By the time little Fishy ran back to the tower, he still hadn't realized he'd been duped.
He scrambled up to the fourth floor, lungs burning, and shouted at the top of his voice—his young, piercing cry echoing down the hall.
"Wake up! Wake up! Something's wrong!"
The entire floor was silent except for two rooms—Bors's and Matthew's—both heavy with sleep.
The boy's sharp voice collided head‑on with the deep rumbling snores until, finally, Bors stirred.
Rubbing drool from his mouth, he dragged himself to his feet and opened the door a crack.
"What's the matter, kid?" His voice was sluggish, thick with sleep.
Fishy whipped around. "It's bad! I saw someone spying on Sir Haven and the others!"
He rushed forward and clutched Bors's hand, tugging hard.
Bors yawned. His brain hadn't caught up yet. "You… what?"
So Fishy cupped his hands around the man's ear and yelled for good measure, "Someone was spying on Sir Haven!"
The shock made Bors twitch, his face scrunching up painfully. "I heard you! Did they catch him?"
The boy's excitement dimmed; he shook his head, crestfallen.
Bors straightened, rubbed his eyes clear, and glanced at Matthew's door. A spark of alertness replaced the laziness. "Let's go. We'll wake the lord."
Fishy nodded eagerly and sprinted ahead, calling out as he ran.
"Matthew! Lord Matthew! Wake up!"
Behind the door, the sleeping man's brow twitched.
A few heartbeats later, his eyes snapped open.
He lay still for a moment, listening as the third pounding came. Then he swung his legs off the bed, reached for a fresh tunic, and buckled his sword belt.
"What's the situation?" he called as he opened the door.
Fishy didn't hesitate. "There was someone spying on Sir Haven's training! Right, Bors?"
The big man finished for him. "My lord, someone was watching the selection contest. Quick on their feet too—knows Mother Sow's Ridge well."
Matthew stepped into the light, standing straight, eyes bloodshot but gaze unwavering.
"I see," he said simply.
Despite his dried lips and heavy fatigue, calm authority radiated from him. No weakness, no hesitation.
Whatever exhaustion lived in his bones—he'd never show it to his men.
That, in his mind, was the first rule of command.
He moved forward with quiet strength, his presence sharp and magnetic.
For the first time, he could feel what true responsibility meant.
This was his company now—his people, his future.
And from here on, he'd make them believe in his name.
He lifted his head high, posture flawless.
Bors immediately mirrored him, straightening up, squaring his broad shoulders.
Fishy followed behind, small legs scurrying to keep up.
But after a few steps, Matthew stopped and turned.
"Fishy. Stay here. Guard the rooms. If anyone comes who's not one of ours," his eyes darkened, "don't open the door."
The boy hesitated, clearly wanting to go along—but Matthew's tone left no room for argument. He nodded, setting his jaw, and watched them leave.
From the tower to the training grounds was a short downhill walk.
Moments later, Matthew reached the field where the grass still showed signs of trampling. Dozens of recruits stood nearby, uneasy.
He strode straight to Haven. "And you saw nothing?"
The knight blinked, startled.
He's scolding me—now?
The glare in Matthew's eyes carried more weight than any shouted insult. It pressed down on Haven until he nearly forgot how to breathe.
"There's deep grass here… visibility's poor…" he muttered weakly.
"That's not an excuse."
Matthew's hand rested on his sword hilt, his expression cold enough to cut. The whole clearing fell silent.
The new recruits stared, transfixed.
In less than a day, they had come to know two versions of their lord—the generous one who bought them dinner, and this one: austere, commanding, noble without effort.
The black hair brushing his shoulders gleamed faintly in the morning sun. His clothes were clean; his sword, polished.
In that moment, even the most jaded mercenary thought the same thing.
This isn't just a sellsword captain. He looks like a born commander.
Some saw ambition. Some saw intellect. Others saw quiet, stubborn faith.
But all saw power.
Even Haven felt a strange awe creep through him. The tone was the same as always, but there was something new—something sharp.
Maybe the boy had always hidden it before.
The knight bowed lower, his pride dissolving. "You're right, my lord. I should have anticipated it. My mistake."
Matthew gave a single approving nod, then crouched to inspect the faint signs in the grass—the split stalks, the boot prints, the sudden gap in the trail.
Someone had been there. And they'd moved like a ghost.
Danger, he thought. Immediate and real.
But from which hand? The Spider's network? The Haverfield family, perhaps? Too many names, too many enemies.
Whatever the answer, one truth was clear: the Hog family's tower was no longer safe.
In Westeros, trust was the one thing that killed men fastest.
Matthew would stake his fate on caution, not faith.
After a long silence, he rose and said evenly, "How goes the selection?"
Haven hesitated. "Nearly finished."
"Good. When you're done, ask for volunteers willing to go north. Then we leave Sow's Ridge today. No delays. I won't risk the local lord's trouble following us."
His words rippled through the crowd like a spark in dry grass.
Leave? Already? Many whispered, confused—weren't they safer in the tower?
But there was steel in his calmness, something that choked argument before it formed.
Haven frowned, voice low. "Is it… that serious?"
Matthew's fingers tapped idly on the pommel of his sword as a faint smile crossed his lips. "Who can say? We've executed enough 'Little Birds' to earn the Spider's attention. And the Haverfield spies might still be sniffing around. Some threats you can't bar with doors."
Haven's expression tightened; then with a soldier's instinct, he slammed a fist to his chest. "Understood. I'll finish quickly."
Matthew nodded and turned to Bors.
"Go to the tavern," he said. "Fetch Morty and Miro. Pack everything we need onto the wagons. Tell Morty his work here is done—he's free to go."
Bors paused a moment, eyes flashing surprise, but didn't question. "At once, my lord."
He took off at a run, heavy footsteps thudding solidly across the grass, boots eating the ground like a plowshare cutting soil.
By the time he reached the tavern, he'd barely broken a sweat.
He shoved the door open. Inside, chatter stilled; faces turned.
At one table sat Miro and Morty.
"Lord's orders," Bors said, loud and direct. "We're leaving. Now."
Morty shot to his feet immediately. "Finally," he muttered, grabbing his bag and heading for the door without another word.
Miro, however, stayed seated, raising an eyebrow. "And the recruits I'm finding? What about them?"
Across the room, four nervous men—thin, sunburned farmers—stiffened and looked to Bors for guidance.
The blacksmith studied them for a second, conflicted. "I don't know. Go to the riverbank. Ask the lord yourself."
With that, he turned to follow Morty out the door.
Miro slammed his palm against the table in frustration, then sighed and drained his cup.
But his four would‑be recruits were panicking. "What should we do, sir?"
He grumbled but couldn't quite bring himself to yell at their worried faces. "Fine, fine. Come along. I'll bring you to him myself."
He tossed coins onto the counter.
The tavern keeper accepted them with a bow, smiling nervously. "Will the lord not be coming back, then?"
Miro chuckled. "Who knows? Maybe we will, maybe we won't."
With that, he waved for his followers to stay close and led them out toward the river.
---
By then, Matthew sat calmly atop a wide stone near the water's edge.
Five of the younger mercenaries stood around him, keeping a loose circle. Beyond them, sixteen of the new arrivals waited, messy but eager, clutching their pay of silver stags as if holding treasure.
Further upslope, nearly forty more poor fighters were still haggling with Haven over pay and rank.
Miro arrived with his four farmers, slightly breathless.
"My lord," he called respectfully. "Why the sudden withdrawal? What of the new recruits?"
Matthew opened his eyes and looked through him, gaze landing instead on the four men behind.
Worn clothes. Calloused hands. Desperation. Farmers turned wanderers.
"Someone's been watching us," he said simply. "That's warning enough. Take your new men. Either keep them under your command or hand them to Sir Haven. Your choice."
For an old hand, those words meant everything.
Miro's doubt melted into relief. "Understood! I'll take them myself, keep them working."
Matthew nodded, satisfied. The man's ambition made him useful—for now.
And with that, the decision was sealed.
They would leave Sow's Ridge before nightfall.
The first true movement of Matthew's fledgling force—
from rumor to reality, from safety to risk—
and not one of them yet realized just how far their march would carry them.
---