"Oh?"
Ser Roger Hog tilted his head toward the refugees gathered behind Matthew.
When his gaze fell on the haggard old women and weary peasants, his expression tightened—his eyebrows rising and deep creases forming across his forehead, making him look even older.
Moments later, he looked away in mild discomfort and asked bluntly, "Those from the burned village, then?"
Matthew nodded. "Yes."
The old knight studied him again, then clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Well then, I thank you," he said warmly. "I'll report this to the Haverfields—they'll see you rewarded."
A flicker of amusement crossed Matthew's eyes, but his smile faded to something polite and measured. "Not necessary, my lord. We'll be leaving for Harrenhal soon. Lord Stannis himself sent us to deliver certain items—courier work, you understand."
That made the old knight pause, clearly surprised. He had been about to insist further, but Matthew spoke again first.
"Still," he added with a friendly grin, "if it's possible, I'd like your permission to recruit a few men here in Sow's Ridge. We lost many on the road."
The warmth drained from Hog's face. His jaw clenched as if he'd been made to swallow something bitter.
Manpower was the most precious treasure any lord could guard—especially healthy, able‑bodied men.
So he did the prudent thing: he avoided Matthew's eyes entirely and said nothing.
The silence stretched. Every mercenary outside craned their necks to see what would happen next.
One breath. Two. Still nothing.
The air grew thick and awkward.
Matthew hadn't expected the old man to be so rigid. For someone his age, he lacked all the polish of the court.
After a second's thought, Matthew broke the tension himself, coughing lightly and taking a step back. His tone softened.
"Of course, my lord. Perhaps not locals then—but you could recommend me a few sellswords? Reliable men?"
There it was—the ladder out.
Ser Roger's sharp little eyes glinted. He slapped his hands together and nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes! I know plenty of good fighters. I'll call some in for you to meet."
He clapped three times, then placed his hand back on Matthew's shoulder in a gesture that was suddenly far too friendly. His grin widened.
"I like you, lad. Come, come inside."
With that, he led the way toward the tower, chatting as they walked.
"So—these bandits you fought," he said casually, "do you know where they came from?"
Matthew shook his head. "Only that they operated between Harrenhal and here. Near a hundred men in total."
The knight stopped in surprise and glanced back. Then he slung an arm around Matthew's shoulders, chuckling. "Careful now, boy—don't spin tall tales. A hundred men? And you stopped them with this lot?"
Behind them, Haven stiffened at the jab.
He slid off his horse with a scowl and snapped, "Tall tales? We bled for that victory! The bandit chief's head is still hanging in a tree by the road. Their lot's rotting along the mountain trail."
The Hog knight turned to face him, bristling but curious. "And you are—?"
Haven straightened, chin high, all proud defiance despite his height. "Sir Haven of House Florin. A knight."
Ser Roger blinked, the surprise clear on his face. He had assumed the armored man beside Matthew was just a guard—but a knight?
That meant the ragged young traveler standing before him wasn't some wandering mercenary.
He stole a sidelong glance at Matthew—re‑evaluating instantly.
Then, with a curt nod, he stepped forward, bent slightly, and said, "My apologies, Ser Haven. I spoke hastily."
Haven inclined his head in return, though his words still carried bite. "Hmph. If you're truly sorry, then let us recruit freely. We fought those bandits at your border and lost good men doing it."
Ser Roger rubbed his nose awkwardly, realizing he'd walked himself into a corner.
He grunted. "That might be… difficult. Sow's Ridge has its own troubles. We're short of men ourselves. Harrenhal's a better place to find hires."
Haven's eyes narrowed, temper sparking—but Matthew caught his arm before he could retort. "Let it be," he said smoothly. "First, let's see where we'll be staying."
The old knight looked relieved and turned briskly toward the tower.
As they followed, Matthew cast a sidelong glance at Haven and raised an eyebrow. That was enough to pull the tension from the knight's shoulders. Haven simply smirked and drifted back to joking with Morty again.
Inside the gate, the Hog family tower loomed heavier up close.
The walls were nearly eight feet thick, carved of black and gray stone, weathered but solid. From outside, it looked cramped—but stepping in, Matthew smiled in surprise.
It was larger than he'd expected.
A wide spiral stairway wrapped up the inner wall, each step etched with the image of wild boars, climbing in endless rings toward the sunlight above.
A few servants moved along the stair with soft chatter that echoed faintly—a far gentler contrast to the rigid stone.
Back on the ground floor stood several long gray tables clustered near a large hearth.
Behind the main seat, the wall bore a carving of a small boar flanked by the banners of House Hog. Everything was plain—wood, iron, and ash-gray stone.
Bleak, yes—but solid. Honest.
Somehow, the simplicity made the place feel heavier, more grounded, as though age itself held the hall together.
Upstairs, Ser Roger paused and looked back, realizing his guest had fallen behind. Peering down over the railing, he found Matthew still standing by the hearth, eyes darting curiously about the room.
He chuckled. "Well? Not bad for an old tower, eh?"
Matthew looked up with a pleasant smile. "It's excellent."
Pride filled the old knight's chest. Most nobles mocked him for his austerity, but this boy clearly saw what they didn't.
He motioned toward the wall, his voice nearly giddy. "See that crest? We had it restored just last season by a master mason."
He looked at it with affection. The carving gleamed faintly—a wild boar in mid‑charge.
"There's no beast tougher or cleverer than a boar," he said proudly. "The Hogs are the same."
Matthew inclined his head, still smiling, climbing the stairs in calm acknowledgment.
By the time he reached the second floor, the knight was waiting with a grin.
"I like you lad," Roger said again. "You've got spirit. You should stay a while—get acquainted with our family. My grandson George returns in two days. You'd get along."
Matthew sighed softly, spreading his hands. "I'd love to, but duty calls. Five days at most, and we must leave for Harrenhal—whether we recruit men or not."
"That's plenty!" Ser Roger laughed. "George will be back before then."
Matthew nodded agreeably. Together they continued upward, the old man a few steps ahead. But partway up, Roger stopped, smacked his forehead, and turned back toward him.
"Ah, nearly forgot—if you've killed off those bandits, you should've kept a few heads. Harrenhal often pays bounty for that sort of thing."
That made Matthew perk up. "Really? Do they pay well?"
"Oh, indeed," the knight said with a beaming grin. "The right heads fetch a fine price—sometimes even honor with coin. My grandson George's gone there now with a wagonful of the bastards. Should bring back twenty gold dragons or so."
He held up both hands, fingers spread wide, eyes glinting with paternal pride.
Matthew laughed, clapping politely. "Now that's what I call a profitable head."
He gave the exact praise Roger wanted, all charm and warmth.
And sure enough, the old man's delighted smile stretched from ear to ear.
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