Time flew by. Winter's biting cold and heavy snow finally receded, giving way to sunlight, green air, and the warm breezes of spring—just as sudden and abrupt as the winter that came before it.
Twig and Aron were now nearly sixteen, and Jenny fifteen. Aron had grown into a young giant: dense muscle, broad shoulders, thick arms—when Twig stopped to really look, the boy reminded him of Steve Rogers stepping out of the super-soldier chamber. Jenny, though not as tall as her brother, now stood a head above Saul; her figure was athletic and firm, nothing like the frail girl who once lived the quiet routine of a roadside inn.
As for Twig, he retained his slim, agile frame. Yet beneath the clothes he wore was a lean, sculpted physique—taller than before, not quite reaching Aron's towering presence, but imposing enough.
Their levels already far surpassed the once-dangerous Flaming Dungeon; now they refined their combat power and gear only to prepare for the next challenge with the same level of safety as before. With the thaw came travelers, and the inn returned to the busy rhythm Saul had long missed. Merchants brought goods, gossip, rumors, and stories carried from far-off places.
One such night, as the visitors ate in the tavern, he overheard two merchants discussing a grand tourney soon to be held at Harrenhal—hosted by Lord Whent, promising riches and glory beyond imagination. The moment he heard the words Harrenhal and tourney, he knew exactly that time has come.
The next morning, Twig gathered Aron and Jenny aside.
"Alright, Aron, Jenny. There's a big tourney happening soon—not too far from here. How about coming with me? You'll get to see something amazing, travel a little, and actually experience the world outside the inn."
The two exchanged an excited glance. Jenny, however, hesitated.
"I'd love to go… but what about our father? If we all leave, he'll be alone."
Twig pondered for a moment.
"Alright, then let's do it this way. I'll go first. Once I reach Harrenhal, I'll save it as a teleport point. Then I'll come back and pick you up. That way you won't need to travel for days. We watch the tourney, and after it's over—bam—teleport back home. You won't be away long."
Not needing to endure a long journey—and not leaving Saul alone—was enough to win them over.
Aron, eyes gleaming, asked, "If we go… can I compete in the tourney?"
Twig exhaled slowly.
"That's… complicated. If you participate, you'll probably win. And that might… disrupt a lot of things. Also, you could seriously injure or kill someone important. Even by accident."
Aron scratched his neck. "I'll hold back! I just want to know what it feels like."
"Tell you what," Twig said. "We'll decide once we're there. Maybe you'll change your mind. Maybe I'll participate… who knows?"
With everything settled, Twig prepared his things and set off toward the east. He didn't take Artax—left him in the stable. Since he only planned to save the teleport point, he chose to go on foot. With his monstrous stats, sprinting was faster than any normal horse.
He dashed along the eastern road, crossed a river, and reached the Kingsroad, turning south with steady, tireless strides. His goal was simple: reach Harrenhal as fast as possible.
While running, he spotted a group ahead traveling in the same direction. He slowed down and slipped off the road, into a thin line of trees. There, he swapped his simple clothes for a merchant's outfit: thick wool tunic, well-worked leather belt, clean boots, and a dark cloak with a light inner lining—not flashy, but far from poor. Adjusting his gloves, he stepped back onto the road and approached calmly.
Only then did he get a clear look at the banners: green fields with bears, crossed black axes on silver, a great stylized elk… and most prominently, gray direwolves running across white fields. Names sparked in his memory—Mormont, Cerwyn, Hornwood… and Stark. Even here in the Riverlands, the cold of the North seemed to follow them.
A cavalryman detached from the group and rode toward him.
"Halt! Who goes there?" the man called, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Greetings. My name is Robert, a traveling merchant. I lost my horse on my way south to Harrenhal. I see your caravan is well-guarded—may I follow at the rear for safety?"
The guard eyed him with suspicion.
"A merchant, huh? What are you selling?"
"Glasswork from Myr. Some utensils, some trade goods." He tapped the small sheathed blade at his waist. "Worth enough to justify carrying a knife."
The guard didn't push further.
"You may follow at the back. Behave yourself. And show proper respect if any noble addresses you. Understood?"
Twig nodded. The guard added sternly:
"I'll inform my lord about you. If he disapproves, I'll come back and throw you out myself."
The man spun his horse and rode off.
Twig shrugged and followed the caravan. Up close, he examined the wagons: sacks of grain, barrels, hides. The faces of the northern servants were stern, harsh—cold even in expression, he thought.
It didn't take long to realize the downside of traveling with a large group: safety, yes… but painfully slow. Annoyed, Twig sped up, bypassing wagons and riders until he neared the front.
The same guard intercepted him again.
"Hey! I told you to stay at the back!"
Before Twig could reply, two riders joined them—clearly nobles. A young man with heavy northern furs and black beard, and a young woman with pale skin and long dark hair.
"I apologize," Twig said. "You told me to stay at the back, yes. But the pace is far too slow, and I'm in a hurry. I only came to ask for directions to Harrenhal so I can continue alone."
"Oh? Did you hear that, Lyanna?" the young man said, lips curling.
"Quite bold for a merchant, isn't he?"
"Greetings," Twig said politely. "By any chance, do you know the route to Harrenhal?"
"Of course I do," the man replied. "What's your name, merchant?"
"Robert. And yours?"
The guard growled, "How dare you speak so casually to my lord—"
"Enough, Harden," the young man cut him off. "Return to your post. I'll handle him."
The guard, stiff with irritation, obeyed the order.
"I am Brandon," the man said. "Brandon Stark."
He expected the merchant to flinch at the name—but Twig only smiled.
"Oh! Then I'm in the presence of a great noble of the North." He made an exaggerated courtly gesture, half respectful, half theatrical.
Lyanna burst into laughter.
"Brother, he's no merchant! He's obviously a jester!"
Brandon shot her a look, then glared at Twig.
"Are you mocking me?"
"No, Lord Brandon. Forgive me. I've little experience speaking with nobles. I'm just a simple trader from Riverrun heading to Harrenhal to see the tourney."
The Stark siblings exchanged glances.
"You're from Riverrun?" Brandon asked.
"Yes. I followed the river road, then took the Kingsroad south until I spotted your caravan."
"Where is your horse?" Lyanna asked curiously.
"Ah… it died of exhaustion. Poor planning on my part."
"But you said you were in a hurry," she frowned. "Yet you're on foot?"
"Yes. And your caravan is too slow. I can get to Harrenhal faster by myself."
"You're very confident for a merchant," Brandon said.
"A merchant must be," Twig replied. "Confidence is good for business."
"You're a strange merchant," Lyanna added. "What exactly are you carrying?"
"Many things. Depends on whether you have enough gold."
"Stop that nonsense," Brandon said. "What could you possibly have of value? That little dagger?"
"That depends on how much gold you have," Twig answered calmly. "I might be carrying something more valuable than everything in your caravan."
Lyanna leaned forward, intrigued.
"Oh? Then show us something valuable. Prove you're not just boasting."
"Well… if you insist."
He reached into his empty pouch—acting—while selecting something from his System inventory. Something they had never seen. He pulled out a red-and-white striped candy cane, glossy like polished glass, smelling of sugar and mint.
Both Starks stared.
"What is that?" Lyanna asked.
"A sweet," Twig replied. "A candy cane."
"A… sweet?" Brandon repeated.
"Yes. You eat it." Twig gave Lyanna the candy.
Lyanna touched it to her tongue. Instantly, her eyes widened at the powerful flavor.
She handed it to Brandon, who tasted it and blinked in surprise.
"This is rare," he admitted. "Very strange… certainly expensive—but not more valuable than our gold. If you think this is such treasure, you really must be a jester." He laughed. "How much for this… treat?"
"Nothing. It's a gift. I only want directions to Harrenhal."
"Oh? Leaving already?" Lyanna teased. "You just got here."
"As I said—I'm in a hurry."
Brandon returned the candy to her.
"You truly want to get there fast… but do you really think you'll outrun us on foot? I doubt it."
"Want to bet I'll arrive first?" Twig asked. "Just point me the right way."
The siblings exchanged looks.
"I accept," Lyanna said. "I'll give you the directions. And if you arrive before us… I'll give you a horse."
Brandon's eyes widened.
"Lyanna, that's too much—"
"Oh, come now. Do you honestly think he'll beat us? Let him run. He'll tire out long before we do."
Brandon sighed. "Fine. But if you lose, what do we get?"
Twig thought for a moment.
"I know."
This time, he didn't take out candy—he produced two masks from his inventory. One smiling, one frowning.
He placed the smiling one on his face.
"See? Very happy."
Switched to the sad one.
"And now—very sad."
Both Stark siblings burst into laughter.
"Now I'm convinced," Brandon said. "You're a jester. Definitely not a merchant."
And so, in the middle of the Kingsroad, Twig had his first encounter with the nobility of Westeros—and earned his first informal title:
The Merchant Jester.