The afternoon sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows over the snow-covered path. Greg squinted against the glare, his eyes watering slightly from the combined assault of light and cold. The wind nipped at his face, not quite as brutal as it had been before Frostfall, thanks to the enchantment he'd put on his windbreaker and the combined effect of his ring but still noticeable, even with both of them working together. At least it's not snowing, he thought, trying to find a silver lining.

The caravan moved steadily southward, the rhythmic sound of hooves and the creak of wagons creating a rhythmic backdrop to their journey. It reminded Greg of the old Western movies his dad used to watch, only instead of tumbleweeds and desert, they had endless snow and pine trees. Yee-haw, I guess, he thought dryly.

Greg walked alongside the wagons, his sword bouncing lightly against his side. He kept adjusting the canvas pack slung over his shoulder, the unfamiliar weight throwing off his balance. Man, I miss backpacks with actual padding, he grumbled internally.

What was more annoying is he had felt his soul attempt to level up again, reaching out for another power only to get nothing. Need more excitement.

Ash trotted by his feet, the little bear cub keeping close. Greg couldn't help but smile at the sight of the furball nearly disappearing in patches of snow. At least one of us is enjoying this winter wonderland.

Ahead, Merek sat atop the lead wagon, his eyes constantly scanning the landscape. Greg had been trying to figure the guy out since they left Frostfall. He seemed friendly enough, but there was something... calculated about him. Like every smile was hiding about ten different thoughts about something else. Or maybe I'm just overthinking it.

As the path widened slightly and the initial tension of departure began to ease, Merek turned toward Greg with a nod as if on cue. "Best get t' know th' men," he said, his voice carrying that weird mix of rough Northern accent and trader's polish. "You'll be walkin' with 'em for the next few days, after all."

Greg blinked, pulled from his thoughts of how much his feet already hurt. "Uh, sure," he stammered, mentally kicking himself for sounding so lame. "Yeah, good idea." Smooth, Veder.

He glanced around slowly at the ragtag group of men who made up the traveling party, some sitting atop the wagons, others walking alongside.

"Right. Let's get you acquainted with everyone," Merek said, motioning to the first wagon. "That's Arton there."

Greg followed Merek's gesture to a man perched on the second wagon. Arton sat ramrod straight, his hands gripping the reins like they were the last controller in a multiplayer game. He didn't even bother looking Greg's way as Merek said his name. Geez, who peed in his cornflakes?

"Arton's my trading partner," Merek explained. "Bit of a quiet type."

No kidding, Greg thought, giving a short nod. He wasn't expecting much else from Arton. The guy seemed about as talkative as a brick wall, and twice as welcoming.

Merek then pointed to the two young men driving each wagon. "Brunn and Carn, those two are my assistants. Good lads, even if they're still a bit wet behind the ears."

Greg glanced at the pair, his eyebrows rising slightly. Brunn and Carn looked like they were barely out of their teens, but their weathered faces and scraggly beards threw him off. These guys looked more like they'd been through years of rough living than the fresh-faced boys he was used to seeing back home. Man, everyone here looks older than they should, Greg mused. Is it just the North, or is this whole place stuck in some medieval time warp?

Brunn offered Greg a short nod, while Carn barely acknowledged him, too focused on keeping the horses in line. Greg figured he'd have plenty of time to get to know them later. If by "get to know" I mean "awkwardly avoid eye contact for the next month and a half."

As Merek gestured toward the guards walking beside the wagons, Greg took in each one, feeling like he was selecting characters for some weird RPG party.

"Now, these here are the men you'll be walking with," Merek said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Good lads too, most of the time."

First was Brynn 'Ironfoot'—the human mountain, as Greg had started to think of him. Brynn never said much, his face set in stone, his warhammer always gripped tightly in one hand as though it weighed nothing. Greg had the sneaking suspicion the guy could clear a path through anything without breaking a sweat. The man's silence was... intimidating, to say the least. Note to self: Do not piss off the guy who can probably bench press a horse.

"Brynn's about as solid as they come," Merek said, his tone respectful. "Ain't much for talk, but you'll know he's there when trouble shows up."

Greg nodded, though Brynn didn't even glance his way. The man just kept staring ahead, as if mentally smashing everything that might come their way. Great. My new bodyguard is the strong, silent type. And probably deaf.

Next, Dael Stone moved alongside them, a light bounce in his step, his light brown hair well-kept and his face wearing a perpetual goofy grin. He reminded Greg of the class clown back in middle school, only with more beard and probably more knife-fighting skills.

"Dael there's the one you'll hear before you see," Merek explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Man's got a joke for everything, though I'd wager half of it goes over most folk's heads."

Dael winked at Greg, sidling up to him as they walked. "Oi, Greg, heard this one yet?" he asked, his accent lighter and more playful than the others. "What's the difference between a woman from Dorne an' a stallion?"

Greg blinked, trying to figure out where this was going. His mind raced through all the inappropriate punchlines he could think of, each one worse than the last. Oh god, please don't be what I think it is. "Uh, no, I haven't—" he started, his voice cracking slightly.

Dael laughed, slapping Greg on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Ha! I'll save the answer for later, mate. Wouldn't want t' scare ye off before ye've had a proper taste o' the road."

Great, Greg thought, forcing a smile. Medieval dick jokes. Just what I needed to make this trip complete.

He chuckled awkwardly, still trying to wrap his head around Dael's endless stream of Westerosi jokes. The other men seemed to find them funny, judging by the laughs and smirks, but half the time Greg wasn't even sure what they were talking about

As they continued their trudge through the snow, Merek nodded toward the back of the caravan, where a man with a bow kept pace. "That there's Jory Longbow," Merek said. "Quieter than most, but if there's trouble comin' from behind, he'll see it afore anyone else does."

Jory nodded but didn't say anything. His bow was slung across his back, but Greg could tell it was well-used, the wood polished from constant care. Dude looks like he walked straight out of Lord of the Rings, Greg mused.

Jory struck him as one of those guys who didn't say much because he didn't need to—his actions probably spoke for him when the time came. Greg couldn't help but wonder if the guy ever smiled. Bet he's a blast at parties.

Merek then pointed ahead to a smaller figure moving like a shadow ahead of the group. "And that there's Threnn," he said with a hint of amusement. "We call him 'The Rat'—well, ye see why.."

Greg glanced at Threnn, who barely looked like he was taller than a twelve year old. He was thin, almost unnervingly so, and seemed to move through the snow without making a sound. The man's eyes darted around constantly, his hands never leaving the twin daggers at his sides.

He definitely looks like a rat. Threnn noticed Greg's gaze and gave him a nod, his lips curling into a smirk. It wasn't threatening, but something about the man felt... slippery.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"Don't mind 'im," Dael added, noticing Greg's wary glance. "Threnn's just a bit twitchy, is all. Ain't nothin' to worry 'bout, long as he's on yer side."

Greg smiled weakly, still taking in all the men he was traveling with. Each one had their quirks, but they seemed capable enough. As Dael kept up his string of jokes—half of which Greg still didn't understand—he fell into the rhythm of the group, his unease about the journey fading slightly as the hours passed.

But as the sun began to dip lower and the temperature started to drop, Greg couldn't help but notice Merek glancing back at him every now and then, his eyes lingering just a bit longer on the sword at Greg's side.

"A good group we've got here, eh, lad?" Merek said, breaking into Greg's thoughts. His tone held something Greg couldn't quite place—like he was fishin' for somethin'. "Ye stick close, we'll get ye where ye need t' be."

Greg nodded, smiling back at Merek. "Yeah, seems like a good crew."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The next evening, the caravan moved steadily through the forest path, with the horses pulling the wagons and the men walking alongside. Greg found himself walking with Ash in his arms, the bear fast asleep after scrambling off into the woods to eat berries or whatnot.

Lucky little guy, Greg thought, looking down at the cub with only a little jealousy. Wish I could just conk out whenever I wanted. No worries, no responsibilities, just... naps and berries. He glanced up, noticing Dael weaving between the wagons, the man's curious gaze flickering to Greg's sword every so often. Here we go, Greg thought, bracing himself for another round of questions.

Sure enough, Dael spoke up, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. "That's a fine blade ye've got there, Greg. Not like anythin' I've seen 'round these parts. How'd ye come by somethin' like that?"

Greg glanced down at the sword, its pristine white blade a stark contrast to the dull grays and browns of the forest around them. The entire thing was a single piece, the metal of the blade fusing seamlessly into a hilt that felt... different, somehow. Wrapped around a bright blue gem where the crossguard should have been, it was unlike any sword Greg had ever seen, in video games or otherwise.

Play it cool, Veder, he told himself, offering Dael a friendly but simple response. "Found it on me when I woke up. Lost my memory, remember? Last month. Just a day's walk outside Frostfall."

Dael nodded, but his curiosity didn't seem entirely sated. "Ah, right. Can't imagine wakin' up like that, with no memory. But that sword... that's somethin' else. Ye're sure ye don't recall anythin' at all about it? No markin's, no inscriptions?"

Greg shook his head, a little more firmly this time. Dude, I already told you, I don't know. What, you think I'm hiding some secret sword lore from you? "Nope. Like I said, just woke up with it. Lucky find, I guess."

The gregarious man nodded thoughtfully, but before he could press further, Merek's voice chimed in from the lead wagon, the man not even bothering to look back. "That the blade ye used to save me niece?"

Greg blinked, surprised. Okay, wasn't expecting that. He shifted slightly, feeling the weight of the sword at his side. "Uh, yeah. Same one."

Brynn, the massive man with the warhammer, turned his head at the mention of Greg's rescue, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Saved yer niece, did 'e?"

Merek gave a small chuckle and nodded. "Aye, that he did. Wildlin' had her cornered, about t' do gods know what. Greg here came in an' cut 'im clean at the waist. Turned a whole Wildlin' to half a man."

Greg felt his cheeks heat up slightly, and it had nothing to do with the cold. Okay, wow, way to make it sound like I'm some kind of badass. I mean, I am, but still. "Just did what I had to," he said, trying to sound humble. "She needed help."

Dael's eyebrows shot up, his interest clearly piqued. "To cut a man in twain? That's no small feat."

You're telling me, Greg thought, suppressing a shudder at the memory of blood on snow, the sickening give of flesh beneath his blade. I'm just glad I didn't puke again.

"It was more instinct than anythin'," he said aloud, shrugging. "Lucky, really."

Merek's voice took on a slightly different tone, though he still didn't bother to turn around. "Lucky, eh? That sword's a bit more than lucky, I'd say. Ye've got a good hand with it, an' ye'd need a fine blade t' make a cut like that."

Greg gave a noncommittal nod, not really sure how to respond. Is he complimenting me or the sword? Both? Neither? Why is everyone so obsessed with this thing?

Dael squinted slightly, his eyes still glued to the sword as they walked. "Aye, I'll bet. Doesn't look like anythin' I've seen before. Ye sure ye don't remember where ye got it?"

Oh my god, this again? Greg shook his head, trying not to let his annoyance show. "Nope. Like I said, woke up with it."

A brief silence fell over the group, but Greg could still feel Dael's eyes on him, the man's mind clearly turning over something. Probably trying to figure out how much he could pawn it for, Greg thought uncharitably. Good luck with that, buddy. This sword and I? We're kind of a package deal.

The silence was broken by a low chuckle from Brynn at the front. "Sharp enough t' split a man, but doesn't make ye a killer, eh?"

Greg let out a light laugh, feeling the tension ease slightly. Finally, someone gets it. "Hope not. I'd rather avoid more Wildlings if I can."

Merek glanced over his shoulder, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Can't always avoid trouble, lad. 'Specially not with a sword like that strapped t' yer side."

What's that supposed to mean? Greg raised an eyebrow, but didn't push it. He knew this sort of ribbing was just how Northerners talked—always ready for a fight, always expecting trouble. But the way Merek said it didn't feel like much of a joke.

More like a warning.

"You know, lad," Merek continued, his voice dropping slightly, "a sword like that? People pay fortunes for less."

Okay, that's... concerning. Greg furrowed his brow, suddenly very aware of the weight at his hip. Is he... is he trying to buy it? "I'm not looking to sell it, if that's what you mean."

Merek waved the thought away with a short laugh, the man actually looking surprised at Greg's response. "No, no, nothin' like that. Just... be careful. Folk might see it an' wonder how ye came by it. Folk might ask questions. Might do terrible things for it."

Terrible things, huh? There it was again, that tone. No threat, but enough of a warning to make Greg's skin crawl.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said aloud, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Make sure to keep it sharp just in case."

"Good idea," Threnn chimed in from the back, his voice casual but with an edge that made Greg's hair stand on end. "Always best to be prepared in these parts."

Greg gave him a nod, appreciating the advice even as it set his nerves on edge. Prepared for what, exactly?

He glanced around at the group, taking in their varied expressions. Dael, still eyeing the sword with undisguised curiosity. Brynn, stoic and unreadable as ever. Threnn, his sharp eyes always seeming to catch everything. And Merek, that hint of calculation never quite leaving his face.

They don't seem to want anything from me, Greg mused, absently petting Ash's fur as the cub slumbered in his arms. But they definitely have questions. Questions that Greg wasn't sure he had the answers to.

He shook his head, pushing the thought away. No, come on, positive thinking. These guys seem alright. A little nosy, maybe, but they've got my back. Probably. Hopefully.

Yeah, Greg thought, looking around again. These guys are alright.