GOT : Battle Royale[ An ASOIAF Fanfiction]

Ian soon set his sights on the town of Saltworks, a settlement located just over 180 kilometers from his current position in Harrenhal. The journey by horseback would take less than three days. If he pushed his mount to its limits, he could potentially cut that down to two. Within such a brief timeframe, it was highly improbable that even players rushing to the initial meeting point would cross paths. In other words, under the most ideal circumstances, Ian might even secure the coveted first kill. Even if he failed to achieve that, successfully hunting down just one player within the next two months would grant him 4 points—a score sufficient to alleviate the threat of the assassination mechanism for a considerable period.

However, waiting was still a misstep. While other professions might not readily discern the transparency of their starting equipment, traveling merchants certainly would. Consequently, they were likely to sell off some assets, acquire additional mules and horses, or even dismiss a few servants or hire more farmers to assist them. In such a scenario, how could one possibly differentiate them? After a moment of contemplation, Ian found his answer: the starting capital. Their initial capital of 100 gold dragons remained an unalterable constant. Ian had meticulously studied the character creation process, vividly recalling that, apart from the final career choice, the preceding options had a negligible impact on the starting capital. In other words, even if a traveling merchant maximized their starting funds through optional choices, their current wealth would not exceed 110 gold dragons. With such a limited capital, attempting to amass 1,000 gold dragons or more within two months would necessitate a substantial infusion of funds.

"When I arrive in Salt Farm Town, I only need to ascertain the local salt price," Ian mused aloud, perfecting his plan. "Perhaps the foreman also receives a kickback, so I'll investigate the proportion of that kickback as well. In short, by using these two data points, I can calculate the likely purchase volume range of merchant players. From there, we can target merchants suspected of being players based on their shipping volume."

Without wasting any more time, Ian swiftly gathered all his equipment, laying it out on the table. He planned to sell these items along with his horse. Then, he would purchase a machete and an old draft horse, intending to pose as an ordinary caravan guard en route to Salt Farm Town. The caravan guard was, in fact, one of the starting professions available to players. However, due to its inferior equipment, poor attributes, and meager starting funds, Ian had categorized it within the T3 sequence. Furthermore, the caravan guard's initial equipment consisted of a short sword and leather armor, details Ian also intended to use for differentiation. In any case, given the traveling merchant's meager strength, as long as Ian approached the opponent without arousing suspicion, he would be able to securely apprehend him. The advantage was his!

Pondering this, Ian began to estimate the value of his equipment. A complete set of his armor could fetch around 500 silver stags, and his hand-and-a-half sword more than 200 silver stags. As for his horse, currently tied in the inn yard, according to the memories gleaned from his background story, it was a five-year-old tame horse from the Riverlands. Having just reached its prime, it should easily sell for 750 silver stags or more. All told, this amounted to over 1,300 silver stags.

Having completed the valuation, Ian placed his full set of equipment into his bag, opened the door, and departed. Upon reaching the first floor, Ian inquired with the landlady about the location of Harrenhal's blacksmith shop, then paid 10 copper pennies for his accommodation. Afterwards, he proceeded to the backyard stable to retrieve his horse before leaving the hotel.

Stepping out of the hotel, Ian paused. Less than half a meter in front of him stood an incredibly thick stone wall. Covered in moss and dense cracks, it bore the unmistakable signs of having withstood the elements for a considerable age. Ian took two steps forward, peering through the gaps in the wall to glimpse the other side. It was a completely abandoned hall, its ceiling long gone, with all manner of rubble and refuse piled within. Flags, so thick with dust that their coats of arms were utterly obscured, still clung to the walls, seeming to whisper of a distant history. The gloomy environment and the stench emanating from the gaps sent a shiver down Ian's spine. He did not linger any longer but withdrew his gaze and walked quickly towards the alley's exit.

As he turned the corner, a sudden gust of north wind swept through, and a strange, mournful cry echoed in the sky. Although Ian knew this was merely the sound of air whistling through the cracks in the stones of the Howling Tower, he still felt a prickle of terror. He quickened his pace once more, gradually transitioning from a brisk walk to a trot. His own footsteps and the horse's hooves echoed in the narrow alley, forming an eerie harmony with the mournful cries and howls carried on the wind.

After navigating several deserted streets strewn with rubble, Ian finally arrived at the square where the blacksmith shop was located. "What bad luck!" he muttered. "Sell the equipment quickly and get out of this hellish place." Ian tied his horse to the wooden stake outside the door, then stepped into the blacksmith shop.

The blacksmith shop was remarkably deserted, occupied only by an old blacksmith and his two young apprentices. The old blacksmith appeared short and powerfully built, with graying brown hair. As Ian walked in, he had just finished repeatedly hammering an iron sword, skillfully withdrawing it before plunging it into a nearby bucket of cold water, quenching it with a hiss. The red-hot iron sword hissed as it was submerged, releasing wisps of white steam into the air.

"Young man, do you need anything?" The old blacksmith noticed Ian's arrival, turned, and inquired.

Ian surveyed the room, quickly ruling out the possibility of other players being present. Firstly, he had inquired about the old blacksmith from the innkeeper's wife. Given the game's premise that player characters appeared out of thin air, there was no doubt that this old blacksmith, who had worked in Harrenhal all his life, was a native inhabitant. Then there were the two apprentices, clearly in their early teens, well below the minimum age for player character selection.

Ian breathed a sigh of relief, then opened his package and took out his sword and a complete set of old chain armor. "Uncle, I want to sell this equipment," Ian stated, placing the items on the table.

The old blacksmith, Eton, glanced at Ian suspiciously, then carefully inspected Ian's equipment. There were no cracks, and the surface wear was not serious; with a good re-polishing, he could make a decent profit. "But..." Eton looked at Ian again, a little confused. "You should be a knight, shouldn't you? You're still so young. Why would you want to sell your equipment?"

Ian was indeed very young—too young, to be precise. When creating his character, Ian had tested the parameters and discovered that age had no impact on his stats, so he had directly set his age to the minimum limit of sixteen years old. In the old blacksmith's opinion, a knight of such a tender age should have a bright future ahead of him, making it incomprehensible why the young man would wish to sell his equipment.

Because I got an arrow in the knee? Ian thought jokingly, yet he still managed to conjure a wry smile and casually concoct a story: "Because I've had enough of the life of a Hedge Knight. People say that we and the Robber Knight are two sides of the same coin. There's no honor in it, and I don't want to continue living like this."