Splitwater was a speck of dirt, too insignificant to earn a dot on any maester's map. To reach the Free Cities of Essos, Kevin and his uncle Thomas first had to sail north to White Harbor, then catch a merchant cog across the Narrow Sea.
To return to Pentos before his leave expired, Thomas booked passage on the Lady Rose.
The fare was two gold dragons a head. Thomas, a veteran sellsword who guarded his coin tighter than his life, haggled furiously. He offered his sword as a guard and Kevin's back as a deckhand.
The captain agreed. The fare was halved.
"Work more, eat more," Thomas told Kevin as the boatswain shoved a mop into the boy's hands. "Make sure you eat back every copper we paid."
Kevin didn't mind the work. He had grown up with the sea spray in his lungs, but this was his first time on a true trading vessel. He swabbed the decks and scrambled up the rigging, eager to prove himself.
The voyage was uneventful until they passed Oldcastle. The Lady Rose, her holds bursting with northern timber and furs, swung east into the open sea.
To save coin, the Turners slept in the cargo hold among the barrels. It was a mistake. Unable to resist the scent of Arbor gold, Thomas "accidentally" pried open a cask. The captain smelled the wine on his breath and forced Thomas to buy the entire barrel at landing price—a full gold dragon.
Thomas spent the next week drinking away his anger.
Then, the sea turned on them.
One dawn, Kevin was jolted from sleep as the ship pitched violently. The cargo hold groaned, timbers screaming under immense pressure.
Thomas was already awake, sword drawn, his eyes wide and sober. "Stay here!" he barked at Kevin.
Thomas scrambled up the ladder to the deck. He grabbed a frantic sailor. "What's happening?"
The sailor shoved him away, his face pale beneath the driving rain. "Are you blind? It's a squall! Pray to your gods!"
Seconds later, a snapped rigging line whipped across the deck, coiling around the sailor's waist and dragging him screaming into the churning black water.
Thomas stumbled back down the ladder, his face ashen. He didn't speak. He used his sword to pry the lids off three wine barrels, kicking them over. The rich, golden wine spilled across the planks, the sweet smell nauseating in the cramped, heaving space.
"Nails!" Thomas roared, snapping Kevin out of his terror. "Find me nails, boy!"
Kevin scrambled to a tool crate and returned with a handful of iron spikes. Thomas used the heavy pommel of his sword to hammer the lids back onto the empty barrels, sealing them tight.
He bound the barrels together with thick hemp rope.
"Damn it," Thomas muttered, his hands moving with frantic precision. "This is why you don't keep coin in the Iron Bank. A hundred dragons, sitting in Braavos. Damn it all."
He dragged Kevin over and lashed the boy's chest tightly to a pair of barrels. He tied himself to the other pair.
Thomas grabbed Kevin by the shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. The cynicism was gone, replaced by a desperate, fierce intensity.
"Kid," Thomas said, his voice cracking. "You have to live."
It was the first and last time his uncle had ever shown him affection.
The Lady Rose didn't just sink; she shattered. A massive wave caught her broadside. With a sound like a breaking spine, the hull split in two.
The freezing sea rushed in. Kevin was swallowed by the dark.
He didn't remember the impact. He didn't remember the screams. He only remembered the buoyancy of the barrels fighting the downward drag of the ocean, and the single thought repeating in his mind: Live. I have to live.
Eventually, the cold and the exhaustion took him, and the world faded to black.
Heat.
That was the first sensation. A dry, crackling warmth against his cheek.
Kevin opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed of dry pine needles and leaves. A few feet away, a fire danced merrily. Suspended over the flames was... a golden helmet? A rich, savory aroma wafted from it, making his stomach cramp violently.
He tried to sit up, shivering as the chill air hit his damp clothes. He shifted closer to the fire.
"Careful," a deep, resonant voice rumbled from the shadows. "Don't knock over the pot."
Kevin jumped, his head snapping toward the sound.
A giant of a man stepped into the firelight, dropping a bundle of dry wood. He had jet-black hair, pale skin, and eyes like polished obsidian. He smiled, a warm, easy expression that contrasted sharply with his imposing size.
Aldric had found the boy tied to the wreckage, hauled him back to camp, and built a fire. He had then chopped the morning's catch and set it to boil in his helm.
Seeing the boy's terror, Aldric didn't press him. He walked slowly around the fire, keeping his distance, and crouched by the helm. He stirred the stew with a carved stick, scooped up a piece of white fish, and ate it.
"Good," Aldric murmured.
He looked at the boy, who was staring at the helm, swallowing repeatedly.
Aldric grinned and offered the stick. "Eat. You're empty."
He spoke in the Common Tongue, but his accent was bizarre—archaic, thick, and halting.
Kevin hesitated, torn between fear and starvation. Starvation won. He crept forward, took the stick, and scooped a piece of squid into a small wooden bowl Aldric had carved.
He took a bite. The flavor exploded on his tongue.
The hunger monster woke up. Kevin dropped the stick, grabbed the helm with both hands—ignoring the heat of the metal—and drank the broth greedily, chewing the seafood whole.
When the helm was empty, he set it down carefully. He stood up, placed his right hand over his heart, and bowed deeply.
"I thank you, my lord," Kevin rasped.
Aldric blinked. So the Common Tongue here sounds a bit like old English. "I am Kevin," the boy said, straightening up. "Kevin of House Turner. From Coldwater Burn on the Fingers."
Aldric tapped his chest. "Al-dric."
"Ser Aldric?" Kevin asked.
Aldric didn't correct the title. He pointed to the fire. "Fire."
"Fire," Kevin repeated.
Aldric picked up a leaf. "Leaf."
"Leaf."
They spent the next hour trading nouns. Aldric's "Memory Palace" proved invaluable. He absorbed the vocabulary, the syntax, and the subtle inflections of Kevin's accent like a sponge soaking up water. By noon, he had a functional, if rough, grasp of the local dialect.
"Work," Aldric said, standing up.
He retrieved his pickaxe and a short sword from the cave. Kevin tensed at the sight of the weapons, but Aldric simply handed him the heavy iron pick.
Aldric walked to the edge of the treeline and used his heel to draw a rectangle in the dirt, roughly the size of a man. He marked eight spots along the perimeter.
"Dig," Aldric instructed, pointing to the marks. "Holes."
Kevin nodded, though confusion clouded his face. He began to hack at the hard earth. Why am I digging? he thought. Is this a grave? No, eight small holes. Why?
He didn't dare ask. The man had saved his life and fed him. If he wanted holes, Kevin would dig holes.
As Kevin worked, he heard the rhythmic thwack-thwack of chopping from the woods.
Just as he finished the last hole, Aldric emerged, dragging a bundle of thick pine trunks bound with vines.
Aldric inspected the holes. He crouched, sticking his hand into one. "Deeper," he said, holding his fingers apart to show the required depth.
As Kevin resumed digging, he watched Aldric work out of the corner of his eye.
Aldric untied the logs. He drew his short sword and began to strip the bark and branches.
Kevin stared.
His father, Ser John, had always treated his sword like a sacred relic. "A sword is expensive," his father had lectured after catching Lannor hacking at a stump. "Wood ruins the edge. Use an axe for trees, a sword for men."
But Aldric was swinging his sword like a machete. The blade sliced through thick branches with terrifying ease, leaving cuts as smooth as polished glass.
Kevin swallowed hard. Is the sword magic? Or is the man just that strong?
He didn't know that Aldric's weapon, though transmogrified to look like plain steel, was Twilight's Fang—an epic-tier blade forged in a heroic raid, designed to cleave through enchanted armor. Against a pine tree, it was gross overkill.
Aldric finished prepping the timber. He set eight posts into the holes Kevin had dug, crossing the tops in pairs. He laid a long ridge beam across the intersections, lashing the frame together with tight vine knots.
It was a sturdy, A-frame shelter.
Aldric wiped the sweat from his brow and waved Kevin over.
"Get in," Aldric said. "Lie down. Test it."