Six months. It had been half a year since I awoke on the shores of Westeros. I had spent the last two of those months in the Stormlands, living as an explorer and a temporary resident of the lands surrounding Summerhall.
(Flashback - Two Months Prior)
The Stormlands earned their name. The climate was a tempest of wind and rain, forcing us to acquire heavier, waxed cloaks to supplement our gear. Our journey finally brought us near the legendary, tragic site of Summerhall, the palace meant for a Targaryen prince.
Before we crossed into the region, I remembered Randyll Tarly's brief audience with my squires. I asked them what the stern lord had wanted.
"Lord Tarly asked if we were related to a bastard uncle of his," Alban explained. "He wanted to know where we were raised and what we intended for our futures." Seeing their skill, the Lord of Horn Hill had considered recruiting them. It was a telling insight into the man; he valued martial prowess above all, even in bastards. Why he hadn't pressed the issue or spoken to me, I couldn't guess.
As we neared the area, I spotted three riders observing us from a distant ridge before wheeling around and galloping away at full speed. Scouts? I dismissed it, having already dealt with three bands of bandits on the road, sending them to whatever afterlife this world offered. The last thing I wanted was for the Others to get them.
Those bandits had attacked believing their numbers would overwhelm us. One group had twelve men, another fifteen. They thought we were chickens in a coop, waiting to be plucked of our fine armor. My squires and I disabused them of that notion permanently. It was easy work for me, but the boys earned their first real scars in the struggle, a necessary price for experience.
The final group, however, was a pitiful sight that drained any sense of victory. We were resting after a long day's ride when seven figures emerged from the trees. Their leader was an old man who proclaimed, with a shaky voice, that he had fought in the last Blackfyre Rebellion. His "army" consisted of six boys no older than Alban and Alaric. He demanded we surrender our belongings.
It was so absurd I thought it a poor jest. I slapped the old man, not to hurt him severely, but to shock him back to his senses. Two of the boys bolted immediately, while two others soiled themselves. My squires, reacting with swift efficiency, held daggers to the throats of the remaining two, threatening the lives of their friends if the runners took another step.
"What in the seven hells were you thinking?" I growled at the old man. "Attacking fully armored men?"
"P-please, ser," he stammered, crumbling to his knees. "Spare us! We are starving. Our village… it was ravaged by a plague. We thought… we thought…" I cut him off, reassigning him that no harm would come to them if he told the truth.
He explained that a plague had swept through his village a few months prior, claiming nearly eighty percent of the adults and elderly. He was the mayor of a settlement called Summer Village, a title he'd earned for his service in the war. A community of five hundred had been reduced to barely a hundred souls, mostly children and teenagers.
Shocked, I asked what he had done. He said he had sent pleas for help to every lord in the region, even the Lord Paramount, but received no reply. Instead, they received a stern warning from neighboring lords: anyone attempting to leave would be killed to prevent the spread of the disease. Isolated and deemed worthless without their tax revenue, and with Summerhall's administration a ghost of itself, they were left to die. Tax collectors still came to demand their due, but no protectors ever arrived. The old man, Durran, had been threatened with death and the rape of his granddaughter if he appealed to the crown.
No wonder he had lost his mind and mistaken us for lordlings to be robbed.
I was conflicted. I was a knight, a killer, not a healer or a lord. This was a task for the Maesters, the learned men who guided the realm. But I knew their expertise was reserved for the nobility; a small, plague-ridden village held no value in their calculations. This tragedy was not unique; it was happening all over the Seven Kingdoms, and the powerful did nothing.
I saw the fear in my squires' eyes—this was a danger they understood from the festering streets of King's Landing. Watching war on a screen was one thing; standing amidst its collateral damage was another.
Impulsively, I gave the man twenty gold dragons to buy food for the hundred souls under his care, instructing him to take wagons on the three-day journey to the nearest market. He gave me a stiff, proud nod and asked if I would come to see the village for myself.
I did not want to. I wanted a warm bed and to be far from disease. But he claimed the worst was over. What more could happen? His name, he said, was Durran, and he guided us to his home.
Summer Village was a place of ghosts and mud, the air thick with the scent of death and despair. The only sign of life was a single house with light in the windows, flanked by two barns. Dozens of gaunt children and teenagers were performing various chores with a grim determination.
Durran called for his granddaughter, who emerged from one of the barns wearing cloth wrappings over her face—a crude but effective mask. When she removed it, I saw a woman who might have been pretty, but was now haggard from malnourishment, exhaustion, and grief. She was tall, with long black hair and striking blue eyes—the classic Baratheon traits. That was a question for another time.
Her name was Ava. Upon learning that her grandfather had resorted to banditry to save them, she scolded him with a ferocity that made him flinch. After introductions, the sheer weight of their helplessness overwhelmed her, and she broke down in tears. She was the one caring for the last survivors.
We gave them half of our provisions, enough for two meals for everyone. The next morning, Durran left with the boys and the wagons. I tried to stop him, fearing he would die on the road, but he insisted he knew the way better than anyone.
Ava thanked us, explaining they had exhausted their savings with no help arriving. When I asked about the sickness, her description made it clear: it was cholera. I spent the next two months in that village, using my coin and knowledge to pull them back from the brink of extinction. I taught them to boil all drinking water and implemented basic sanitation. It worked.
The region itself was some of the best land in the Stormlands, but ignorance had left it fallow and dotted with graves. I spent my time hunting, helping organize the orphans, and sharing stories. They would remember the knight who saved them, Ser Julius Harlane, the White Eagle.
Ava, recovering her health and strength, proved to have a sharp mind, deeply interested in the medical knowledge I could impart. My squires, meanwhile, integrated by flirting with the local girls and establishing their authority through friendly spars with the boys.
Life became peaceful, so much so that I nearly forgot my original purpose for coming here. Without truly planning it, I found myself with a following. Six of the older, more capable village boys, eager for a purpose and loyal to their savior, now followed me. I began their training, a harsh welcome to the brutal world we lived in. My small company was growing.