Game of Thrones: My Weekend Trips to Earth Chapter 61 61

Early September, Year 297 Aegon's Calendar.

The towering "Gods Gate" of King's Landing slowly opened in the morning light.

A massive, motley caravan—resembling a long, slowly writhing dragon—set out northward along the Kingsroad.

At the very front rode nearly a hundred mbers of House Jaqenion's guard, mounted on packhorses or ordinary riding steeds. They wore matching gray-green uniforms, swords at their waists and spears in hand. Their armor was incomplete, but their formation was relatively orderly and their spirits high as they guided the column and maintained order at the head.

Flanking Luke on his tall warhorse were Bronn on one side and the newly joined Braavosi, Syrio Forel, on the other.

Two days before departure, Luke had received an unexpected delight: a man nad Syrio Forel had co seeking service, claiming he had once been First Sword to the Sea Lord of Braavos.

Luke had Bronn spar with him. Bronn was defeated.

Luke imdiately confird—this was indeed the legendary chief swordmaster of Braavos!

In the original story the man was loyal and righteous, willing to lay down his life to buy ti for "Arya." He possessed the true spirit of a knight-errant.

This was exactly the kind of man Luke most wanted to recruit. He offered on the spot: "Be my personal guard. Two gold dragons a day, with food and lodging included!"

Bronn still wore his usual lazy-yet-lethal expression, but the occasional glance he shot toward Syrio carried a trace of barely noticeable scrutiny… and perhaps a hint of jealousy?

Syrio stood tall and moved with light steps, a slender Braavosi "water dancer" blade hanging at his waist. A calm smile graced his face, as though he were on an elegant stroll rather than a long and arduous journey.

The main body of the caravan consisted of a vast tide of common folk—n, won, the elderly, and children—traveling with their families. They pushed crude handcarts or carried all their worldly possessions on shoulder poles.

Their clothes were ragged, their faces gaunt, yet most eyes shone with the light of hope.

The promise of full als, copper coins, and new land from Baron Jaqenion was their only chance to escape the slums and hunger of King's Landing.

The final number far exceeded the original plan of one thousand. Nearly sixteen hundred refugees, bankrupt artisans, and their families had registered and set out.

Arthur's recruitnt propaganda and the generous terms Luke offered had proven far too attractive.

To protect this huge yet fragile column, Luke had spent a small fortune hiring three mid-sized rcenary companies of decent reputation, totaling over three hundred n.

Their equipnt was a mismatched assortnt and their discipline far from strict, but years of living by the sword made them more than capable of dealing with ordinary bandits and outlaws.

They spread out along the flanks and rear like shepherd dogs, driving away any threats that dared approach.

In the middle of the column stretched a long baggage train loaded with grain, seed, and tools purchased in King's Landing.

Heavy wheels rumbled dully over the Kingsroad's age-worn flagstones.

The entire caravan moved at a painfully slow pace.

The civilians' stamina varied wildly; children and the elderly needed constant care, and the column had to stop frequently for bathroom breaks, water, and other necessities.

According to Arthur's estimate, even if everything went smoothly, it would take at least twenty days to reach White Stone Town beside the God's Eye Lake.

Luke sat straight-backed on his horse, eyes sweeping across the winding column and the gradually changing scenery ahead.

His mood was not light, yet he felt no excessive anxiety.

Beside him, Steward Arthur also rode a horse, modern hardcover notebook and ballpoint pen in hand, jotting notes from ti to ti with a slight frown.

"My lord," Arthur urged his mount closer and lowered his voice, worry clear in his tone.

"The number of people we recruited far exceeds our original plan. While we avoided the suspicion of mass 'recruiting' from King's Landing, our consumption has skyrocketed. Even with possible resupply along the way, the food we prepared may not be enough to get everyone to White Stone Town. Traveling with so many civilians slows us down, yet our daily consumption keeps rising. This journey carries considerable risk."

Luke's lips curved into a faint, unconcerned smile.

He turned his head and said softly to Arthur, "Relax, Arthur. My journey is among the stars and the sea. These little difficulties an nothing."

Short on food?

Impossible.

One of his greatest trump cards was the incredibly abundant modern world behind him.

Supporting sixteen hundred people for twenty days—or even feeding them for ten or eight years—was nothing more than a drop in the bucket for Luke, who held hundreds of millions of dollars in cash and could procure supplies globally.

Each ti he added attribute points, his personal storage space expanded. The "side length" increased by the sa number of ters as the free points gained. The space was now enormous… and currently packed with every kind of supply.

When necessary, he could simply draw what he needed from the "mysterious space."

The so-called "food shortage" was rely the public story and the kind of "normal" problem Arthur and the others needed to worry about.

Still, Arthur's words reminded him of sothing else.

Food… war…

News of Jon Arryn's "illness and death" would likely spread soon. Then Robert would head north to invite Eddard Stark to beco Hand, the direwolf would march south, conspiracies would erupt, and the War of the Five Kings would begin.

Once war broke out, grain prices across the Seven Kingdoms would skyrocket and famine would follow.

That would be a disaster—but also a… trendous opportunity.

A sharp light flashed in Luke's eyes.

He had no desire to profiteer from national calamity or suck the blood of ordinary people.

But controlling grain ant creating trouble for potential enemies while accumulating the most vital strategic resource and popular support.

"Arthur," Luke suddenly asked, "what do you think would happen if, once we've secured our foothold in the Riverlands, we quietly begin buying up grain and stockpiling it?"

Arthur was startled, then his expression changed slightly. "My lord, you an… speculating on grain prices? War is only rumor so far, and large-scale hoarding would attract attention and tie up a lot of capital."

"Not purely speculation," Luke shook his head, gaze deepening.

"War will co sooner or later. When it does, what will those black-hearted grain rchants do? Hoard and drive up prices, forcing ordinary folk to trade their last possessions for a single al. But if we hold enough grain and, at the critical mont, sell it at prices below market value—or even offer conditional relief to those truly in need?"

"Grain must remain in the hands of civilized n!"

Arthur drew a sharp breath. His eyes toward Luke filled with shock.

He instantly understood his master's intention.

This was not rely about profit—it was about winning hearts, accumulating prestige, and even securing a weapon sharper than any sword in the coming chaos: the necessity of survival!

Selling grain cheaply would win the allegiance of the lower classes far more effectively than any rousing speech.

"My lord… if this succeeds, you will surely win the people's hearts! But… where will we get so much grain? Acquiring it will take ti, channels, and we must avoid the eyes of the other great houses." Arthur sounded both excited and concerned.

Luke smiled mysteriously. "I have my own ways to source the grain. You only need to start scouting grain-trading channels in the Riverlands, the Vale, and the edges of the Westerlands. Find reliable, tight-lipped agents. Money is not an issue. Rember—keep it low-key and dispersed."

What he was planning had already gone far beyond Westeros. On Blue Star he could go to the great grain-exporting nations—Arica, Canada, Australia, Ukraine, Brazil—through commodity exchanges or direct deals with large farm owners and grain traders. With his current wealth, purchasing hundreds of thousands or even millions of tons was entirely feasible.

True international bulk grain trade was asured in tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, or even millions of tons.

Bringing those supplies into Westeros through "legitimate" channels would make them a vital chess piece for shaping the future situation.

Crushing black-hearted grain rchants was rely a side benefit.

What he wanted was the image of a savior rising amid famine, and absolute control over a critical strategic resource.

At that thought, the faint smile on Luke's lips appeared, to Arthur's eyes, both devilishly charming and unfathomably deep.

The journey continued, slow and filled with uncertainty.

The caravan passed the infamous "Sow's Horn."

The terrain here was complex and heavily forested—a traditional haunt of bandits and deserters.

Perhaps because of the caravan's sheer size and visible ard escort, although many watchful eyes were felt along the way, no large-scale attacks occurred.

At a fork in the Kingsroad the column turned west, leaving the relatively flat main highway and entering the hilly mountain paths leading toward the God's Eye.

The road grew narrow and rugged, slowing carts and horses even further.

Dense woods and rolling hills provided perfect ambush terrain.

Sure enough, once they left Sow's Horn and entered more remote areas, small bands of robbers began appearing like flies drawn to blood.

They followed at a distance, testing.

But upon seeing the several hundred battle-hardened, variously equipped rcenaries and the hundred young but already disciplined Jaqenion guards, most chose to withdraw.

The "Jaqenion" banner also provided a degree of deterrence.

Attacking a noble's caravan carried far harsher consequences than robbing rchants.

Yet greed blinded so.

Almost every highborn in the Seven Kingdoms knew that the "magic rchant" Luke Jaqenion was richer than kings, and his caravan must be loaded with gold dragons and treasures.

Rumor even exaggerated that the shit he shat was the sa as Lord Tywin Lannister's—pure gold dragons!

Danger crept in at night while they camped.

So bold and cunning bandits disguised themselves as lone refugees or used the darkness to slip into the vast civilian camp.

Their initial targets were the relatively wealthy craftsn or families carrying valuables, hoping to create chaos and panic.

In the confusion, a small elite group would strike straight for the most luxurious and heavily guarded tent at the center of camp… Luke's tent.

Unfortunately for them, they had underestimated the defenses around Luke.

Bronn's rcenary instincts and Syrio's graceful yet lethal water-dancing swordsmanship worked in perfect harmony in the dark.

The would-be attackers never even clearly saw their opponents before being silently cut down.

Once his spiritual sense confird every intruder had been neutralized, Luke quietly put away the internet-famous handgun—the sa model as "John Wick's" Tactical Master 2011.

Inside the tent, Luke watched with interest as Emma and Annie—and even Michelle, who had sneaked in with a blushing yet curious face—played the card ga he had brought from Blue Star. He seed completely unaware of the bloody events outside, save for the cold smile at the corner of his mouth that showed he knew exactly what was happening.

In the latter half of the night the commotion died down.

Bronn approached the tent, carrying a faint scent of blood, and reported.

"My lord, it's cleaned up. Twenty-seven rats got in. Our side: one guard kid seriously wounded, three lightly wounded—nothing serious. The rcenaries lost eight dead and over a dozen injured. Among the civilians, nine dead and twenty-odd wounded, mostly trampled or casually cut down in the chaos."

Luke set down his cards—he had just taught them to play "Fight the Landlord."

He nodded calmly. "Understood. Reward those who perford well according to the rules. Double the death benefits for the fallen rcenaries and charge it to our extra expenses. Have the maester's apprentice treat the wounded civilians with everything he has. Every civilian family that suffered casualties gets five hundred copper coins as consolation. Announce it publicly first thing tomorrow morning."

"Yes," Bronn replied, then added after a pause, "These bastards were pretty professional. Not ordinary mountain bandits. A few had old scars—looked like they'd been soldiers."

Luke's eyes narrowed slightly. "Noted. Increase vigilance. We've barely left the Crownlands… the security in this damned place really is rotten."

The caravan continued under an atmosphere of tension and faint panic.

Luke's decisive rewards and the distribution of consolation money helped stabilize morale sowhat, but also made everyone more acutely aware of the journey's dangers.

Two days later, in a valley amid the forested hills, they encountered another band of roadblockers.

These n called themselves "free folk," but were in truth outlaws who refused lordly rule and road the wilds.

They held the high ground and shouted demands for tolls; otherwise they would not let the column pass.

This ti, the scouts sent ahead by the rcenaries spotted them before any chaos could begin.

Luke did not hesitate. He ordered the rcenaries to attack proactively.

A short but fierce battle erupted among the trees.

The wildlings were fierce, but their equipnt and training were no match for the experienced rcenaries. After leaving dozens of corpses behind, they scattered and fled into the deep mountains.

The caravan paid the price of one more rcenary dead and several wounded before forcing its way through the area.

Luke sat on his horse, watching the road being swiftly cleared and the flock of birds startled into flight in the distance. He gained a more visceral understanding of the chaos and danger of the Westerosi world.

Without strong military force and tight organization, even reaching the destination safely was a luxury, let alone developing the fief.

"Speed up! Tell everyone to hold on. Only when we reach White Stone Town will we have true peace and stability!"

Luke's loud command echoed through the exhausted column, offering a faint spark of encouragent.

The long caravan, like a wounded yet resilient python, continued its difficult but determined crawl toward the shores of the God's Eye—toward the unknown land that awaited construction.

Blood and sweat had already begun to water the first soil of House Jaqenion in the Riverlands.