"But this is a Lannister sigil sword." Alex ran his hand over the golden lion's head sculpted into the pommel, its fierce majesty impossible to ignore. He gave a slight, cynical tug at the corner of his mouth.
"It's a sword of the Night's Watch now," Eiton interrupted firmly. "A brother in black has no need for names."
"You mean this sword… it once belonged to a brother?"
"Exactly."
"And this brother—what's his relationship to that Dawell you mentioned?"
"That's not something you need to know." The old blacksmith shook his head. "If you accept this task, I'll pay you three gold dragons. And after you join the Watch, Dawell will look after you. I mentioned before—he's a seasoned ranger."
What the hell? Three gold dragons just for delivery? You rich or something, old man?
Alex instinctively glanced around, and for a fleeting second, the thought of robbing the smithy crossed his mind.
But he quickly shoved that crazy idea away.
This was the central square of Harrenhal. Even if the House of Whent had fallen on hard times, they were still leagues above a nobody hedge knight like him. No point picking a fight where he'd be buried before lunch.
"Alright," Alex slid the sword back into its sheath and clipped it to his belt, looking serious as he nodded. "Deal. I swear on my honor, I'll see the sword delivered."
Not that I've ever had any honor to begin with.
Eiton smiled at his response. He handed over six gold dragons and 120 silver stags—three gold for the delivery, the rest from selling Alex's gear.
Alex tucked the coins into his pouch, stepped out of the smithy, and took the reins of his horse again.
Thinking back on the job he'd just taken, a sarcastic grin played across his face.
Even if he wasn't planning to stalk merchants in Saltstone, he still wouldn't have touched this absurd errand under normal circumstances.
Seriously? A random blacksmith in Harrenhal pulls out a Lannister sigil sword and asks me to deliver it to a Night's Watch ranger? And you're telling me it used to belong to another brother?
Too many red flags.
Who originally owned the sword? What was their connection to Dawell? And how did a sword once belonging to a Watch brother end up in a blacksmith's hands here, in the middle of Harrenhal?
If he were playing this like a game back at home, seated at his PC, his plot-hungry instincts would've sent him digging for every buried secret.
But here, in the real world? Yeah—he wasn't stupid.
Secrets were often tangled with danger. And if this one had ties to House Lannister, then it could easily turn lethal. He wasn't about to die over someone else's buried family drama.
He shook his head and looked down at the sigil sword hanging at his side.
Now this… this is a real treasure.
Never mind the mystery—the sword alone was worth a fortune. Judging by its craftsmanship, Alex figured its forging cost was at least ten gold dragons. And if he could sell it? Double that, easy.
The only problem?
How the hell was he supposed to sell it?
The most valuable part of the sword wasn't just the quality steel—it was the lifelike golden lion sculpted into the pommel. A true work of art.
But that lion wasn't just any decoration. It was the sigil of the richest and most powerful house in Westeros—House Lannister.
In this world, sigils were status. Faking a noble house's emblem was almost unheard of. No sane person would risk buying a stolen or fake Lannister sword.
In other words, the sword might be priceless—but it was also blazing hot.
Maybe that's why the old man was so willing to hand it over, Alex mused.
He'd considered it before—why Eiton had trusted him so easily.
He'd assumed it was because the old blacksmith believed the lie he'd told: that he was going to join the Watch.
From Eiton's point of view, a regular sellsword wouldn't be selling his armor, and he certainly wouldn't bother lying to a random smith. So it made sense that the man had taken his story at face value.
And who wouldn't trust a "loyal, honorable knight" who was "heading to take the black," "swearing oaths on his honor," and "selling everything to provide for his aging parents"?
Looking back now, it seemed Eiton's real confidence came from something else.
He knew Alex couldn't sell the sword.
What am I supposed to do, melt down the lion head?
Not a chance. If it's solid gold, maybe. But if it's just gold-plated and I ruin it? That's just throwing money away.
Wait. Hold up.
Why the hell am I so fixated on selling it anyway?
Alex rubbed his temples as a new realization dawned on him.
His real goal wasn't just to make coin—it was to alter his starting profile and camouflage himself as someone no one would ever suspect of being a player.
And in Westeros, who would ever suspect a Lannister knight of being a transmigrated outsider?
The sword was clearly forged by a master smith—only someone of rank within the Lannisters would be allowed to carry something like this.
Which meant… this weapon was the perfect prop for a brand-new persona.
All he needed now was a fine set of noble clothes and a taller, stronger steed. Then he could pass as a Lannister knight with ease.
And here I was, thinking about playing a lowly caravan guard? What a waste.
"No… this still isn't airtight," Alex muttered. "I'm not dealing with locals—I'm dealing with other players. If I impersonate a Lannister noble and someone asks about my parents or lineage, it'll be a nightmare to cover."
They might not ask—but if they did, and he flew into a rage or dodged the question, it would only raise more red flags.
Was there any way to get around that?
He looked at the sword again, then smiled.
He had an idea.
This was a hand-and-a-half sword.
Also known as a bastard sword.
In western stories, bastard swords were famed for combining the thrusting precision of a knight's sword, the cutting power of a greatsword, and the balance of a longsword.
And in Westeros Common Tongue (aka English), the word "bastard" meant more than just a sword.
Why not play a bastard myself?
After all, who guards their lineage more fiercely than a noble-born bastard?
In Westeros, all bastards took surnames based on their birth region. Snow for the North, Sand for Dorne, Rivers for the Riverlands…
And in the Westerlands?
Hill.
If he introduced himself as "Alex Hill," no one would dare pry into his background.
Because asking a bastard about their lineage was like calling their mother a whore to their face.
And no one wanted to settle that debate with a swordfight.
That would neatly sidestep any players trying to sniff out his origin.
Besides, the system didn't allow players to start as bastards. According to common player logic, characters had to invent cover stories that fit existing options. No one would ever link a bastard to the system.
"Alex Hill. Bastard son of someone high in House Lannister. I can't say his name—it would disgrace him."
Grinning, Alex turned toward a nearby tailor shop.