With Matthew feeding his ego, Ser Roger Hog became increasingly spirited.
By the time they reached the fourth floor of the tower, the old knight's face was practically frozen in a grin.
"Come, this way, this way," he said excitedly, waving for Matthew to follow.
They walked down a narrow hall to the end, where sunlight poured through an open window.
Ser Roger fished two sets of keys from his chest and handed them over. "The first and third floors are yours," he said proudly. "Enough rooms for thirteen people."
Matthew accepted the keys with a polite smile and a bow.
Ser Roger gestured toward them. "Go on, have a look."
Matthew didn't hesitate. He tried each key until one clicked, then pushed open the door nearest the window.
The wooden hinges groaned loudly—but that was their only flaw.
The room was wide and neatly kept: bed, cabinets, chairs, a writing table, and even a tall candleholder with fresh wax.
Plenty of space left besides.
Matthew swept his gaze across the room, stepped inside, and took a slow sniff.
No must or rot.
He brushed a hand along the table edge—not a trace of dust. The servants kept it spotless.
Satisfied, he turned to the old knight and smiled. "Ten copper stars seems worth it."
Ser Roger folded his arms. "Naturally. Lodging comes with three meals a day—wine and meat included. You'd pay twice that in King's Landing."
Matthew nodded, faintly amused. "Then I'll fetch my men and let them pick their rooms. Maybe you can see to the refugees in the meantime?"
Ser Roger didn't object; together they went downstairs.
Out front, the heavy chests had already been unloaded. Nearby lay a pile of small cloth bundles—ashes of their fallen.
Sir Haven sat proudly atop one crate, boasting to the others.
Ser Roger winced and veered away, choosing instead to address the refugees clustered outside.
Matthew barely glanced his way before waving his mercenaries over.
"Don't just sit there," he ordered lightly. "Get the crates upstairs. After that, pick whatever room you like—third and fourth floors are ours."
Cheers went up instantly.
Most of them had never slept in a lord's house before, and the notion thrilled them.
Matthew couldn't help chuckling—until the thought of their over‑eager curiosity sobered him. His tone snapped back to command.
"And mind yourselves!" he barked. "No breaking things. Don't touch what isn't yours."
The laughter faltered into nervous grins. A few scratched their heads, chuckling anyway.
Matthew sighed, thumped one of them on the back of the head, and called for Bors to help with the lifting.
The boxes were heavy—three or four men to a crate—and it took two trips to haul them all up.
When they finished, Matthew wiped his palms together and stepped outside again to check on the rest.
Through the window he saw the refugees being led away by Hog's servants. His eyes lingered quietly on them.
Then Haven appeared, grinning ear to ear. "We're done here. I was thinking—"
"Good," Matthew interrupted gently, turning. "Take Bors and start spreading word around town. Tell everyone how we brought the refugees here—and how we wiped out the bandits."
The knight's smile froze.
He rubbed his face and groaned. "Is there anything else?"
"Mm, no," Matthew said without looking back. "But be smart about it. Best messengers are children—find a few."
Haven muttered under his breath, "Right, kids."
Then more hopefully, "And when I'm done, could I at least have one drink?"
Matthew turned, pointing at him with mock severity. "You can drink. Just don't get drunk."
"Understood!"
With renewed energy, Haven punched the air and bolted off to find Bors.
Moments later, a few mercenaries came upstairs asking, "My lord, what's gotten into him?"
Matthew laughed softly. "He's just thirsty. If you're thirsty too, go join him."
The young men's eyes lit up immediately—but their excitement dimmed slightly as Matthew added, "Drink, fine—but back early. I've work for you tonight."
They nodded quickly, already halfway turned toward the stairs.
By the time Matthew glanced out the window again, Haven's small drinking party had doubled in size.
He shook his head, smiling. "Let them have their fun. Just don't cause trouble…"
The sight of them walking arm‑in‑arm down the road, laughing after days of slaughter, almost felt right.
Men weren't made of steel like him. They needed to breathe.
He exhaled and went back inside.
Halfway down the hill, Haven eventually found a tavern that wasn't filthy or full of drooling drunkards.
The earlier "inns" had been nothing more than packed rooms reeking of sour ale and sweat. This one, at least, had seats—and amber wine, not brown muck.
Inside, Haven drained a bowl of ale in one gulp, wiped his mouth, and stood.
The men blinked at him. He grinned. "Orders to run. You lot drink, I'll be back with Bors."
Boos and laughs chased them out the door.
Outside, Haven chuckled, trading jests with Bors as they stepped into the street. But once the laughter died, they just stood there—two strangers in a crowded town, unsure what came next.
After a long pause, Haven snapped his fingers. "The lord said to use kids. What do kids want? Food! We buy treats, hand them out—they'll sing whatever we tell them."
Bors brightened instantly. "Good idea."
Off they went, buying armfuls of sweets and dried fruit.
Haven popped a biscuit into his mouth and scowled. "Three copper stars for this junk! Those brats better be grateful."
Bors couldn't answer—his cheeks were stuffed full already.
Weaving through the lower streets, they handed out bits of candy to every curious child they saw, drawing a crowd that followed them all the way to the edge of the fields.
There, half the village's children had gathered—faces dirty, eyes wide.
Haven pulled a handful of biscuits from his pouch, raising an eyebrow with a sly grin. "Hungry?"
Most of them pretended not to be, but their gazes betrayed them. Then a couple of smaller ones whimpered and reached out tiny hands.
Bors handed out pieces gently, his deep voice soft for once. The children devoured the sweets like wolves.
When Haven asked, "Good?" they just nodded vigorously, mouths too full to speak.
He laughed heartily, watching the round faces tilt up toward him with gratitude.
Then he cleared his throat dramatically. "Alright, listen up!"
He held out more treats. "These are from me—Sir Haven—and my lord, Ser Matthew, who slew hundreds of bandits and saved dozens of lives."
He gestured grandly toward the hillside. "When you finish, say it aloud: 'Thank you, Ser Matthew! Ser Matthew, the brave knight who defeated countless bandits!' Go on!"
The children happily obliged—sugar‑drunk voices filling the air:
"Thank you, Ser Matthew! The good knight who killed hundreds of bandits and saved us all!"
Some were clever enough to embellish for extra sweets.
Haven smiled, and Bors's chest rumbled with laughter. They passed out the rest of the treats, letting the chorus build.
"Ser Matthew's the hero! He saved thousands! He killed tens of thousands of bandits!"
"Wait—" Bors started nervously, realizing the story was snowballing—but Haven threw an arm around him, laughing.
"They've got the spirit! Let 'em have it."
He turned back to the mob of sticky‑faced children. "That's right! Those old women and children from the mountains—they're safe because of us! Now go, share the food with your friends, tell everyone what you've learned!"
The kids scattered like mice, shrieking as they went, still chanting versions of the tale that grew grander with each retelling.
"Ser Matthew, the great knight!"
"He fought the bandits—saved hundreds!"
"Killed thousands—like one of the Seven Gods!"
Haven shielded his eyes from the sun, smiling wickedly.
"Ah, youth," he said to Bors, still grinning. "So easy to convince."
He tore open another pack of dried fruit, tossed one to Bors, and bit into his own as they walked away laughing.