The rain had stopped, but the field remained wet.
The kind of dampness that never truly leaves. It clung to boots, cloaks, the ropes of the tents, as if it wanted to remind the men that nothing there was dry, clean, or safe.
Dawn had arrived pale, almost reluctant.
The sky was a strip of colorless gray, and the low clouds seemed too heavy to move.
Rowan watched it all from the entrance of his tent.
The camp awoke like a sick animal.
Men moved from one side to the other, avoiding each other's eyes. Some carried spears, others tightened straps, others simply stood still, hands buried in their sleeves, waiting for orders the way condemned men wait for the executioner.
War always had this moment.
Before the shout.
Before the steel.
Before the blood.
The silence was the worst.
Inside the tent, his men were gathered around a weak lantern. The flame trembled, too small to push away the cold.
Hobb was the first to speak.
— They say the reinforcements arrived.
Rowan did not answer right away.
He was sharpening his sword with a smooth stone, slowly, as if the motion could organize his thoughts.
— They say many things, he murmured.
Pell let out a short, humorless laugh.
— They say Marrick has mercenaries. They say they eat men's flesh. They say they pull teeth from the dead to sell in the south.
— And they say this war is useless, Joryn added.
The word hung in the air.
Useless.
Like a bad smell.
Rowan lifted his gaze.
— Who says?
Joryn shrugged.
— Everyone. Anyone with a mouth and fear.
Hobb leaned forward.
— It's not fear. Not only.
Rowan saw the tension in his jaw. Hobb was older than the others, already carried scars that didn't come from training.
— Then what is it? Rowan asked.
Hobb hesitated.
— It's… exhaustion.
Pell frowned.
— Exhaustion?
— Exhaustion from dying for other people's names.
Silence.
The lantern crackled.
Outside, someone shouted an order no one seemed to understand.
Rowan set the stone aside.
— We're not dying for names. We're dying because Marrick marches against us.
— Marrick marches because your lady said no, Joryn replied, too quickly.
Pell shifted uncomfortably.
Hobb looked down.
Rowan felt something harden inside him.
— Watch what you say.
Joryn held his gaze.
— It's the truth.
Rowan opened his mouth to answer, but Pell spoke first.
— Truth doesn't stop a blade.
Joryn exhaled sharply.
— No. But at least it explains why it comes.
Hobb rubbed his face.
— I saw a man last night praying.
Rowan looked at him.
— Who?
— A boy. Barely had a beard. He prayed not to die. Not to win. Not for glory. Just… not to die.
Pell swallowed hard.
— And did God answer?
Hobb gave a crooked smile.
— God never answers quickly.
Rowan was about to speak when a shadow appeared at the tent entrance.
A soldier.
Soaked in mud up to his knees, breathing hard.
— Ser Rowan.
Rowan stood.
— What is it?
The man hesitated, as if he didn't know whether the news was good or bad.
— The reinforcements have arrived.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Pell let out a breath.
— Thanks be to the gods.
Rowan didn't move.
— How many?
The soldier looked away.
— Not many.
Joryn laughed, bitter.
— Of course.
Rowan stepped outside.
The camp looked different with new men in it. Not safer. Just… fuller.
The reinforcements were gathered near the makeshift palisade.
City guards.
Rowan recognized them by the way they held their spears — too firmly, as if afraid to let go. Simple armor, untouched by campaign wear. Some still carried the scent of the city, of dry stone and narrow streets.
A short captain was speaking with Ser Garron Thorne.
Garron was as always: still, rigid, the kind of man who seemed forged from iron long before he ever wore a cuirass.
Rowan approached in time to hear—
— …it was all we could send, Ser, the captain was saying. Greywatch cannot empty its walls.
Garron showed no surprise.
— How many?
— Two hundred and twenty. And even that is too much, according to the lord.
One of the guards coughed.
Another avoided looking toward the open field.
Garron nodded slowly.
— Two hundred.
It was almost nothing.
The captain cleared his throat.
— They say it was at the request… of Varynhold's daughter.
Garron lifted his eyes.
— Lady Maelyra.
It wasn't a question.
The captain only nodded.
Rowan felt something strange at that.
The war had begun because of her.
And now men were coming to die… because of her as well.
Garron turned.
His eyes swept over the camp as if counting future corpses.
— This is what could come now, he said, more to himself than to anyone else. The rest will come too late.
The captain bowed slightly.
— Then we are outnumbered.
— We are always outnumbered, Garron replied. The difference is that today we know it.
He called a man over with a gesture.
— Run. I want the squad leaders in my tent. Now.
The soldier sprinted off.
Rowan remained there, waiting.
Garron looked at him.
— Rowan.
— Ser.
— Are your men steady?
Rowan thought of Hobb. Thought of the praying boy. Thought of useless war.
— Steady enough.
Garron made a sound that might have been a laugh, if he were the kind of man who laughed.
— There is no enough. There is only the moment before breaking.
Rowan said nothing.
Garron continued, voice low.
— Marrick will strike first.
— Because he has more men.
— Because mercenaries like quick blood.
Rowan watched the field.
The fog still covered the valley.
— And that can be used.
Garron nodded.
— Yes.
He stepped closer.
— Men who attack first believe the war is already won. They run. They shout. They think themselves invincible.
His voice hardened.
— And men like that make mistakes.
Rowan held his gaze.
— And we will survive long enough to take advantage?
Garron took a moment before answering.
Then he said, simply—
— We will try.
Far away, a horn sounded.
Low and mournful.
Like a warning.
The squad leaders began to arrive, one by one, grim faces, restless hands.
Rowan saw in their eyes the same thing he saw in his own men.
Not courage.
Not glory.
Only the raw understanding:
war did not care if it was just.
It came all the same.
And it always demanded its due.