To both sides of the dirt road, empty farmlands stretched out as far as the eye could see. There were still, at least, a couple of weeks left until the skies clear up and winter finally comes to an end. When that time comes, farmers and slaves will start plowing the fields and spreading manure before sowing wheat seeds into the ground.
Jon Yao had passed through here a few months prior when the golden fields stood as tall as a grown man, wheat spikes resembling corn cobs in size. Now he passed through here again, with an old mule serving as a mount and an old suit of plate armor for protection.
The cold winter air slipped into his worn-out helmet through the single slit of his visor. After his crimes were discovered and he was banished from Rochdale, Jon had only the clothes on his back for protection.
Both his cuirass and weapons were left at the castle while the equipment he had used during the battle was either lost or badly damaged. Of course, Jon didn’t leave completely destitute as he still had the missive written by the earl granting the chance to participate in the squire’s tourney as well as the magic key left by his mother Dene.
The squire’s tourney was the chance for peasants and lowly serfs to challenge their lot in life. In it, they would fight in a great melee to try and gain a spot in one of the twelve War Academies. Those admitted would be considered knights-in-training and, seven years later, would be considered fully-fledged knights, the highest social class beneath the nobility.
As for the magic key, it would allow its bearer to enter the innermost area of the Secret Realm, a treasure trove for cultivators located in the southern deserts. If other conditions were met, that is. The bearer was also required to be a Paladin, a Warlock, and under 30 years of age.
During the more than five centuries when the Yao tribe had sole ownership of the place, no one was able to pass those requirements. Supposedly, Jon’s mother had been on track to achieve it before the subjugation of the desert tribes and following slavery of its citizens. The Secret Realm became La Louisiane and access to it was partitioned among the Four Northern Kingdoms.
Now, it fell on Jon’s shoulders to try and achieve what his mother’s ancestors were unable to, all the while having no support in terms of protection or cultivation resources. For a few peaceful years living at Rochdale’s castle, he had access to both thanks to earl Hagen and his wife Athalia. But Jon made sure to burn that bridge into the ground.
As useless as it was, even now, more than two years later, Jon still found himself thinking back to his decision from that time. All the people that he hurt were a constant presence in his mind.
And yet, not a single time did he wish he had done things differently. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe there really was something wrong with him.
Jon shook his head, the rattling of the old armor helping him focus on his current situation. The mule continued its slow pace through the lonesome road, uncaring about its rider’s actions.
He couldn’t lose track of his objective, especially not today.
The small dirt road eventually ended on a highway wide enough to fit three carriages side by side. Small weeds grew in between the limestone blocks that served as pavement.
Turning left would take Jon south, through the mountains and towards the city of Whitefalls. He had never visited the place, his only knowledge about it stemming from maps he had read sometime in the past.
The path to the right, instead, led to Alistown, the capital of the duchy and Jon’s destination. Two horses approached from that direction, dragging along a wooden cart. Its driver, a bulky man with salt and pepper hair, eyed Jon with suspicion.
Jon gave a nod of the head that went unreturned. As the cart passed by, he peeked inside and found it empty. That, coupled with a noticeable bulge under the cloak and by the man’s side led Jon to guess the man was a merchant returning home after selling out his goods.
Not an unusual sight, especially today that the city would be crowded due to the tourney. The unusual part was seeing such a merchant traveling alone, likely because he wanted to maximize profits by cheaping out on security. That greed would eventually lead to his death. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but certainly one day. Even near the capital, the roads were never completely safe, something Jon was all too familiar with.
His mother made sure to engrave everything she knew into his mind and bones. If not for her and her teachings, Jon would have either starved to death or been robbed and killed by bandits.
Instead, he survived by keeping to the countryside, avoiding major roads as much as possible, and never staying in the same place for too long. He hunted whenever his stomach demanded. What couldn’t be eaten was sold in any small village he passed by.
Eventually, he saved up enough to buy himself an old suit of armor along with a longsword. Made from regular steel, both were a far cry from his previous weapon and armor made of rippled steel, but they were the best he could afford. As for the old mule, he managed to buy it cheap due to its age as it only had one or two more years of work in it.
As Jon continued his travel, the road became more populated and well maintained. Every once in a while he’d pass by a roadside inn, with the stablishments getting ever more crowded the closer he got to the capital.
Finally, Alistown’s grey walls began to rise in the distance. As Jon approached, he was able to appreciate how imposing the whole structure was. The walls themselves were even taller than Rochdale’s, with the watchtowers reaching as high as skyscrapers.
Archers were posted at each one of the battlement’s crenels. A long line advanced at a steady pace through the main gate, with a squad of guards watching everyone passing through and questioning anyone suspicious.
Jon took a deep breath before bringing a hand to his leather pouch by the sword belt. Inside it was the missive that would allow him to take part in the tourney. Just like years ago when he sought refuge in Rochdale, his future rested on a single piece of paper.
*is secretly calling him Jon Snow in my mind*