Leaving the tavern behind, Matthew headed west.
There wasn't a soul in sight. Not even the cry of a bird.
He hummed an idle tune as he walked.
A few hundred paces later, he reached a small rocky hill tinged with dusty brown and dark green, where crooked pines and oak trees clawed at the sky. Some thick, some spindly.
Choosing the direction where there were fewer birds, Matthew lifted the wooden whistle to his lips and blew.
The sound came out rough and sharp—like a raven's cry, only higher and thinner.
Moments later, a large bird burst from the trees, flapping down to perch on a jagged stone.
It tilted its head, studying the stranger who had summoned it. The whistle's call wasn't one it could mistake.
"Caw, caw…" the raven croaked, taking a few cautious hops closer.
Seeing that, Matthew smiled and stepped forward.
Ravens were clever—far smarter than most birds. A single wrong move, and they'd be gone. And this one was big—bigger than any crow.
Once it finished its testing, Matthew raised his arm. The raven hopped on, covering most of his forearm with its glossy black feathers.
He stroked along its neck and head, and the bird made a low satisfied sound, like a purr through its beak.
Clearly, it had been a long time since anyone treated it gently.
After a bit of indulgence, Matthew took out a small rolled letter, checked it, then slid it into the gray canister strapped to the bird's leg.
The raven cocked its head, staring blankly as if unsure what to make of it, then tucked its beak into its own feathers in quiet protest.
Matthew chuckled and patted its head. "Go on, to King's Landing. Deliver the message and you'll get something tasty."
At the words "King's Landing" and "tasty," the raven perked up immediately.
It let out a loud, raspy caw—almost like goodbye—and beat its wings, soaring away into the open sky.
Matthew stood there for a while, watching its dark shape disappear into the horizon. For once, he felt… calm.
Finally, he brushed the dirt from his sleeve and turned back toward the tavern.
From a distance, he smelled food.
Inside, the corpses were gone; the air was cleaner, though the tavern keeper now lay curled on the floor like a broken dog.
Bruised—or maybe simply crushed by grief. Probably both.
Matthew didn't spare him more than a glance. He went straight to Bernas. "The letter—it's sent?"
Bernas nodded, smiling so wide his gray-and-white beard wobbled.
Matthew turned next to the group huddled around the food. "Where's the money and valuables?"
The mercenaries exchanged looks, scratching their heads before emptying their pockets.
Copper buttons, small change, worthless tokens—all clattered to the floor.
Matthew exhaled through his nose and cast Bernas a slow look.
The old soldier flushed bright red. "You mangy bastards!" he barked. "You want me to strip you all down? Hand over everything so the lord can divvy it up!"
The younger mercenaries groaned but said nothing. They feared Matthew far more than they disliked Bernas's temper.
When one of them hesitated, Bernas stormed forward and decked him squarely. That got the rest moving.
The older mercenaries, sly veterans that they were, stepped back pretending to be uninvolved—but when Bernas's glare swept their way, even they started pulling out hidden coins with exaggerated sighs.
Before long, the floor was littered with silver stags, shiny moon coins, and a few glimmering gold dragons.
Matthew squinted at the piles—not with greed, but calculation.
This, he realized, was his next problem.
A group like this could only have one voice—his. If everyone acted on their own whims, it'd all crumble from the inside out.
Decision made, he bent down, picked up four gold dragons, blew the dust off, and called out to the four new recruits.
They scrambled forward instantly; the tallest arrived first, bowing low. "What do you need, sir?"
Matthew handed one gold dragon to each man. "Here—what I promised."
His tone was casual, almost disinterested.
But to them, it was everything. Their eyes lit up; a single gold piece was worth years of backbreaking labor.
Matthew noticed the sour looks from the other mercenaries and smiled slightly.
"See? Those who do as I command will be rewarded. I'm as generous as the Father himself."
Then he pushed aside a small pile of copper coins with his boot. "This too—you'll use it as starting capital for the tavern."
The four men beamed, scooping up the money like treasure hunters.
The younger mercenaries muttered, anger flickering in their eyes.
Before it could spread, Matthew turned sharply, hands open in mock surprise. "Your turn now."
They jumped, stepping back so fast their armor clanked in unison.
Matthew didn't mind. In fact, he preferred it. Fear was a foundation stronger than friendship.
He raised a finger, pointing at the remaining pile of loot. "Tell me," he said to Bernas, "how did you usually split things before?"
Bernas hesitated, scratching his beard. "Whoever grabs it—keeps it."
Just as Matthew thought. He clapped his hands lightly. "Well, that hardly seems fair, does it?"
All eyes were on him now.
He lowered his voice, steady and sharp. "Let's be honest—without me, would any of you have pulled this off?"
Silence. Heads dropped. No one dared to meet his gaze.
Exactly as planned.
Matthew smiled. These old mercs might fear noble houses—but right now, they feared him more. He had killed too many to seem anything less than inevitable.
He glanced at the four new men. "You think you'd have those gold dragons if I hadn't stepped in?"
They shook their heads wildly, eager to please.
"Bernas?" Matthew asked.
The old soldier sighed, bowed slightly. "It's true, my lord. You led us to this."
The others groaned under their breath, realizing they'd lost whatever claim they had left.
But Matthew was no fool—he knew better than to come off petty.
He straightened and addressed the group with a firm voice. "Since we all agree this success was mine to lead, then I alone will divide the spoils."
He lifted two fingers. "And before you panic—I'm not greedy. I'll only take twenty percent."
Relief rippled through the room. Twenty percent was mercy.
Matthew smirked. "You'll get thirty. More than me."
Grins started to spread again—until he added, "The remaining fifty percent stays with us—for the future."
Confused looks all around. Mercenaries didn't plan for the future; they barely planned for breakfast.
Matthew clenched a fist and drove his next words like nails.
"That fifty will go toward armor. Medicine. And when one of you falls, it'll be sent to your family as payment for your blood."
His voice carried stronger and stronger, rising like a wave—then dropped low and steady at the end.
"And no one outside the group will control it. Only those you trust."
It was a masterstroke. The men weren't stupid; they burst into laughter, even applause.
Matthew's eyes gleamed like fire, his presence filling the room.
He smiled, scanning the faces before him. "So tell me—shall we do it my way?"
The four new recruits, thinking their share was still secure, shot their hands up. "Yes! We agree!"
Their excitement caught like wildfire. Soon the whole room echoed in agreement.
Bernas chuckled warmly to himself, watching his men cheer. The old warrior finally understood.
In all his years, he'd never met a young man who could rule hearts so effortlessly—with courage, wit, and a smile.
For the first time in decades, the old mercenary allowed himself to dream.
Maybe—just maybe—one day I'll earn my knighthood and go home again.
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