The continent of Westeros.
The North.
Along a tributary of the White Knife, near Castle Cerwyn.
The air in the outskirts was bone-chillingly cold; breathing felt like swallowing a mouthful of shattered glass.
A young man who had transmigrated here twenty-one years ago and taken the name Don Quixote led a stocky garron carrying the corpse of an old man, trudging unevenly into the dim, vast expanse of the Wolfswood.
Don Quixote wore an iron open-faced helm, a rusted and worn coat of mail, and a longsword at his hip.
He walked in silence along a lengthy mountain path.
Finally, Don Quixote chose a piece of high ground for the grave.
After digging the pit deep enough, he lifted the old man with both hands and carefully placed him at the bottom.
"I should have left the sword for you, but I sold it to scrape together enough coin for a new blade for myself."
Don Quixote rambled on for a while:
"I figure the Old Gods will gift you a new one.
"Old man, you were a true knight. You only ever lectured me when I deserved it.
"Except for that one time. That really was an accident. I honestly didn't mean to barge into Widow Wylla's house, and I definitely didn't mean to see you and Lady Wylla...
"Ahem, old man, you were certainly hale and hearty for your age!
"..."
Finally, Don Quixote said:
"May the Old Gods accept you, old man."
He then took an iron pickaxe from the fur bundle on his horse.
And began to fill the grave.
When it was done, he looked at the quiet garron and said:
"Buddy, come say goodbye to your old master."
The garron stepped forward and gave a low snort.
"Old man, I'm going now."
Don Quixote mounted his horse, rode forward a few paces, then stopped.
He looked back at the small mound of earth and smiled:
"If I manage to survive this, I'll definitely bring your favorite rye ale to pay my respects.
"Hmm, if possible, I'll bring Lady Wylla along, too."
With that, Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh, slowly reined his horse around, and continued on his way.
Don Quixote was not a native of the Game of Thrones world.
Twenty-one years ago, he had transmigrated to this world.
His parents were tenant farmers for House Cerwyn in the North.
Although living conditions were tough—far less comfortable than his previous life—he managed to live smoothly until he was nine.
But that year, conflict flared up again between House Bolton and House Stark.
Castle Cerwyn was only half a day's ride from Winterfell, and House Cerwyn was one of the Starks' most loyal bannermen.
Naturally, House Cerwyn was drawn into the struggle between the two great powers of the North.
And just as naturally, Castle Cerwyn was caught in the crossfire.
Many people died in that conflict.
Knights, common soldiers, and smallfolk alike.
His parents lost their lives in the fighting.
From then on, his life became even harder.
He struggled to survive for two years until he met a hedge knight who had wandered to Castle Cerwyn: Valentine Adler, the old man he had just buried.
Relying on knowledge beyond that of a typical Northern peasant child and nearly a year of respectful service, the old man reluctantly took him on as a squire.
Why reluctantly?
Aside from the fact that squiring wasn't something a commoner was usually qualified for, the main reason was that the old hedge knight himself was destitute.
Hedge knights were often the second sons of fallen noble houses, rebellious knights stripped of their titles, or meritorious men-at-arms of common birth.
They upheld their knightly vows but had no family crest, no lands, and no fixed income. Their only assets were their martial skills and their knighthood.
Most hedge knights lived a life of drifting.
They traveled from castle to castle, serving one lord after another.
Whether they lived well or poorly depended entirely on their own abilities.
A very small number of desperate hedge knights would even abandon their vows to survive, becoming bandits or poachers.
So, the old man was initially unwilling to take on another mouth to feed; to him, Don Quixote would only be a burden.
But once he accepted Don Quixote as his squire, the old man changed his attitude completely, fulfilling his duties with dedication and passing on all his knightly skills to the boy.
Thus, Don Quixote spent nearly ten years wandering the world of Game of Thrones as a squire.
---
Walking out of the dim Wolfswood, Don Quixote suddenly felt a bit lost.
All the skills he had learned so far were preparation for killing.
He had some basic survival skills—after all, there's truth to the saying that poor children grow up fast.
Throughout these years of hardship and wandering, he had only himself to rely on.
He had barely managed to master some life skills he hadn't possessed in his previous life.
But it seemed the only means he had to make a living were those knightly skills.
Yet, making a living with those skills was incredibly difficult.
Leaving aside the most critical point...
He was still just a squire, not even a knight. Who would hire him?
Even if some employer were blind enough to hire a squire, he didn't have the confidence to survive the slaughter.
Due to years of malnutrition, his physique was only average.
Better than most smallfolk, but far worse than most knights.
"Sigh! I transmigrated and everything, but where's my cheat code?"
Don Quixote sighed:
"Don't think about it. Take it one step at a time.
"As for my status, the old man jokingly knighted me before, so I am a knight.
"When you're out in the world, your status is whatever you say it is!
"Let's go home first. I've lived in the North for twenty-one years, but I still can't stand this bitter cold."
It was worth noting that this wasn't even the depths of the Northern winter yet. One could only imagine how many people would freeze to death when the true winter arrived!
Before long, Don Quixote returned to the crofters' village outside Castle Cerwyn.
To a log cabin with a peaked roof.
As soon as Don Quixote entered the cabin, he started a fire.
Leaning against the side of the circular fire pit dug into the dirt floor, Don Quixote counted his belongings while tending the flames.
His purse was flat; a few glances told him everything.
He finished counting quickly.
A total of 3 silver stags and 78 copper pennies.
"It'll last a while, but I need to find a way to make a living fast. Watching my savings dwindle gives me zero sense of security."
Don Quixote sighed.
Of course, this was just his cash flow. It didn't include his fixed assets, especially his knightly gear.
A stocky garron, an iron longsword, a set of worn and rusted mail, a dagger, three whetstones, an oak shield with a battered iron rim, and so on.
If he really couldn't go on, selling this gear would fetch a few dozen silver stags.
"I hope it doesn't come to that. Sigh."
Life is hard; cue more sighing.
---
The next day.
After hastily eating some black bread baked from coarse barley and rye flour, Don Quixote quickly mounted his horse and left the crofters' village.
"Maybe I can find Lady Wylla. She runs a tavern in Castle Cerwyn and hears a lot of news.
"Plus, I heard her son is a ranger for House Cerwyn. Maybe there's an angle there."
Thinking it over, Don Quixote entered Castle Cerwyn.
The Iron Axe Tavern.
Don Quixote pushed open the door.
"Smells so good. My stomach's starting to hurt."
A blend of ale, salted meat, and pine smoke hit his nose, causing Don Quixote, who had only eaten some hard black bread that morning, to swallow involuntarily.
...