The mountain road was steep and narrow.
By the time the horses hauled the last of the heavy wooden chests out of the valley, the sun had already climbed into the southeastern sky.
At the junction where the dirt path met the mountainside trail, jagged rocks jutted up from both sides.
Matthew sat on one of the crates, his boots resting on a half‑buried stone, waiting patiently for Morty to bring the rest of the group back.
The hot wind blew against his face, sticking sweat to his brow—but beneath the heat was a deep satisfaction.
Sir Haven was leaning against another chest, grinning so wide it looked painful.
He turned to Bors, saying, "Someday, we'll ride back to King's Landing. I'll take you to Tobho Mott—the finest smith in Westeros. We'll have him forge us each a proper suit of heavy plate."
Bors didn't know who Tobho Mott was, but he understood it must mean a master craftsman.
"Think he'd let me study under him?"
Haven blinked at the question, then burst out laughing. "You can't be serious—you just want to be a blacksmith?"
Bors nodded earnestly. "Aye. My dream's always been to craft good tools for farming—plows, scythes, axes. Something farmers can rely on."
Haven pointed at him, laughing harder.
To a knight, the idea of hammering metal in a forge—or tilling dirt in a field—was mind‑numbingly dull, fit for peasants, not men of action.
Bors looked embarrassed, scratching his neck. He knew he was being mocked.
But Matthew, still sitting nearby, glanced toward the distant farmlands of Sow's Ridge, where peasants bent under the sun, tending their fields.
He smiled and raised his thumb at Bors. "That's a fine dream. A real one. Everyone eats, after all."
The remark made Haven choke mid‑laugh, coughing into his fist.
When he finally caught his breath, he stared at Matthew in disbelief. "You're seriously encouraging that? He's your man! Shouldn't he be forging blades or leading soldiers—not making plowshares?"
There was frustration in his tone, like he couldn't believe someone as ambitious as Matthew could speak so casually of such a humble dream.
But Matthew didn't take offense.
It was natural for men to want their leaders to aim higher, to build toward glory. Their followers' success was tied to their own.
He simply smiled, waving a hand. "Don't mock another man's ambition, Haven. Not everyone's like you—or me. More hands making better tools and planting better crops only make life stronger. What's wrong with that?"
He stood then, walked over to Bors, and clapped the big man's shoulder. "Once I've done what I came to do, I'll help you with yours. Grow all the fields you want—and save a few bushels for me."
Bors grinned like a child. "Aye, my lord."
Haven rolled his eyes, muttering, "Seven save us both," and leaned back with a snort.
A gust of hot air swept across them, carrying voices and the jangle of metal.
Matthew turned his head, squinting, hand resting on Bors's shoulder. "They're here."
Haven sprang up, brushing dust from his clothes and hurrying to the ridge. Seeing men and wagons descending the opposite slope, he raised his sword and yelled, "Move it along! Hurry up!"
His voice echoed through the valley, urging them onward.
Before long, the rest of the group arrived—refugees and mercenaries alike.
Morty quickly shoved the tired old women and children from the wagons, making room for the vine‑bound chests to be loaded onboard.
The five crates groaned against the wagon's frame, weighing it down until the wood creaked and complained under their burden.
None of the others knew what lay inside, but they could tell from the effort it took to lift them that each chest was heavy.
The driver, an older mercenary, eyed the load doubtfully. "Think the cart'll hold till Sow's Ridge?"
Bors frowned but thought of the extra vines he'd gathered. "Maybe. Let's tie it tighter."
They lashed the carts until they were sealed as tight as barrels.
From outside, even Matthew couldn't tell what they carried. He smiled, pleased.
Out here, small names vanished fast—only those clever enough to hide their wealth survived.
---
The column moved again.
Down from the low mountain, through the open grasslands below.
The plains stretched wide ahead—fields of flowers swayed, trees scattered far apart under a clear blue sky. The air smelled clean, and spirits lifted.
Matthew shaded his eyes with one hand, swaying lazily on horseback. Ahead, the land rose again—there, on a distant hilltop, he could see it: the stone watchtowers and outerwall of Sow's Ridge.
Its towers rose higher than the surrounding farms—solid, old, built on stone.
As they descended into the lower fields, they followed the dirt road between crops and cottages.
Farmers worked on both sides; children played near the road until their mothers saw the approaching riders and yanked them away, watching quietly with wary eyes.
Haven scowled. "Hmph. No manners at all. That's no way to look at a knight."
Matthew chuckled. "Maybe they just don't see one."
He spurred his horse forward before Haven could answer.
"You—!" Haven shut his mouth, shaking his head, riding on fuming.
A few hundred steps later, the road climbed into the village proper.
Buildings stacked up the slope—stone at the base, timber higher up. The farther uphill they looked, the finer the homes became.
At the midpoint sat a small marketplace, a handful of traders hawking wares to a crowd of dusty travelers.
Matthew dismounted at the crossroads. Tossing a copper coin to a passerby, he asked, "Hey—you know where we can find the best inn around here?"
The man picked up the coin with a grin and pointed upward toward a distant tower. "If you want a safe bed, go straight to the Hog family's hall. It's pricey, but if your purse is heavy, they'll take you in."
That caught Matthew's ear. He tossed another coin. "The Hog family's short on money lately?"
The man laughed, catching it easily. "Who isn't? Travelers don't come like before—trade's drying up. Prices are going mad."
That was enough information.
Matthew nodded, thanked him, and swung back into the saddle. "Come on. Let's see this tower."
The Hog family's watchtower loomed near the hill's peak—thick, heavy stone that radiated age and strength.
Two guards waited at the gate.
When the group approached, one stepped forward, giving them a careful once‑over.
"What business brings you here?" he asked.
Matthew offered a polite smile. "I heard the Hog family rents rooms in the tower. I'd like to see them."
The guard nodded. "Possible, yes—but the tower's small. Only a few rooms, and it's ten copper stars a day."
Matthew arched a brow. Pricey, but fair enough.
He dismounted, showing ten fingers. "Can it house ten people?"
The guard looked uncertain. "Wait here."
He vanished inside, returning moments later with an older man.
The newcomer was broad‑shouldered, his face sun‑creased but alert. He smiled thinly.
"I'm Ser Roger Hog," he said. "And who might you be?"
Matthew brushed off his dusty coat, straightened his back, and stepped forward—his movements careful but steady.
He stopped three paces away, clenched a fist against his chest in salute, and smiled with quiet confidence.
"My name is Matthew. I came from King's Landing. On the road, I met bandits and refugees. I dealt with the bandits—and brought the survivors here to Sow's Ridge."
---