The further the company marched down the slope, the smaller the Hog family's tower became—until only its pointed tip pierced the horizon.
Matthew stared at it for a moment, then sighed.
If Sow's Ridge hadn't been so miserably poor, he might not have left so soon.
But life offered no if onlys.
His recruitment quota was met. They had enough blades—and bodies—to protect themselves.
Staying longer would only tilt the balance of risk and reward against him.
Especially since the BJ mercenaries still lacked proper armor.
Quirie had failed to produce anything usable; the forge now lay dormant. They'd just have to travel to Harrenhal and bargain for real smithing work there.
That was how he'd guarantee battle readiness.
Still, deep down, Matthew hoped Ser Roger would continue supporting Quirie, pushing him to master the craft.
If that old man succeeded in forging real plate, he'd turn from nuisance to walking goldmine—a strategic asset.
Armor meant saving gold, saving risk, saving lives. Above all, it meant choice.
A wise commander never lived with only one option.
A rabbit should have three dens, after all.
And if the Hog family proved useless… well, he'd come back later and decide what kind of "attitude" they deserved.
The day grew warmer.
The carts creaked along the dirt road, wheels wobbling in shallow ruts.
Behind them, the squad shuffled lazily, their shadows stretching into the sunlight like drifting smoke.
It could have passed for a casual spring outing, if not for the weapons slung at their backs.
Matthew rested his eyes for a while, but the steady bumping soon grew unbearable. The road was turning rough—wide at first, then narrow, littered with deep pits.
He jumped off before the cart could rattle his spine in two.
The northern mercenaries, however, were unwilling to sacrifice comfort.
They clung to their seats, bouncing violently over every stone, cursing between laughter while their teeth clacked like dice.
Their howls echoed down the hills, each followed by barked laughter from the rear guard.
Haven, bringing up the tail, watched with amusement. He and his men were still laughing as they disappeared around a turn.
Up on the ridge behind them, Morty stood motionless, watching the procession vanish, a bitter twist tugging at his lips.
He turned away in silence.
He had made his choice. It was the right one.
---
Beyond the slope spread open pasture and sky.
When they reached the plains, Matthew breathed in deeply—the air here felt different. Wild. Clean. Free.
It was the first time in weeks he'd smiled without politeness.
The scent of grass and earth stirred something fierce inside him. This—this was where a hunter belonged.
For a while, he scanned the horizon, thinking ahead.
The next destination needed to serve several purposes—a place to rest, to train, to test.
Nothing in sight quite fit.
They kept walking as the sun slid westward, turning gold into amber.
At last, when the skyline smoldered with red dusk, a forest appeared ahead.
Matthew's eyes lit up instantly.
Perfect timing. Hungry men, a place to hide, and enough wood to keep warm—almost as if the gods planned it.
"Pick up the pace," he called out. "We'll rest in the trees up ahead!"
Sir Haven echoed the command: "You heard the lord! Move it! Rest's only a short march away!"
The effect was magic.
The daylong trudge had left them half‑dead. The malnourished peasants looked ready to collapse, and even the mercenaries staggered under their gear. But the promise of rest sparked their legs back to life.
They gritted their teeth and pushed harder, desperate to reach the campsite first.
Soon they overtook the lead wagon.
The five northerners still lounging at the back of it cheered them on with mocking applause, forming horns with their hands and jeering like drunkards at a joust.
The tired men heard every word—but none dared talk back. They were only recruits.
Matthew saw it all and said nothing.
Let the tension build. They needed rough edges.
A soldier who couldn't endure ridicule would crumble long before the enemy's blade touched his throat.
Still, he wasn't about to let the northerners get too comfortable. An idea sparked behind his calm eyes.
Tonight, there would be a "contest."
Whoever won could ride the wagons tomorrow; the losers would walk.
That would settle the matter quickly enough.
He rubbed his hands with a sly grin.
If those overconfident northerners lost, the humiliation alone would be worth the trouble—and a little rivalry never hurt morale.
By the time the caravan reached the forest edge, the first arrivals were already sprawled beneath the trees.
Matthew didn't disturb them.
He grabbed Bors's axe and vanished into the woods.
The front of the forest was thin—wide gaps between trees filled with tangled bush and thorn.
He worked fast, hacking a path, scanning the terrain.
A few minutes later, he found the spot: a clearing, level ground, and enough space to hide a dozen men.
Perfect for a small encampment.
After felling a couple of young trees, he started clearing brush. It didn't take long before the sounds drew company—first Bors, then Haven, then the five northerners, huffing as they grabbed tools and joined in.
Only Miro was missing.
Matthew frowned. Adding that to his record. There would be a reckoning later.
As the sound of chopping filled the air, curiosity spread among those resting outside.
One by one, they rose to join the work—no one wanted to be the one sitting idle while the lord labored.
Before long, even Miro showed up, grim‑faced but dragging along his four farmers to pull weeds and clear vines.
Matthew's satisfaction was quiet but sincere.
Whatever their motives, shared labor bred unity.
But he wouldn't let that replace discipline.
His plan for competition remained unchanged.
Within an hour, the passage for the wagons was fully cleared—ten meters wide and smooth enough for the horses' hooves.
Bors and Haven immediately went to fetch the animals, guiding them forward through alternating turns until both carts fit snugly within the clearing.
Following Matthew's orders, they positioned the wagons at opposite ends of the open patch, sealing off the largest gaps between trees—a natural barrier against ambush.
Matthew clapped his hands, admiring the result. "Good. This'll do."
Then he set back to work trimming brambles.
By nightfall, six small fires burned from dug‑out pits around the camp, their flames forming a glowing triangle that lit the clearing.
Outside that triangle, Haven and Miro sat with their subordinates. Inside, Matthew and the twenty best‑ranked men occupied the center, roasting rabbit and wild boar.
The smell spurred hunger from every corner.
But Matthew spoke slowly, deliberately, over the crackle of the fire.
"I know why you joined me," he said, voice firm. "And because you're here, I'll treat you as my own. But if you're part of this company, you follow rules."
He lifted the cooked rabbit, turning it so the juices glistened in the firelight.
Then he walked a slow circle, letting the aroma drift through the clearing before taking a bite.
The sound of tearing meat filled the silence.
"Rule one," he said simply, wiping his chin. "Eat well only if you work hard. Just like pay—you want better, you earn better. Reach the top thirty percent in our tests, and you'll eat like this."
His eyes swept the hungry faces.
"Now… eat."
The twenty men inside the inner circle pounced on the platters like wolves, devouring the food in moments.
Only when they were done were the scraps passed beyond the circle—to those outside, who waited like dogs at a butcher's stall.
Haven accepted his own rabbit silently, expression tight but controlled.
Miro, on the other hand, nearly choked on envy.
In the end, all he got was a half‑gnawed pig's foot that Fishy had grown tired of.
The message was clear.
Even his four farmers looked uneasy, stealing glances at him—wondering if following this man was really worth it.
But before frustration could fester, their attention turned back to the center.
Matthew had stood again, brushing off his hands.
He drew a rough circle in the dirt.
"Now," he said, voice heavy as iron, "for your second rule."
The flames threw long shadows as the men leaned in.
"Every night, there will be sparring matches. You'll fight. You'll bleed. The top three each evening earn the right to ride the carts. They'll serve as temporary squad leaders."
He looked up at the rows of faces staring at him—hungry, desperate, alive.
"That's how we'll grow stronger. Competition makes iron from mud—and I will have iron."
The fire roared higher, painting his face in gold and shadow.
And for the first time, the recruits felt it for real:
the weight of command, the shape of order, and the first spark of something like an army.
---