Kevin ducked under the vine-lashed frame, stretching his limbs. The A-frame structure was small, but it comfortably covered his entire body.
He crawled out, stood up, and bowed deeply. "Thank you for your care, Ser Aldric."
Aldric smiled, waving a hand dismissively. "Don't thank me yet. A roof is good, but walls are better. Come with me."
Aldric led him into the dense brush. With swift, precise strokes of his sword, he felled tall, slender river reeds while Kevin gathered them into bundles. Back at camp, they sat by the fire as Aldric demonstrated how to weave the reeds into thick, interlocking mats.
Working together, they covered the wooden frame, sealing the ends to block the biting coastal wind. For the first time since the shipwreck, Kevin had his own dry, windproof nook. He could sleep without waking up shivering.
Over the next few days, a routine took root.
Aldric joined Kevin in foraging the tidal pools, using the mundane tasks to accelerate his language lessons. Aided by the flawless recall of his "Memory Palace," Aldric absorbed the Common Tongue with terrifying speed, mimicking Kevin's thick, slightly nasal Fingers accent perfectly.
Initially, Aldric had viewed their arrangement as a simple transaction: he provided the muscle and the camp, and Kevin provided the language lessons.
To his surprise, the boy proved invaluable. Kevin was an exceptional swimmer. Raised on the rocky coasts of the Vale, he moved through the water like a seal. By the second day, Aldric's diet upgraded from a meager crab stew to whole, plump sea fish that Kevin speared in the deeper currents.
Whole fish roasted better, tasted richer, and could be dried into jerky for travel. Aldric, a landlocked gamer in his past life, had tried to follow the boy into the surf once, swallowed a lungful of saltwater, and promptly abandoned any dreams of becoming the Pirate King.
Saving a life is a split-second decision, Aldric mused, chewing on a piece of jerky. Living together is a long-term contract.
He was a fair man. He couldn't let the kid do all the heavy lifting while he sat by the fire. He could pay him, but offering gold for a few fish felt absurd. He was incredibly rich, yet utterly destitute.
The solution presented itself a few days later.
Aldric had taken to practicing his forms on the beach after the morning meal. He swung the Serpent's Striker through the air, drilling his muscle memory. He soon noticed Kevin lurking in the shade of a driftwood log, watching him with wide, hungry eyes.
Ah, Aldric thought. I can teach him how to survive.
Aldric walked to the treeline. Two swings of his sword severed two straight, sturdy branches. He stripped the bark and tossed one at Kevin's feet.
Kevin looked at the stick, then up at Aldric, his face a mask of confusion.
"Come here," Aldric said. "I'll teach you."
Kevin scrambled up, his face flushing crimson. "I'm sorry, Ser Aldric! I didn't mean to spy. I'll go back to the camp—"
"Go back for what?" Aldric interrupted, twirling his makeshift sword in a fluid figure-eight. "Pick it up. I'm going to teach you how not to die."
Kevin pointed at his own chest, stunned. "Me? You would teach me?"
Aldric grinned, stepping back onto the sand. "Come on!"
They sparred. After a few brief exchanges, Aldric took the boy's measure. Kevin's fundamentals were solid—a testament to his father's harsh tutelage—and his strength was decent for his age. But his technique was rigid, built for formal yard duels, utterly lacking the fluid brutality of actual combat.
For a fourteen-year-old boy from a minor house, it was commendable. But against a man who possessed the implanted combat experience of a max-level Paladin—a warrior who had slaughtered thousands of digital monsters and men—it was child's play.
Aldric didn't teach him chivalry. He taught him physics.
He distilled his two-handed sword techniques into a set of brutal, efficient forms, forcing Kevin to memorize the footwork and the leverage points.
At first, Kevin resisted. His father, Ser John, had always taught by throwing him into a brawl with his older brother, followed by a beating and a critique. To Kevin, Aldric's precise, repetitive forms looked like a dance. You don't start a real fight by dancing, Kevin thought.
"I am the teacher," Aldric stated flatly, tapping Kevin's ribs with his stick. "You do as I say."
Kevin swallowed his objections and focused.
Two days later, Aldric initiated a live spar.
To Kevin's shock, the "dance" worked. Under the pressure of Aldric's attacks, the repetitive forms flowed out of him naturally, as effortless as a river finding the sea. He deflected a heavy downward strike using leverage he didn't know he possessed, slipping inside Aldric's guard.
The realization ignited a fire in the boy.
Kevin threw himself into the training. He practiced from dawn until dusk, swinging the heavy branch until his palms bled and his arms shook, often forgetting to eat. Aldric had to physically order him to rest, fearing the boy would destroy his own muscles.
Aldric understood the desperation. Kevin was a second son. The world had told him his only worth was what he could carve out with a blade. If the Lady Rose hadn't sunk, Kevin would have ended up a forgotten sellsword in Essos, bleeding out in a muddy ditch over a handful of copper.
Aldric was offering him a different path.
As Kevin's swordsmanship improved, so did Aldric's understanding of the world. During their evening meals, Aldric gently interrogated the boy, finally piecing together the geopolitical map of his exile.
He was in Westeros. It was a continent dominated by the "Seven Kingdoms," a massive feudal empire ruled from a capital called King's Landing.
The current monarch was King Robert Baratheon, a man who had won the throne a decade ago alongside his friend, Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North. The realm was divided into vast territories—the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Westerlands—each ruled by a Lord Paramount who swore fealty to the Iron Throne. Beneath them were minor lords, and beneath them were landed knights like Kevin's father.
A classic pyramid structure, Aldric concluded. Strict feudalism. Layers of vassalage.
"So," Aldric mused one evening, poking the fire. "Your father hasn't seen a real battle in years, and he rules a fishing village of a hundred people."
"Yes, Ser," Kevin said proudly.
He's basically a village headman, Aldric thought, suppressing a smirk. Which makes this kid the village headman's exiled son.
Aldric chuckled softly.
Kevin paused his sword drills. "Ser? Did I do something wrong?"
Aldric coughed, quickly pretending to inspect a piece of roasting fish. "No, no. Your form is perfect. Keep your elbows tucked."
Kevin nodded earnestly. "Yes, Ser!"
"More power in the thrust! Don't push with your arms, drive with your hips!"
"Yes, Ser!"
A fortnight passed. Kevin had internalized the core forms. The next step—applying them fluidly in chaotic, life-or-death combat—could only be learned through blood and experience.
Aldric's grasp of the Common Tongue was now fluent, though he still carried the distinct, slightly nasal accent of the Fingers.
It was time to move.
On the morning of their seventeenth day together, Aldric laid out the Lightbringer armor on the sand.
"Kevin," Aldric called out. "Have you ever squired for your father? Helped him with his plate?"
"I have, Ser." Twice, Kevin added silently, hoping it counted.
"Come. Help me strap in."
Aldric hadn't worn the full set since his arrival. It was too heavy for foraging and too cumbersome for sleeping. But for a long journey through unknown territory, it was essential.
As Kevin fastened the heavy leather straps of the golden backplate, he ran a hand over the intricate, glowing etchings.
"Ser Aldric," Kevin asked, his voice hushed with awe. "Are you a Kingsguard?"
Aldric raised an eyebrow. "Why do you ask that?"
"This armor... I went to Coldwater Burn once, for a knighting ceremony. Lord Royce's men were there. None of them had steel like this. It's... magnificent."
Aldric smiled grimly. In World of Warcraft, the Lightbringer set was a status symbol, a grueling grind that required months of raiding. He hadn't even managed to loot the most visually stunning piece—the glowing, haloed pauldrons—before he died.
"I am no Kingsguard," Aldric said, testing the mobility of his gauntlet. "I am just a warrior. But I did command a warband once."
"A warband?" Kevin gasped. "In the Free Cities?"
"Further than that. So far away I can never return." Aldric turned, his golden armor catching the morning sun. "Where exactly are we, Kevin?"
"The eastern coast of the North, I believe," Kevin said, pointing down the shoreline. "If we follow the coast south, we'll eventually hit White Harbor. That's where my uncle and I boarded the ship."
"South it is," Aldric declared. "Is the gear packed?"
Kevin nodded toward a crude, two-wheeled handcart Aldric had engineered. "Five waterskins and three sacks of dried fish."
"Then we march."
Aldric stood on the pebble beach, fully armored, his greatsword sheathed across his back. He looked at the shallow limestone cave that had kept him alive for nearly a month.
"Ser?" Kevin asked, gripping the handles of the cart. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," Aldric said softly. "Let's go."
They turned their backs on the sea and began the long trek south, the golden giant and his young squire, walking into the unknown.