I'll continue rewriting the Game of Thrones fan fiction chapter with improved English while maintaining the original style and tone:
Soon, Jon Snow set his sights on the town of Saltpans, just over 180 kilometers from his current location at Harrenhal.
It was less than three days' ride from here—possibly shortened to two if he didn't worry about the horse's condition. In such a brief timespan, even players rushing to meeting points might not have found each other yet.
In other words, under ideal circumstances, he might even secure the first kill.
Even if he couldn't, successfully hunting down a player within the next two months would earn him 4 points—enough to free him from the assassination mechanism's threat for a considerable time.
There was still a problem. While other professions might not find their starting equipment easily identifiable, traveling merchants certainly would. They'd likely sell some assets or buy additional mules and horses, perhaps even hire servants or farmers to help.
In such cases, how could he identify them?
After contemplating this, Jon found the answer—their starting capital of 100 gold dragons remained unchanged.
Jon had studied this carefully during character creation and clearly remembered that previous option selections had minimal impact on starting capital.
In other words, even if a traveling merchant maximized their initial funds during character creation, they wouldn't exceed 110 gold dragons. With this capital, to earn 1,000 gold dragons or more within two months, they would need to invest heavily.
"When I reach Saltpans, I'll discover the local salt price. The foreman likely receives kickbacks too, so I'll learn those proportions. Based on these factors, I can calculate merchant players' purchase volumes and target those suspected of being players based on their shipping quantities," Jon perfected his plan.
Without further delay, he gathered all his equipment on the table.
He planned to sell everything including his horse, then buy a machete and an old draft horse to disguise himself as an ordinary caravan guard heading to Saltpans.
Caravan guard was actually one of the starting professions players could choose, but due to poor equipment, weak attributes, and lack of money, Jon had categorized it as T3 tier.
Moreover, caravan guards typically started with short swords and leather armor—Jon would pay attention to these details.
With a traveling merchant's pitiful strength, as long as he approached without raising suspicion, he could capture them easily.
The advantage was his!
Jon began estimating his equipment's value.
A complete set of armor might sell for about 500 silver stags, and a longsword for more than 200 silver stags.
As for his horse still tied in the inn yard—according to memories from his background story—it was a 5-year-old tame riverlands horse in its prime, worth at least 750 silver stags.
Altogether, more than 1,300 silver stags.
After completing his valuation, Jon packed his equipment, opened the door and left.
On the first floor, he asked the innkeeper's wife about Harrenhal's blacksmith, paid 10 copper pennies for lodging, then retrieved his horse from the stable and departed.
At the inn's entrance, Jon paused.
Less than half a meter before him stood an incredibly thick stone wall. Moss-covered and riddled with dense cracks, it appeared weathered by time.
Taking two steps forward, Jon glimpsed through these gaps to the other side.
It revealed a completely abandoned hall, its ceiling long collapsed, filled with rubble and garbage. Dust-covered banners hung on walls, their coat of arms indiscernible, silently telling tales of distant history.
The gloomy environment and stench emanating from the cracks made Jon's heart race. Not lingering, he withdrew his gaze and walked quickly toward the alley's exit.
As he turned a corner, a sudden northern gust blew, carrying a strange cry through the air.
Though Jon knew this was merely wind passing through the Howling Tower's cracks, he still felt unnerved and quickened his pace, transitioning from a walk to a trot.
Human footsteps and hoofbeats echoed through the narrow alley, forming an eerie harmony with the howling air.
After passing several deserted streets strewn with rubble, Jon finally reached the square housing the blacksmith's shop.
"What terrible luck! Sell the equipment quickly and flee this hellish place," he muttered, tying his horse to the wooden stake outside before entering.
The smithy was quiet, occupied by just one old blacksmith and two young apprentices.
The blacksmith was short but strong, with graying brown hair. As Jon entered, he had just finished hammering an iron sword, skillfully pulling it from the forge and plunging it into a nearby water bucket for quenching.
The red-hot blade submerged with a sizzling sound, releasing wisps of white steam.
"Young man, need something?" The old smith noticed Jon's arrival and asked.
Jon scanned the room, quickly ruling out the possibility of other players being present.
First, he'd inquired about this blacksmith from the innkeeper's wife. According to the setting where player characters appeared out of nowhere, this lifelong resident of Harrenhal was certainly a native NPC.
Then there were the two apprentices, barely into their teens—obviously below the minimum age option.
Jon sighed with relief, opened his pack and removed his sword and complete set of chain armor.
"Sir, I wish to sell this equipment," Jon placed the items on the table.
Blacksmith Eton glanced at Jon suspiciously, then carefully inspected the gear. There were no cracks, and surface wear was minimal. After re-polishing, they'd fetch a good price.
"But..." Eton looked at Jon again, confused, "You're a knight, aren't you? So young too—why would you sell your equipment?"
Jon was indeed young—precisely, too young.
During character creation, Jon had discovered age had no impact on stats, so he'd lowered his age to the minimum limit of 16 years.
In the blacksmith's opinion, a knight this age should have a bright future. He couldn't understand why Jon wished to sell his gear.
Because I took an arrow to the knee? Jon thought humorously, but displayed only a wry smile as he improvised: "I've had enough of hedge knight life. People say we're just the flip side of robber knights. There's no honor in it, and I don't wish to continue living this way."