The Darry host made camp in a meadow near the riverbank. As the sun bled into the horizon, campfires flickered to life, and the smell of roasting meat and woodsmoke drifted through the cool evening air.
But inside the command tent of Lord Raymun Darry, the air was thick enough to choke on.
Raymun sat on a simple camp stool, his face a mask of brooding silence. He was twenty-four, a man grown by any measure, yet surrounded by his bannermen—scarred veterans of the Rebellion—he looked like a boy wearing his father's armor.
The tent was a cacophony of shouting.
"We crawl like cripples!" a bearded knight bellowed, slamming a gauntleted fist into his palm. "We must force march! The war will be over before we wet our swords!"
"Aye!" another agreed, his plate armor clanking as he paced. "If we are late, the Trout and the Stag will take all the glory. We need heads to trade for honors!"
They argued over him, around him, and through him. To them, Raymun was just a placeholder. A remnant of a broken house.
Then, a voice cut through the din like a rusty saw.
"Honors? Honors?"
It was Ser Joseth, a man shaped like a wine barrel with a voice like a squealing pig. The tent fell silent as all eyes turned to him.
Joseth sneered, his chins wobbling. "House Darry stood on the wrong side of the Trident, my lords. We were Dragon men. We fought for the Mad King against King Robert."
He paused, letting the treasonous history hang in the air.
"Lord Raymun's three brothers died for Rhaegar. They died traitors." Joseth turned his piggy eyes on Raymun. "Now is the time to bleed for the Stag! Now is the time to wash the stain from our banners! Yet here we sit, while our Lord plays at caution!"
The silence in the tent turned dangerous.
Several of Raymun's loyal guards rested their hands on their hilts, their knuckles white. Their chests heaved, eyes locked on Raymun, waiting for the order to take the fat knight's head.
Joseth, oblivious to how close he was to death, laughed. A wet, ugly sound.
"And let us not forget the Lord's sisters! Married off to Freys! Which ones? The tenth son? The twentieth? Old Walder breeds like a rat in a granary!"
The insult to House Darry's blood was the final straw.
Ser Ronald of Fruitwood, the Master-at-Arms, stood up. He was a man of iron and oak, and his voice brokered no argument.
"Enough!" Ronald barked. "The council is ended. Go to your fires. We march at dawn."
He glared at Joseth until the fat knight muttered a curse and waddled out. The others followed, grumbling, leaving the Lord and his commander alone.
Ser Ronald turned to Raymun. The young lord hadn't moved. He stared at the dirt floor, lost in the dark maze of his own thoughts.
"My lord," Ronald said softly. "Pay no heed to the swine. He is a fool."
Raymun didn't answer.
Ronald stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "But he touches a truth, my lord. Hiding the dragon tapestries in the cellar of Darry Castle... sending gold across the Narrow Sea to the Beggar King and his sister... it is dangerous. We walk on a knife's edge."
He sighed. "We must fight in this war. We must bleed for Robert. It is the only way to hide our true hearts."
Raymun finally looked up. His eyes were haunted, old beyond his years.
"My brothers," Raymun murmured. "Damon was twenty-four when he died. My age. Desmond was twenty. Willem was eighteen. All dead in the water. And I... I have never drawn a sword in anger."
Ronald grimaced. He needed to distract the boy from his ghosts.
"My lord," Ronald said suddenly. "That beggar knight... Solomon of Reekfort. I checked his story."
Raymun blinked. "The scavenger?"
"Aye. He was at Seagard. He fought the Ironborn on the beach. His father and brothers died there. His two peasant guards... they are veterans of that slaughter."
A spark of interest lit in Raymun's dull eyes.
"He fought?" Raymun asked. "That boy? He is sixteen. He looks like a stable hand."
"And yet," Ronald said, "he survived where seasoned knights fell. He lost his kin, yet he marches back to the war with nothing but a rusty sword and two starving peasants."
Raymun leaned back. A sixteen-year-old boy who had seen war, lost everything, and still pushed forward. It was... intriguing. A dark mirror to his own sheltered, tragic life.
"Bring him to me," Raymun said. "I want to see this Lord of the Mire."
Outside, near the baggage train, Solomon was happily blowing on a bowl of hot brown water that pretended to be stew.
"Lord Solomon!"
A soldier trotted up, looking grave. "Ser Ronald summons you. Lord Raymun demands your presence in the command tent."
Clang.
Solomon dropped his spoon. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Oh no.
He knows.
He knows I've been stealing bread.
Panic flooded his system. He looked at the half-eaten loaf tucked into his tunic. He looked at the extra wheels of cheese Lushen had "liberated."
I'm going to be executed for petty theft, Solomon thought wildly. The great transmigrator, dead because he couldn't stop hoarding carbs.
"Lushen! Lauchlan!" Solomon hissed at his guards, who were happily chewing on mutton bones.
"Mmmph?" Lushen grunted, grease dripping down his chin.
"Eat!" Solomon whispered frantically. "Eat everything! Don't leave a crumb! Destroy the evidence!"
The guards didn't question him. An order was an order. They began to shovel food into their mouths with terrifying speed.
Solomon took a deep breath, smoothed his stained tunic, and prepared his defense.
I wasn't stealing! I was... preserving resources! It's a tactical reserve!
With a sense of impending doom, the Lord of Reekfort marched toward the command tent to meet his destiny.