2 Chapter 2: Prologue: Part 2

Sometimes it is easy to forget I am not on Earth. When I was walking through the woods on my way northwards, it looks the same as anything you would find on earth. But like dragons and wildfire, something comes along and slaps you in the face. The Eyrie. It was a cloudless day, and I could see it perched atop the mountain from a far. The stories I head described it, but I thought the mountain wouldn't be that large, and that peoples varying descriptions of measurement failed again. I was wrong. I was insane to see, and frightening to be honest. How many were forced to make that, and how many died? I know that Westeros had banned slavery thankfully, but for me, even serfdom is a bit too close for my liking. I find that is the name of the game here, my fear. My decision to leave King's Landing was rooted in fear, and even my life daily is filled with fear. Will I eat today? Will a wandering lord take his cruelty out on me? These thoughts plagued me, and I did my best to avoid others.

When I passed through Gulltown, I picked up an older workhorse, and a beat-up wagon, which thankfully had new wheels. The cart is simple, so I still must walk, but I have unloaded my pack into the wagon, and have been able to slowly collect items for my new life. I managed to get a basic bow and some arrows from King's Landing, along with a knife and a hatchet. I have been lucky to avoid bandits I think, I still don't know what my odds are, but I keep my money hidden best as I can, and avoid roads as much as possible.

So far, I have not found any places to rest my head, but I do have the beginnings of a guitar for myself. It is times like this I am thankful for my father's insistence that I know how to do things myself. My old father that is, the one I was born to on Earth. The Vale is a beautiful land, and the mountains are gorgeous. I never visited any mountains on Earth, but I did see photos on the internet. All I can say is that they are definitely better in person, they are quite humbling, and they speak of power.

Re-reading that last sentence, I laughed at myself. It seems I am getting the hang of writing in English again. Westerosi, or the Common Tongue, is quite like English (structurally at least), both the spoken and written portions. So, I am confident that no one can read this and decide to hang me as a demon. Which is quite comforting, as writing this now is very cathartic. At least now in my old age, if someone was to hang me there would be people to mourn me.