Chapter 7: Gaining Allies

The days blurred together as the caravan trudged steadily toward Riverrun, the distant city looming ever closer. Ethan had spent the past few days adjusting to life on the road, and the monotony of travel slowly began to wear on him. The caravan itself had become a new world—a microcosm of its own, full of different people with their own quirks and motivations. But despite the outward calm, Ethan sensed a simmering tension among them, something he couldn't quite place. Perhaps it was the uncertainty of the road ahead, or maybe it was the fact that, despite their outward cheerfulness, none of them truly knew who he was.

Borin had introduced him to the rest of the caravan—a collection of traders, merchants, and craftsmen with their own goods to sell in the city. None of them had questioned Ethan's presence, but there was always a distant wariness in their eyes. They were used to dealing with strangers, but something about Ethan's quiet, brooding demeanor made them hesitant to engage too deeply. But Ethan had long ago learned that a man could only get so far without allies. And in this world, that was a scarce commodity.

It didn't take long for Ethan to begin weaving a story—a cover, a mask to hide his true identity. To the caravan, he was just another wanderer, a simple man from the northern parts of Westeros looking to make a name for himself. He told them that he had been traveling alone for some time after his family was lost to bandits, and that he was seeking to start fresh in Riverrun. It wasn't much, but it was enough to mask his true origins. His story was vague and filled with enough gaps that no one would question it. After all, who would expect a man from a faraway land to suddenly appear in the Riverlands with no knowledge of local politics? The less they knew, the better.

But the key to survival wasn't just the story—it was getting them to trust him, to see him not as a stranger, but as an ally. And that, Ethan knew, would take time.

He started small.

Each morning, as the caravan packed up and continued on their way, Ethan made a point to help. He carried heavier loads, took turns with the horses, and made himself useful in any way he could. He watched the way the merchants and craftsmen worked, learning the ins and outs of their trades, asking questions when appropriate, and always offering a hand when it was needed. It wasn't just about gaining their trust—it was about becoming indispensable. And slowly, he began to see the cracks in their wariness.

Borin, the older merchant who had taken a liking to him, was the first to start treating him like a real part of the group. He pulled him aside one evening, just after the campfire had been lit, and offered him a mug of ale.

"You've been working hard," Borin said, his voice thick with the accent of the Riverlands. "You've earned your keep, lad. I can tell you're no stranger to hardship. If you're looking for a way into Riverrun, I can help you with that. I've got connections there, good ones."

Ethan took the mug, eyeing the man carefully. "I appreciate that, Borin. But I'm not looking for favors. Just trying to make my way like anyone else."

Borin chuckled, his belly shaking with the motion. "Aye, that's the way of it. But don't think I don't see the fire in your eyes. You've got the look of a man who's seen more than his fair share of battles."

Ethan didn't answer. He didn't need to. Borin knew, just like Ethan knew that Borin had been in more than a few fights himself. The old merchant's eyes carried the weight of years lived in conflict and survival. And that was something Ethan could respect.

"I'll keep that in mind," Ethan said softly. "But for now, let's just focus on getting to Riverrun in one piece."

Over the course of the next few days, Ethan worked hard to get to know the others in the caravan. Some were more receptive to him than others, but the more he proved his value, the more they began to accept his presence. There was Aedric, a burly blacksmith with hands calloused from years of shaping metal; Jorah, a quiet man who dealt in fine silks and exotic spices; and Lysa, a sharp-eyed woman who handled the finances and kept track of the caravan's dealings. Each of them had their own role, their own skills, but none of them were particularly special in the grand scheme of things. They were just simple people, trying to make their way in a world that didn't care about their struggles.

And then, there was Bjorn.

Bjorn was a young man of 19, tall and strong, with striking blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that reminded Ethan of the clear skies above the mountains he had once seen. He carried himself like a man who knew how to fight, and he had the skills to back it up. It had only taken a few days for him to notice Ethan's hesitation when it came to handling a sword, and though he said little about it at first, Bjorn took it upon himself to train Ethan in the evenings, after the rest of the caravan had settled down for the night.

"You're holding it wrong," Bjorn said one evening, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as he corrected Ethan's grip on the wooden practice sword. "If you don't learn how to hold it properly, you'll end up cutting yourself more than your enemy."

Ethan grunted, adjusting his grip as Bjorn instructed. He had no real experience with a sword—he had wielded knives and improvised weapons back in his old world, but this was different. The weight of the blade, the balance, the way it felt in his hands—it was all new.

"You're stronger than you think," Bjorn continued, his voice more serious now. "You've got the speed. You just need to learn control. The sword is an extension of your body, not something to just swing around. You need to think ahead, anticipate the enemy's moves."

Ethan nodded, sweat dripping down his brow as he focused on the practice session. He wasn't a natural swordsman, not by any means, but he could feel the difference each time he followed Bjorn's advice. The strength was there, the speed was there, and with time, perhaps he could become something more than just a man with power. He could become a fighter, a warrior.

Over the next few days, Ethan grew increasingly confident in his combat skills. He wasn't the best by any stretch of the imagination, but he was no longer a complete beginner. He could hold his own, and that was enough for now.

By the time they were a week's journey away from Riverrun, the caravan had become a little more like family to him. He had earned their trust, and in turn, they had earned his. He had given them a name, a story to believe in, and slowly, they had come to rely on him. They might not have known exactly who he was, but they knew he wasn't just some random traveler.

In the evenings, they sat around the campfire, talking of the world outside, and Ethan listened intently, his mind absorbing the little details that could prove useful later. He didn't speak much about himself, but that was just fine. He wasn't ready to reveal everything, not yet.

He had a plan, a way to get his foot in the door of Riverrun. And when the time came, he would be ready. His past might be a mystery, his true identity buried in shadow, but in this world, that might just be the greatest advantage he had.

As the days passed, the caravan pressed on, and Ethan's mind wandered to the city that was drawing nearer. He could already hear the murmurs of the city's undercurrents—the intrigue, the plots, the power struggles. He had no illusions that life in Riverrun would be easy. But it was a necessary step, one that would put him closer to his goal.

The story of a lost traveler might be enough to get him in the gates. But it would take more than just a good story to secure his place. In Riverrun, it would take strength, intelligence, and the ability to play the game.

And Ethan was ready.