Swords and Sorrow

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Roughly five hours had passed since Loren's arrival, spending most of it traveling a desolate dirt road that would lead to the southern coastline. Alongside him were acres of vast open fields and fertile plains, observing that there were even some orchards, vineyards, and mines at farther distances.

Loren wasn't one to overly illustrate things, but if he had a single word to describe the sights before him, he'd say it was peaceful.

Unfortunately, his tranquility and good mood would soon sour as he eventually saw people bound by rusty, iron chains, closely watched by strangely armored men with long whips and curved swords. They were working hard, even though they appeared too weak and malnourished to even pick up a hoe for plowing soil.

'These people are prisoners,' he thought, seldom enjoying the sight of men as old as his great-grandfather and children as young as five years forced into labor they did not consent to. 'Slaves.'

He supposed there were still things his world and this one had in common, including things he hated.

Regardless, Loren still pushed on, but not without promising to one day return to this side of the world to free these people from their binds and to punish their transgressors, who he had presumed were nobles or magisters that presumably lived in the estates he had seen scattered around the area.

Our knight eventually entered a village along the northern coastline of the Sea of Myrth and found the place he was looking for: a bar.

Well, it was actually an inn, not a bar, but that didn't matter since the information he wanted to know was probably in one of the two places. So, Loren walked in, went up to the barkeep, and started asking him some questions...

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Chapter 2 - Swords and Sorrow

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The Flatlands...

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"So, that's everything you know?"

"Yes."

"Seriously?"

"Yes..."

"You sure?"

"..."

"..."

"You positive...?"

"FUUUUCK!" The barkeeper cried out in anguish, startling several bar patrons as he slammed his fists onto the bar table. There was so much force applied that it cracked some of the wood.

'GODDAMN, THIS GUY'S STRONG FOR HIS AGE!' Loren remarked upon discovering the existence of a middle-aged man, presumably in his late forties, who could cause so much destruction with his bare hands.

For the past two hours, Loren spent his time learning many compelling subjects and topics from the barkeep: Ancient History, the Reign of the Dragons, the Targaryen Kings, the Seven Kingdoms, Beyond the Sunset Kingdoms, and a book called the Appendix, which was a family tree of every noble family in Westeros. In short, he spent the past two hours memorizing most recorded history in the known world. Some things he learned, however, came with great resentment to his passion for further knowledge.

Hearing the world's history of atrocities was sickening, even more so when he discovered that the eradication of families was commonplace. Fortunately, he knew how to keep his composure when talking about touchy subjects.

"You wanna know more?! Still?! Even after all I told you?!" The barkeep spoke incredulously, all the while sounding aggravated. "AND MY FUCKING MAHOGANY TABLE?! IT WAS SUCH A GOOD MATERIAL BUT NOW LOOK AT IT!"

"L-look, I'm just inquisitive, that's all!" Loren promised, putting his hands up defensively. "We don't need to continue if you don't want to..."

"Ugh..." The barkeep took a deep breath before groaning in annoyance. As much as he wanted to, he wouldn't beat a man over the head for simply being curious. "Look, I've pretty much told you everything I know. What more could you possibly want?" He said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Well... do you know where I could find a vessel of some sort?" Loren asked, making his request sound a little more reserved than before to avoid incurring the wrath of the man he had been bugging. "A boat, perhaps?"

"Boat?" The large man repeated, taking a moment to remember if there were any available near the harbor. "Hm, maybe... I might recall that there's one left down at the docks, so if you're quick enough, I think you could-"

"Fantastic!" Loren exclaimed, taking out his coin pouch to pay the barkeep for his much-appreciated assistance. "Eh?"

He noticed that the appearance of the currency changed slightly; the one gold coin he had bore an image of a dragon, half of the silver coins became stags while the other half became moons, and the coppers varied between four marks. He thought it was a little odd but paid it no mind as it didn't matter that much at the moment, deciding that two silver coins should be an accommodating payment.

"Here you go, and thank you for your assistance!" He said, placing two stags on the table and rushing out of the inn without looking back. "Now it's time to CARPE DIEM!"

"What a freak..." The barkeeper said, looking down at the coins left behind by the strange knight. However, what he saw on his broken mahogany table made him widen his eyes in excitement and disbelief; it was more than enough to pay for the cracked table.

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"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S ALREADY BEEN SOLD?!" Loren questioned, having arrived at the worst possible timing because the last available ship at the dock was just sold to a wealthy Pentos merchant two seconds prior.

"I'm saying you're too late, so bugger off," The dockmaster said, waiving off the knight with his left hand disrespectfully. "Though, I might be willing to make an exception if you were to... 'persuade' me somehow." He said implicatively.

"Just forget it..." Loren didn't think getting into a bidding war with some pompous prick would be in his best interests. 'How am I gonna get to Tyrosh now?' Loren worried, roaming around the port to look for something he could use as an alternate mode of travel.

Then, he stopped abruptly.

'Wait...' Loren considered he had stumbled upon a godsend, a vessel he could use. "The potential here is great..."

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The Sea of Myrth: One Hour Later...

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"RAAAAHH!" Loren screamed, finding himself in a terrible storm after rowing merely a few miles off the coast. He kept paddling without knowing which direction he was going, only desiring it was towards some solid ground.

But then... a large, dark shadow appeared overhead, causing Loren to slowly look up to see what it was. "No... it can't be..." It was the highest tidal wave he had ever seen, looming ominously over his ship that was, in comparison, very minuscule.

"IT CAN'T BE SO!" Loren yelled defiantly, speeding up his rowing speed in an attempt to escape whatever fate would meet him if that wave were to plunge forwards. "YOU'RE NOT REAL!"

It was too late. Loren knew that as he heard the wave slowly begin to collapse towards his rowboat, about to let the sea swallow it entirely. "THE EEEENNNDDD—" Were the only words that could be heard as his sounds were drowned out by the sea.

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Tyrosh Island: Another Hour Later...

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Loren woke up in a daze, feeling something poking at his helmet inquisitively, almost as if it were to examine if he was still alive. It took him great effort before he completely opened his eyes, vaguely seeing several seagulls on top of his body.

"What..." Loren croaked loudly, causing the birds to caw incoherently and fly away as they saw that he was still among the living. "The fuck..."

After picking himself up, he wandered, looking for any signs of civilization that might help him find Blackfyre, however...

"OOMPF-" He grunted, falling on the found after tripping on something sticking out of the sand by coincidence.

Though it was more in the sense of fate than in terms of a coincidence since as Loren peeked back at what strumbled him, he felt some sort of glint pierce his eyes, a shimmer of light that could only be a retraction from a sharp blade.

In short, what he saw was a sword.

"Okay, well, that's convenient..." Loren remarked, crawling to the sword and pulling it gradually out of the ground. "Holy..."

It was a dark, hand-and-a-half longsword. It had no scratches or bends, yet it appeared to have seen a lot of action during its lifetime. In addition, the sword's hilt was tightly fastened to the blade, a good bonus as it meant there was no need to replace it.

Loren saw that the crossguard was designed with a dominant dragon theme, made with the same material as the blade and pommel, with the wings of a dragon at the center and two heads of the mystical beast at the ends that faced down the sword; the handle was black and had a swirling pattern with some unknown steel; finally was the pommel, which had what Loren thought to be dragon scales at the middle while also bearing a swirling design.

As Loren continued handling the sword, he realized the material was of a much higher quality than anything he had ever seen before. It was by far the lightest, strongest, hardest, and sharpest sword he had ever had the pleasure of wielding. Moreover, the blade's features had distinctive rippled patterns, similar to Damascus steel from his world, adding a little style to the edge.

Sadly, he knew this would sword have to be reforged. The pommel and crossguard were too distinct, more than enough to attract the attention of Westeros' crown house, the Targaryens.

"Crazy..." Loren said, genuinely impressed by the intricacy and magnificence of the blade he now held in his hands. 'Wonder where I can change its appearance.'

He placed the sword gently on the ground and pulled out the sword list, crossing out the Blackfyre as it was now in his possession. "Okay, so I think the next stop on the list is—"

"SURPRISE!" Shouted a voice from behind Loren, startling him enough to make him fall forward. "Well, done, my boy!"

"HUH?!" Loren exclaimed in confusion, grabbing Blackfyre and getting into a Warden's typical fighting stance. "WHO?!"

"Who do you think I am?! It's me! The Elder, remember?"

Upon closer inspection, by squinting his eyes, Loren recognized the entity as one of the Gods who sent him to this world. "Why are you here again..." He asked, stabbing the sword into the sand.

"Just here to say good job, obviously! You found the first of four swords on this side of the world!" The Elder congratulated, even though the assignment was not even close to completion. "After you get the rest, we can move on to phase two."

"Phase two? What's phase two supposed to be?"

"Oh, it's nothing of importance at the moment. You only have to focus on getting those blades, alright?" The Elder remarked while creating a rift in the space-time continuum, or portal, in front of Loren. "By the way, can you throw the longsword inside this?"

"Wha..." Loren, upon hearing this, kept the longsword farther away from the Elder. In his mind, he went through a lot of shit to get Blackfyre and wasn't so willing to waste it all by throwing his new weapon in an ethereal ring that just appeared out of nowhere. "Why?"

"It'll change the appearance, so you don't raise suspicion. After all, it is Westeros' most fabled blade out there!"

"Which begs the question... how the hell has nobody found this thing yet...?" He muttered, staring at Blackfyre again before tossing it into the rift. 'This better not vaporize it or something...'

Several seconds passed, and the sword flew out of the portal and landed in front of Loren. Upon inspection, he saw that its appearance had changed drastically. "Well, shit. That quick, huh?"

"Yep! Check it out, man!"

Evidently, it no longer harbored any symbols, ripples, or defining marks that would bring up unwanted attention; instead, it carried a much more modest or humble appearance, he believed.

The hilt had been wrapped in black leather strips, and its crossguard was twisted and curved upwards with several carvings of unknown origin along it. The Dragonsteel was the same, of course, and finally, along the blade was a single word engraved in the steel with a gothic font that read "One's Honor."

"It looks exactly like 'that' longsword..."

"Mhm, I think you could guess where the inspiration for its design came from," The Elder commented. "The Dragonsteel may bring some unwanted attention from certain houses, but I promise you that it won't draw the eyes of the Targaryens."

"Good to know," Loren said, placing the longsword in his left hand. "Does it have a name?"

"Not really, but I'd like you to call it Gardakan, if you will."

"Why?"

"It sounds cool."

"..."

"..."

"Okay, I'm leaving now," It was a bit awkward hearing such a simple answer, thinking that the name had some hidden meaning behind it. "On... another boat trip..."

"Mhm, mhm! See you soon!" The Elder waved Loren off as he left. "And good luck in Lys!"

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The Land of Always Winter: Two Hours Earlier...

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"Ugh..." In his mind, Ouros walked for a lifetime.

No breaks, just trudging through snow and enduring the climate of ice and hail, consistently hitting him at every vital point on his body, particularly his knees, arms, and legs. His height only made him a bigger target overall.

All the turmoil and pain he was going through only made him want to find Dark Sister sooner, pushing him to add more momentum for every stomp he made while going forward.

"Stupid, stupid, snow... stupid, stupid, ice..." He muttered, gritting his teeth in anger and in reaction to the cold. "Stupid, stupid, hail..."

Unfortunately, for all the energy he placed into stomping his legs firmly into the snow-covered ground, it would, rather than help him move forward as intended, assist him in unintentionally going down into a concealed pit.

The ground beneath Ouros crumbled almost instantaneously. "Huh—" Not permitting him to utter a produced response other than an interjection in surprise at the occurrence. "WHOAA—" As predicted, he began descending into some sort of recess...

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Screaming could be heard, getting louder as it moved further down the tunnel. For Ouros, it was a form of additional suffering to his already shitty situation, the tall knight thinking the entire time that this was how he would meet his end. Luckily, he unknowingly saved himself through strategically orchestrated measures as he dropped: hitting sides and snapping thick tree roots that spanned horizontally down the middle of the hole with his very toned body.

"SHIIIT—" Ouros' voice eventually made it into reach. His swear was, however, cut short as he landed at the bottom of the hole with a loud thud. Now, let's talk about the state of his armor.

As expected, it was heavily dented, probably needing a replacement, and his garments were more or less needing a good wash. Poor guy couldn't catch a break.

"I-If..." he mumbled, lying on his back. "If there even is a prize... after all this torment..." The anger has begun to set in.

"It ain't worth it..." Ouros rasped darkly as he got up, standing entirely before mustering all his energy into crying out one ear-piercing shout of despair. "IT AINT WORTH IT!"

His exclamation echoed throughout the tunnel, even going as far as up from whence he came. Ouros took a moment to settle down; before kneeling on all fours as he was ready to die, having given up entirely on his mission, for his misery was too much to bear.

"Why..." he questioned aloud. "Why did it have to be us three..."

Suddenly, a loud crack sounded in the deeper parts of the tunnel, startling Ouros enough to make him stand up again.

"What the heck?!" Ouros exclaimed, carefully making his way to the source of the noise.

Something to note about the course he took was that it was aligned with thousands of shiny minerals and strange carvings on the sides of the path, almost as if this was some staged setup for a big reveal or something else just as cliché.

"This is so stupid," stated he, who had been so keen to find the source of the racket that he did not even think of looking for alternate routes of escaping the tunnel. "Then again... what other choice do I have?"

As Ouros walked, he started hearing strange omitting noises from around a corner, and as he turned, he saw something that undoubtedly would be his deliverance from this icy hellhole.

It was a sword, one that was trapped in a rock.

"THE SWORD!" Ouros roared out in glee, rushing towards the blade.

With both hands and the resolve of a hundred thousand men, he seized the longsword trapped in the rock tightly, prepared to pull it out and hopefully find a way out of the far north once and for all. It took him a second, but he managed to pull it from its stoney prison.

"I HAVE—!" He lifted Dark Sister up high in triumph. "I HAVE DONE IT!"

Subsequently, he took a moment to cross out the sword's name from the list and examine his newfound blade. "Whoa..." He whispered, erasing the urge to touch the raw edge with his hands.

Ouros felt somewhat unclean for almost feeling up the blade; the way the longsword felt suggested it may have been forged initially for a female soldier, as its slender blade appeared designed for a lady's hand. 'Almost violated you for a second, M'lady." He said jokingly.

The crossguard resembled a dragon, its wings expanding while its head facing down towards the tip of the sword; the material was pure gold. The handle, however, wasn't as intricate, simply a black grip made from an unknown metal. In contrast, similar to the crossguard, the pommel was very ornate-looking, with its many precise cuts making it look even more pleasing to the eyes.

Regardless of its appearance, it was still a longsword, and Ouros was deprived of a weapon worthy of his size. Yet, as he was about to look for a way out of the cavern, he felt that someone was behind him.

"WHO GOES THERE?!" He exclaimed, turning at the speed of light but with enough time to back up a safe distance to greet his friend or foe with a guarded stance. Fortunately, this newcomer was a friend whose very presence brightened the cave a bit, much to the delight of Ouros.

It was the Younger.

"Stop pointing that sword at me," the Younger said, annoyed that the champion he personally watched over had seemingly taken up arms against him. "Friggin' Oaf."

"Oh, thank goodness, it's just you..." Ouros said with a breath of relief. "Man, you have no idea how I'm glad to see—"

"Shut up. You were just cursing us a few minutes ago," the Younger said curtly. "That and your mission."

"Well... I don't wanna sound rude again, but..."

"But?"

"BUT NOTHING!" Ouros yelled. "YES, I DO WANNA SOUND RUDE AGAIN! IF MY MIND DOESN'T FAIL ME, YOU THREE SENT ME TO SNOWVILLE, A—"

"Hm?" The Younger's voice grunted menacingly, almost like a giant beast was what stood in front of Ouros.

"A-Ah..." the Younger's displeasure was enough to make Ouros lose his resolve and cause him to bow his head in defeat. "Oh, forget it..."

"That's what I thought, bitch... anyway, good job. You alone have managed to find the most difficult-to-find sword in Westeros."

Ouros' mood was slightly uplifted by this announcement; what rewards would I receive? Would I get to leave this place in an instant? Will I see my friends again? So many things were going through Ouros' mind that he hadn't noticed that several dark-blue entities had entered the room, each wielding a weapon made of ice and frost.

They resembled humans, a little shorter than Ouros. However, their long, wispy white hair displayed otherwise. Pale, grey-white skin that was so sinewy and stretched across their bodies gave them gaunt and mummified appearances; despite their bulky frames. Their most notable trait was their vibrant, deep blue eyes, eyes that were nowhere near as humane as Ouros' own.

These were White Walkers.

"Oi."

"Huh?" Ouros had only noticed them once the Younger had nudged the knight toward the monsters; their appearances gave him quite the scare. "OH, HOLY GODS— WHAT ARE THOSE?!"

"White Walkers. The evil we sent you three here to fight," Answered the Younger with a yawn and a slight stretch. "Well, good luck. I'll revise your blade when you get out of this... predicament."

"Wait, what—"

Abruptly, a blast of light erupted out of nowhere, briefly blinding everyone before vanishing, leaving behind only darkness. "MY EYES— GODS FUCK!" Incredibly, the White Walkers were bewildered for the first time in their non-lives, rashly speaking their native speech to each other; someone detrimental to their master's plan had arisen.

"Wait... he just left me here..." Ouros muttered, gripping Dark Sister tightly. "With those things over there..."

The White Walkers all turned their gazes to Ouros, now focused on likely killing the man and stealing his sword, as it was one of the more efficient ways that could kill them. They ambled to Ouros, who stood still, staring uncannily at the ground.

They thought this would be an easy kill, regardless of the human's abnormal height and build.

However, what happens in the ensuing moments shocks them to their icy cores.

Ouros, in a moment, penetrates one of the White Walkers right through the chest with his longsword, all the way up to the crossguard before pulling it upwards so quickly that it breaks the devil apart in seconds. The other White Walkers stare in disbelief at the swiftness of the human, supposing it might have been a fluke or coincidence, even though this was not the case.

In a fit of rage, Ouros began slashing, slicing, and cutting apart White Walkers. Who could blame him? He was isolated, alone, cold, with only a longsword in his hands; he could no longer hold in his fury.

Fate had chosen Ouros to release all his pent-up anger on the undead creatures before him, knowing there would be no survivors in the aftermath.

"TE SECABO! PERĪ! NULLA MISERICORDIA!"

It was going to be a long day.

"AAUUGGGGHHHHHHHH!"

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The Mander: Two Hours Earlier...

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Closely at the origin of the Mander, further down the hills near Tumbleton in the northeastern Reach, was a man kneeling within an inside curve deposition, impatiently scrubbing his armor, washing his garments, etc., as they were covered in blood and sweat.

Besides being dirty, wet, and exhausted, Gaits was otherwise deprived of a sword, a longsword, to be specific. All of these circumstances, he believed, were ironic, chiefly due to Gaits thinking he was in the most outwardly docile territory, although that was only his comparison to where Loren and Ouros were sent to.

"Gods... I'm never getting this shit out..." he complained, suddenly wishing he hadn't been so barbaric with the bandits encountered earlier. "Oh, fuck it..."

Gaits abruptly gave up on any further attempts to clean his standards, wiping his hands in the river; they were too far gone, he remarked, as he took out the sword map to check how far he was from Tumbleton.

Not too far, he saw; on the paper, it told that he should simply cross the river; Gaits then looked up from the map to survey the scene. "Oh, for chrissakes- COME ON, MAN!" Clutching the document in his hands tightly.

The major problem with this straightforward charge was that there were no boats in sight for miles, and the sheer degree of mud and roughness, which defined the upper reaches of the Mander, made it so only shallow-draughted vessels could be used for transport.

"OH, GREAT." He began sarcastically. "I LOVE HOW NOW'S THE TIME I REALIZE I WASTED ALL THAT TIME WASHING MY FUCKING CLOTHES!"

Gaits angrily folded the map in halves back into his satchel and, with significant irritation, commenced making his way across; mud was already taking shelter of his standards. "Sure, fuck up my goddamn cleaning, why not?" He said jokingly, even though it was just sarcasm again; this was when he began driving his armored arms into the water, intensely enough so they could get him across momentarily.

Gaits' endeavor to swim against the large and mighty but slow-moving river caught the eyes of some wayfarers alongside the river, frantically calling out to him to try and get his attention, presumably to ask why he was swimming the largest river in Westeros with plate armor.

He ignored them, for the apparel he wore weighed him down heavily, making him concentrate predominantly on the aching sensation that was felt all over his entire body.

Nevertheless, Gaits pushed on.

Gradually, the bystander's voices started quieting to a hush when they realized he, a man clad head to toe in great armor, was about to cross the harshest part of the Mander, a feat nobody had done before in the recorded history of Westeros.

As he rose out of the river, he came before a pair of travelers wearing attire that would classify them as common folk, shorter than him by a significant margin, both of their eyes wide at the appalling appearance of such a knightly fellow: soaked and messy, yet towering over them like a silent guardian.

"Do you know where Tumbleton is? I lost my direction when crossing the river." Gaits asked, ignoring the astounded faces of the two in front of him. 'Are they mute or something?'

"Ser, may we ask you a question?" One of them spoke up; this one seemed to be a girl of at least fourteen years, sounding as courteous as she would be to a lord. "It would only take a moment, good Ser."

"Go ahead."

"You did know there was a bridge over yonder, right?" She said, pointing to the left with her petite, little hand. "Was this some sort of training exercise?"

As he looked in the direction indicated, he saw a structure that nearly broke him entirely; situated at the far left, and obscured by some foliage, was a bridge that transversed the Mander. Frankly, it seemed to almost be mocking him by how exact and straightforward it was.

"..."

"Uhm, Ser?" the girl asked again for his attention. "Are you alright—"

"FINE." Gaits stated; he sounded like he was gritting with teeth together tightly. "EVERYTHING IS FINE. I AM FINE."

His indirect vexation at the bridge's existence terrorized the girl and her companion enormously, causing them to quickly move out of his way. "Have a good day, Ser..." the young girl wished, only to receive a hushed whisper from her friend.

"SSHHH! Don't make him any madder! You see his body language, don't you?" her friend demanded; this one was young also, except she sounded probably two years older. "Let's go—"

"You two haven't given me an answer yet," Gaits said abruptly. "Where is Tumbleton?"

"I-It's that way." spoke the older girl, slightly faltering at the weight of his voice. "Ah— I mean, that way, Ser..."

"Thanks," He nodded and moved ahead of them, leaving the dwellers behind as he walked forward with one distinct purpose: attaining Vigilance.

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Tumbleton: Twenty Minutes Later...

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It was a small market town; a little ways away were its stout but undersized castle, overlooking the entire settlement; it once had a garrison of forty men but nowadays stationed no more than ten.

Gaits took a walk around when he arrived, looking for signs of Vigilance and stopping at places like Septs, shops, and even alleyways to inspect for the sword. He looked at his sword map again; this time, it led him to two lodgings, each facing the other in the opposite direction: the Bloody Caltrops and the Bawdy Badger. "I need a drink..." Gaits didn't care which one he stepped inside; he was parched.

Strangely, it was by chance that he entered the Bawdy Badger first...

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Even though it was Saturday, it was remarkably empty, with only an old man cleaning a glass. Gaits unhurriedly went up to a table and sat on one of the chairs.

"Do you have alcohol?" He asked.

"We're a dry town, Ser. I apologize."

"Gods..." Gaits said with a slow head shake. "Do I truly have nothing to fucking live for, man?"

"Sorry," He replied. "Alas, after a particular incident in our past, you see, our feudal lord decided we should outlaw its consumption entirely."

"And you're telling me that people actually submitted to that decree?" Of course, Gaits couldn't believe people would willingly cease drinking; it was theoretically impossible. "Really?"

"I never said people didn't drink." The old man explained. "Some leave to visit a neighboring town to get their fix."

"But nothing comes into town, huh...?"

"Well," The door opened; two newcomers entered but stayed close by the doorway, hesitant when they saw who sat at one of the tables. Gaits instinctively turned his head and met their surprised eyes. "That's not entirely true."

It was none other than the two girls he met near the Mander, both feeling slightly alarmed by his sudden reappearance. "You two again?" Gaits remarked.

"You know my daughters?" the innkeeper questioned, his voice sounding as if he were accusing him of something.

"I met them after crossing the river," Gaits answered.

"And?" the old man pressed, sporting a raised eyebrow and crossed arms.

"Then they told me where Tumbleton was," He continued. "That's about it."

The man turned to his daughters and asked if this was true; they nodded honestly. "Ah, I see. My mistake."

'What in the hell were you insinuating...' Gaits wondered. "Uh-huh... now, what were you saying before? About the alcohol, I mean."

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," He turned to his daughters and implored them to come over, which they did so hesitantly; the younger one then pulled out two small bottles and placed them on the table: Dornish Red and Arbor Gold. "Like others, we sometimes muggle certain prohibited beverages into our little town."

Gaits' mood immediately improved at seeing the spirits before him; both vintages had high concentrations of alcohol. "You, Sir, are a lifesaver."

"It doesn't come cheap," the old man placed an open hand on the table. "Pay up. It's thirty copper, at least."

Gaits went to his pouch and fished around for some coins; however, he didn't know exactly how much each copper coin was valued since they were a mixture of stars, crosses, and some with doubled or single circles. In the end, he placed out three coppers with differing styles: one with a star, one with a cross, and one with a doubled circle.

"Is this enough?" asked Gaits, eager to quench his thirst.

"Aye, it is," The old man said, taking the coins and giving them to his elder daughter. "Put these in the depository, Maria. And Mary, fetch us some cups, please."

"Okay, father," the youngest followed the instruction quickly; she went into the cabinets behind the bar, pulled out two cups, and placed them on the table before she followed her sister upstairs.

"So, tell me," the innkeeper started, pouring some Arbor Gold into the cups. "Why are you here? You looking for work or something?"

"If you're trying to pry for information about me, then give it up," Gaits remarked, pulling the drink to his helmet, foolishly thinking he could drink the wine with it still on; some of it spilled on his pants. "Damn it..." He took off his helmet in reply.

"I'm just saying, maybe I could lend a hand—"

"Hm..." Gaits sipped the wine as if he were a professional sommelier; it was acceptable, but the alcohol level and taste were indeed not as impressive as they appeared on the label; very disappointing, he commented. "What a shame... I thought this would've been a fine grade."

"Oi... That stuff cost me a damn fortune. Be grateful." the old man said with a negligible temper. "Regardless, what are you here for?"

"I wanted a drink, first off. Second, I'm here to look for something, which I believe is way above someone of your station," Gaits drank the rest of his wine, put back on his helmet, and got up from the table. "Good day, Sir."

"HOLD IT!" the aged man went for Gaits' wrist and seized it successfully, causing him to glance back with annoyance. "You were sent by him, weren't you?"

"Huh?" Gaits suddenly felt bothered once hearing this. "Who are you referring to as 'him?'"

"You know who," He told him mysteriously, going to one of the walls before doing something unexpected; he punched it with enough force to form a hand-sized hole. "For this, right?"

"What the fu—?!" Gaits were about to respond but halted once he saw something peeking from behind the wall; a hidden compartment with a long box was inside it. "Hold it— Is that... Holy shit— Is that what I think it is?!"

"It is. Years ago, when I was a younger man, he came to me in a dream and told me to find this sword here," He said, opening the container, which was precisely the size of a longsword. "To be accurate, he told me to go to the headwaters of the Mander and retrieve it for a warrior clad in... well, armor." He affirmed.

"But... I could be a fraud for all you know, though?"

"Wrong. The spirit made it clear I had to find a man in armor bearing the sigil of a tower with roots and a bird flying above it," He reaffirmed. "And that he was one with poor temperament."

'Ah... So, the Wiser is an asshole,' Gaits noted; he would have a word with him after this. "Right, well, are you gonna give it to me or not?"

"Yes, here, take it," the old man opened the box with a key from his pocket and revealed Vigilance in its totality, unharmed and immaculate. "Quite the blade, isn't it?" He remarked, witnessing that Gaits was positively entranced, or enamored, paralyzed even, by the blade's magnificence.

"Aye... I wouldn't debate with how I feel..."

Vigilance was a longsword, average-looking and unadorned; notably, its crossguard and grip were a twisting spiral; however, the most eloquent part of the blade by far was at the center of its guard and its pommel, where the features were carved to appear like a cobblestone-styled opening of a castle at the top and a flaming tower at the bottom.

"... towards the blade before me." Gaits finished, taking the sword and weighing it with his hands. "I'm guessing you're Vigilance, eh?"

"Aye, it is Vigilance, once claimed by House Hightower, now claimed by you." the old man said, watching as Gaits placed the sword back in the container to remain incognito. "Now, what will you do next?"

"Probably gonna head to King's Landing," he replied, turning to the door to leave. "Forgive me, but I don't think giving you too much information about my intentions is in my best interests."

"I understand," said he, nodding his head in acceptance. "Knowing I have accomplished my purpose as instructed is enough for me."

"Morbid, but alrighty, you do you man," Gaits opened the door and was about to leave but chose to wait a moment to ask the old man one final question. "By the way, I never asked you... what's your name again?"

"Ah, how rude of me for not remembering common courtesy!" He chortled. "My name is "Walter the White," if you must know."

"Huh, sounds like a title or something, doesn't it? You're not some secret lord pulling my leg, are you?"

"Ha, I suppose if only my ancestor were wise, I might have been Lord of Tumbleton," Walter said, glancing to the side. Gaits did as well and noticed the man's daughters hiding behind a corner; they had been watching him and their father the whole time; the two, once realizing they were caught, quickly moved away out of sight back upstairs. "But... I wouldn't have this serenity if I were one."

"Careful now, man," Gaits warned, unhurriedly moving outside. "Even you and your family, in this little town, won't get a lot of peace in times like these." Then, as anticipated, he shut the door behind him and left with the sword.

As he walked away, Walter went to a front window to monitor his departure; his daughters would join him accordingly. "Father, what's in that box he carries?" Mary asked curiously.

"Obviously, a sword, you dummy," Maria replied bluntly. "Look at the very measure of it!"

"Oi, don't be so abrupt to your sister," Walter requested. "But you are quite right. It is, in fact, a sword."

After thinking of a response, Mary looked to her father. "Tis' a mighty sword he carries, father." She said with a smile. "He could probably take down terrors found in fantasies with a cutter like that."

Her father chuckled a little at that. "Aye, he very well could. Yet..."

"Oh?" She inquired.

"I think he's more of the "soldering type," if you know what I mean."

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Author's Notes...

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Took a lot of revising to make this one. Also, I'm moving this story to Webnovel; I'll still post here, but Webnovel will probably have earlier posts because I can see the statistics and such, plus more comments.

Besides that, sorry about taking a while, but school is cringe-worthy, and I have no choice. It's like in Mark Twain's essay about river-watching, you love it first as a newcomer, and then you slowly but surely end up losing interest in exchange for knowledge or whatever.

Also, what do you think about Chainsaw Man? Hmmmmmm?

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