving Redstone Village the caravan reached its first scheduled stop—a small village along the road.
Craig led the drivers and several guards into the settlement to collect contracted goods.
Kevin accompanied the other escorts to purchase fresh vegetables, meat, and bread.
That evening, after work was finished, everyone gathered in a loose circle of the five wagons. A campfire crackled; a large iron pot bubbled with smoked meat and mushroom soup.
Once the rich aroma filled the air Craig sat down beside Ethan carrying a skin of freshly brewed rye liquor he'd bought in the village. He offered it with a grin.
"Here—have a drink?"
Ethan looked surprised.
"Can I? I thought we weren't allowed to drink on the road."
Craig laughed.
"Why bother with rules now? We can't drink while moving—that's to prevent mistakes. But we're in the village tonight. Rough men like us—if we don't drink for two or three months straight—we'll go mad from boredom."
Ethan blinked.
"Oh. I see."
If the boss said it was fine—what was there to hesitate over? He accepted the skin and took several long swallows.
The two men passed the liquor back and forth while enjoying second helpings of soup and stewed meat. As the mood grew warm and loose Craig asked casually:
"Ethan—you've never guarded a caravan before, have you?"
After a short pause Ethan answered honestly.
"No. This is my first time."
Craig chuckled.
"Knew it."
He fished a piece of fatty meat from the pot with his spoon and popped it into his mouth.
"When I was younger I fought on the front lines too. Never did anything glorious, but I learned a few things.
These past few days I've watched you—running ahead, checking the rear, scouting every blind corner. You move like a veteran.
But even though you're still full of energy, your old horse looks worn out."
Ethan couldn't help glancing sideways at "Old Man," who stood grazing quietly nearby. The gelding did look noticeably more tired than when they started.
"You're treating our little trade caravan like an army marching through enemy territory, aren't you?"
Ethan gave a slightly embarrassed laugh.
"Haha…"
Craig took a small pull from the skin.
"Our work is quite different from the army's…"
He began to explain.
From Redstone Village the southern caravan first passed through Horwood City, then turned south along the kingsroad toward White Harbor.
Lords along the route—upon the caravan's arrival in their domains—would either send men to join it or entrust goods to Craig for sale in White Harbor. Craig would then purchase whatever supplies those lords desired and bring them back on the return trip.
The shopping list varied.
If a lord enjoyed fine drink, Craig bought barrels of Highgarden's newest vintage.
If a lady wanted to impress her friends with the latest fashion, Craig sought new styles from King's Landing jewelers and clothiers.
Whether acting as distributor or agent, Rodney set a modest profit margin—around 25% per transaction. Low for long-distance trade—but deliberate.
By keeping margins slim Rodney spared the nobles in House Corbray's sphere from being gouged by foreign merchants. He also saved them the risk and expense of organizing their own caravans.
Thus Rodney's trade network wasn't truly his alone—it carried the interests of every lord, great and small, along the route.
"That's why you see these three flags on every wagon shaft," Craig said, pointing to the drooping banners.
"The dark-brown elk is House Corbray's protection sigil.
The blue maple leaf means the cargo belongs to the Corbray family.
And the small sailfish flag shows my brother Rodney is personally responsible for this run."
"With those three banners flying, lords along the way waive tolls and often provide escorts through dangerous stretches."
Ethan frowned slightly.
"Then why does your brother still assign seven guards?"
Craig gave a wry grin.
"If we traveled without guards—do you really think these same lords who call us 'brother' today wouldn't turn bandit tomorrow? Steal the goods, blame it on some nameless thief, and wash their hands of it?
No matter how many guards we bring, they can't match a lord's private army.
But if they ever did try it—as long as one or two of us escape and make it back to Rodney—someone will come looking for answers."
Ethan nodded slowly.
So the guards' main purpose was deterrence.
"What about common bandits—ones with no noble backing? They rob us and run. Aren't they afraid of retaliation?"
Craig nodded.
"Exactly. That's why petty thieves with no connections are actually more dangerous. If we meet them—we really do have to fight.
But under House Stark's rule the North has been relatively peaceful these last few years."
Hearing all this Ethan finally understood Craig's real purpose.
The caravan master was simply telling him—gently—to ease up.
Don't burn yourself out. Don't put unnecessary pressure on yourself or the other guards.
Was the danger truly gone? Ethan wasn't sure.
Regardless—Craig Cobb was the caravan master. Ethan was only a hired guard—and a temporary one at that—not a permanent member of the company.
Being gently scolded by his superior for working *too* hard was a first in Ethan's twenty-something years of life.
He gave a helpless nod.
"All right. I understand. I'll take it easier tomorrow."
Seeing Ethan had listened Craig clapped him on the shoulder, left the half-full liquor skin, and walked off smiling.
Starting the next day Ethan stopped rising before dawn.
Like everyone else he helped break camp, then climbed into the carriage Harry had given him. There he practiced drawing and shooting his longbow. When his arms tired he closed his eyes and mentally reviewed books he had once read.
Lying down really did bring a rare feeling of contentment.
At last he had time for something purely for himself—archery.
Archery wasn't mastered in a day—but Ethan was persistent.
Morning or evening, whenever the caravan wasn't rushed, he would take out the longbow he'd bought in Redstone Village and shoot at roadside trees.
The bow—once strung nearly five feet tall—was crafted from a single stave of weirwood.
The grip had been worn smooth by decades of use.
According to the old soldier who sold it: if not for his age and the fact his children and grandchildren showed no interest in archery, he would have kept it as a family heirloom.
Ethan knew little about bows. His Azeroth professions had been mining and blacksmithing; he'd never trained engineering.
Still—he understood that under medieval-level technology the finest bows were composites of sinew, horn, and wood—not simple self-bows carved from one piece.
But finding any usable longbow in a backwater like Redstone was already good fortune.
He'd make do for now. If he didn't like it he could always buy better in a larger city.
As he practiced he could almost see "Proficiency +1" floating above his head. His arrows flew truer with every shot.
Meanwhile—deep in the forest north of Horwood City—a slightly chubby boy with curly brown hair steadied a crossbow and aimed it at a fleeing, sobbing girl.
He shouted with glee:
"Heh—heh! Run! Zigzag! Faster!"
The girl glanced back in terror. A quarrel hissed past her ear and buried itself in the dirt.
The boy spat in frustration and yelled:
"Who told you to look back?! Huh?! Damn it—I didn't say look back and you kept running! Get up! Keep going!"
The thin woman was too weak to rise. She collapsed on the ground, staring blankly at the boy and whispering desperately:
"Please, my lord… spare me… please…"
After handing the crossbow to a bodyguard the boy turned listlessly to a servant standing nearby.
"Stinky—she's yours. Don't damage her back. I like the skin there."
The man called Stinky glanced up doubtfully.
"Rams—you're not joining in?"
"No fun."
Rams curled his lip. He didn't like thin women. They reminded him too much of his mother.
A guard brought a small folding stool. Rams sat, drank, and watched Stinky torment the girl.
"Boring… boring… boring. We need bigger game. Something more exciting."
He turned to the guard beside him.
"What do you say—how about we turn bandit and rob a caravan?"
The guard answered cautiously:
"Young Master Rams—the Earl would hardly be pleased to see his own caravans robbed."
"Old Dong… of course my father wouldn't approve. As the rightful Warden of the North he always puts duty to his vassals first."
Rams's eyes gleamed.
"But what if we were just… hunting? The forest is so vast and dark. What if we got lost… wandered into Lord Bolton's lands… were welcomed by the locals… and brought back a few gifts?
I think the old bastard would be delighted. After all—as his only son—I always keep him in my thoughts. What more could he want?"
The guard hurried to agree.
"Of course. Who wouldn't be proud of such a considerate son?"
Rams glanced sideways at him.
"Did you hear what I actually said?"
"You… you said you wanted to rob a caravan…"
"And…?"
"And…" The guard faltered. "Oh—right—you said you'd bring back gifts for the Earl."
Rams nodded. He rose, walked to the old man, and made a throat-slitting gesture toward another guard.
A wet gurgle sounded behind him. Rams didn't even look.
He turned to Stinky—who was still busy with the girl—and asked:
"Stinky—want to rob a caravan?"
Stinky gave a few more thrusts, pulled up his breeches, and stood.
"Where to?"
"South."
Stinky scooped up a piece of still-dripping human skin from the ground and stuffed it into his pouch.
"Let's go."
Rams walked to his tethered mount, swung into the saddle, and called out:
"Good lads—follow me. We're going to do something big!"
Moments later hoofbeats thundered away.
Behind them in the silent forest only two bodies remained—one man, one woman—lying in a pool of blood, mute witnesses to the horror that had just taken place.
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