Guided by Rory the waiter, Aldric and his companions spent the morning touring the Winter Town. They inspected an old barracks used by garrison officers and a decaying villa belonging to a minor lordship. Finally, they settled on a small, walled courtyard near the river on the town's outskirts.
The courtyard was modest, about seven hundred square feet of packed dirt. It held a primary stone house, a smaller timber shack, and a soot-stained, abandoned forge in the corner.
According to Rory, the previous owner had been a blacksmith who lived there with his family and an apprentice. A tragic accident—the details of which Rory was vague about—had claimed them all. With no heirs to claim it, the property had been seized by the Stark estate and sold to a local vegetable merchant named Joyce.
Joyce had bought it purely as a low-risk investment. Since the location was remote and the history "unlucky," the rent was low: five silver stags a month, with three months' upfront and a month's deposit.
Aldric paid the coin, and with Rory acting as the broker and the owner of the Smoking Log as a witness, the lease was signed.
"John," Aldric said as they stepped into the main house, nudging a dark, irregular stain on the floor with his boot. "What do you make of this 'accident'? Did the smith catch a stray spark in a barrel of oil?"
Brother John looked at the radial spray of black stains on the lime-washed walls and the deep, jagged gouges in the stone. He made the sign of the seven-pointed star over his chest. "May the Father judge them justly and grant them peace."
"I'd prefer the Father keep the peace in this house while we're in it!" Rennel chimed in, hovering by the door. "Aldric, are you certain this place isn't cursed? I have a very sensitive constitution."
"That's why we have John," Aldric said, clapping the monk on the shoulder. "If anything goes 'bump' in the night, he can wave a censer at it."
John shook his head immediately. "I serve the Smith, Aldric. I build things. I don't banish spirits. If you want an exorcist, you're looking for a different kind of Brother."
Kevin pointed at the shadows stretching across the yard. "Master, if we don't start scrubbing, we'll be sleeping in the dust tonight."
"Right. Less talk, more work."
The property was a wreck. Cobwebs hung like thick curtains from the eaves, and the air tasted of rot and damp straw. The remaining furniture was furred with mold, and in the cellar, mushrooms the size of dinner plates grew from the damp timbers.
Brother John, a veteran of a hundred roadside camps, took charge. Under his direction, Aldric and Kevin hauled out the refuse and scrubbed the stone floors with lye and sand.
Rennel, meanwhile, sat on a stump in the yard and played a jaunty, inspiring tune on his harp to "bolster their spirits."
"Watching you toil breaks my heart," the bard said, eyes half-closed as his fingers danced over the strings. "But a bard's hands are his life. I cannot risk a splinter or a bruised knuckle. You understand, of course."
Aldric just grunted and kept hauling wet straw.
Once the cleaning was done, they divided the space. Aldric and Kevin took the small timber shack. John took the main stone house, which he intended to convert into a community chapel. Rennel was granted a corner of the main house. John promised that once the renovations were complete, Rennel could push two prayer benches together for a bed. Until then, the floor would have to suffice.
Rennel accepted with a theatrical bow. Free lodging in a town as expensive as Winterfell was better than a performer's discount at an inn.
Over the next week, the courtyard transformed. They patched the thatch, whitewashed the walls with lime, and repaired the shutters.
John threw himself into his work. A sept, whether a grand dome in Oldtown or a room in the North, required certain icons: a pulpit, benches for the faithful, and the symbols of the Seven Aspects. He refused Aldric's help, insisting that crafting these items was a form of holy labor that a "non-believer" could not share.
"Convert, Aldric," John said one afternoon while hewing an oak plank. "Join the Faith, and I'll even let you help me paint the Warrior's altar. I might even knight you myself once the roof is finished."
"And turn my rent payments into 'holy donations'?" Aldric laughed. "I think I'll stick to the Sun, John."
Leaving John to his carpentry and Kevin to his prayers, Aldric set out to find a job.
Back on Earth, Aldric had been a wage slave. He knew how to polish a resume and navigate a corporate interview. He had no idea how a sellsword found work in a feudal capital.
He returned to the Smoking Log and cornered Rory. Slapping a copper star on the bar, he asked, "Rory, where does a man with a sword find a contract in this town?"
Rory polished a glass, sliding the coin into his apron. "We don't handle that kind of blood-work here, friend. But if you head to Stone Slate Alley, look for the sign of a snarling wolf. That's the Wolf's Kiss. Howard Bello runs it. Tell him I sent you."
Rory slid a small wooden token across the wood—a sword dripping blood carved into the grain.
The Wolf's Kiss was an unassuming, low-slung building tucked away from the main markets. The windows were narrow and grimy, and the heavy oak door was shut tight. Aldric adjusted the breastplate beneath his tunic, checked the hang of the Serpent's Striker, and stepped inside.
The air was thick with the smell of sour ale and old smoke. A dozen men sat in the gloom, their gear battered and their expressions weary.
Aldric walked to the bar where a sturdy man with a snowy white beard was cleaning glassware. Aldric slid the token onto the counter.
The man glanced at the bleeding sword, then up at Aldric. "You sound like a man from the East, but you're too big for a Valeman."
"I am from further east than the Vale," Aldric said. "A land called Seres. I've been in the North for a few moons."
"Seres? Never heard of it," Howard Bello grumbled, pulling a ledger from beneath the bar. "Doesn't matter. Name, past experience, and battle record. Our rule is simple: ten percent of any contract signed under this roof belongs to the house. Any problems?"
"Ten percent is fair," Aldric said. "My name is Aldric Seres. In my homeland, I commanded a warband of twenty-five elite fighters. We specialized in... high-risk incursions and heavy infantry tactics."
He was essentially reciting his WoW raid leader credentials.
Howard scribbled in the book. "I hope you aren't a braggart. If I give you a job you can't handle, men die. And that's bad for my reputation."
"I swear it on the Light," Aldric said. "Every victory I've claimed is recorded." Somewhere in a Blizzard database.
Howard nodded. "Find a seat and wait."
Aldric ordered a dark rye ale and sat in the corner. He expected a "login queue"—wait an hour, get a quest. But the hours turned into days. He spent his afternoons nursing a single cup of ale, watching the door.
Nothing.
On the fifth day of silence, Aldric approached Howard again. "Howard, I've drunk half a barrel of your ale this week. Do I smell bad? Why hasn't a single patron offered me a contract?"
"It's not your smell, giant," Howard said, leaning on the bar. He gestured to the other men in the room. "Look at them. Half of these men haven't seen a silver stag in a moon's turn. They're pooling coppers for a single cup just to stay out of the rain."
"But I heard the North was the place for a hedge sword to make a living."
Howard offered a dry, cynical smile. "A sellsword's career is a flower watered with blood, boy. It only blooms in the abyss of war."
"The North is at peace," Howard continued. "Under Lord Eddard Stark, the land is quiet. When lords have a quarrel, they ride to Winterfell for a judgement; they don't hire men like you to burn their neighbor's crops. The ambitious killers all took ship for Essos years ago. The ones left here are the ones too old or too stubborn to leave home. Honestly, coming back from the East to find work here... it was a poor tactical choice."
Aldric sipped his ale, processing the grim reality of a peaceful kingdom. "A flower watered with blood... that's a hell of a line, Howard."
Howard smiled. "I've had years to practice it."
For ten more days, Aldric languished. John finished the chapel; Rennel found steady work at a local playhouse; Kevin's spearmanship was becoming formidable. Only Aldric was failing at his chosen profession.
Just as he was seriously considering picking up a hammer at the forge and retraining as a full-time blacksmith, the door to the Wolf's Kiss creaked open, and opportunity walked in.