Evening.
Matthew was sitting cross‑legged on the floor, counting coins.
Nearby, little Fishy leaned against a cabinet, yawning so wide his jaw creaked.
"How much longer are you going to do that?" he asked drowsily. "I'm bored. I want to go outside."
Matthew glanced up once, then back down at the growing piles of copper. His tone was all business. "Then go. I've got real work to do."
Fishy fidgeted and muttered, "I don't dare go alone…"
He got up from where he crouched and padded over to the window by the door, peering out cautiously.
Matthew watched him go but didn't bother to stop him.
He had a mountain of work to finish—specifically, sorting the mess of coinage scattered through the chest before him.
Gold dragons, silver stags, copper stars, copper half‑pennies… all jumbled together, matted with dirt and blood. It had to be separated and counted properly.
He worked quickly, fingers moving in rhythm, making neat stacks and piles.
Halfway through now. Only three gold dragons so far—a disappointment.
If he weren't planning to divide the spoils by night's end, he might've thrown the chest out the window.
He sighed loudly. "A bunch of useless bandits, can't even steal decent coin. Honestly, if they didn't deserve to die, who does?"
He scowled at yet another pile of grimy copper, feeling the drudgery settle deep in his bones.
But he couldn't trust anyone else with the task.
Not because he feared theft—he simply didn't trust their competence. They'd spend hours miscounting.
If not for his years as a pickpocket in King's Landing, he might not have been able to count either. Most soldiers and even knights couldn't.
Fishy, for instance, could barely count on his fingers. Expecting him to tally money would be pure chaos.
That was why maesters commanded such respect—they monopolized education alongside the nobles.
Thinking of that, Matthew frowned and shot the boy a disapproving look.
Lazy little fool. He actually had the chance to learn from him and wasted it playing around.
Pathetic.
Matthew grumbled and kept working, stacking coppers into short columns—twenty coins to a pillar before they started tipping.
Soon he had so many the floor itself was crowded. With no more room, he started carefully placing the stacks back into the chest.
He had barely set a few down when crisp footsteps sounded in the hallway outside.
Instantly alert, he snatched a blanket from the cabinet and threw it over the coins.
Fishy spun toward the door, puffing up bravely. "Who is it?"
A clear, birdlike voice answered, "Dinner is ready, my lord. Ser Roger asks that you join him downstairs."
Matthew immediately relaxed, smiling as he stepped out. "Understood. I'll be right down."
The maid—freckled, rosy‑cheeked, no older than fourteen—curtsied and turned away, light and proper in her long gray dress.
The tower servants, he noted, all carried themselves neat and poised.
Matthew watched her leave, hand absently resting on Fishy's head. I need my own place soon, he thought.
Living under someone else's roof—where strangers could wander in uninvited—was intolerable.
If anyone saw this much coin… well, even honest men could change.
Never test the limits of someone's greed.
He muttered under his breath, "Best tread carefully."
Giving Fishy a light smack on the back, he said, "Go on down first. I'll follow once I'm done."
The boy shook his head, smiling. "No, I'll wait."
Matthew sighed but chuckled, pinching his cheek. "Fine, keep watch at the door then."
"Mhm." Fishy nodded seriously and scampered back to the window.
Outside, the sunset bled across the sky like spilled wine, clouds glowing red and gold.
Matthew glanced out, and for a fleeting second the color reminded him of yesterday's battle—the screams, the burning valley. His stomach turned.
With a curse, he tore his eyes away. Better to count coins than count ghosts.
---
Downstairs, the main hall glowed with firelight and the smell of roasted meat.
The maids hadn't even reached the table yet and already the air was thick with scents of bread, lamb, and chicken.
Ser Roger Hog sat drinking alone by the long table, watching as one of his servants—a small freckled maid named Jossa—approached.
"Jossa," he said, raising a brow. "Where's our guest?"
After bowing, she answered softly, "He says he'll be down shortly, my lord."
Ser Roger nodded, downed what was left of his cup, and waved her off.
But as she turned toward the kitchen, her eyes lingered wistfully on the food.
He chuckled, tore off a small piece of bread, and called out, "Here—try this."
He broke it in half, popped one piece into his mouth, and handed the other to her.
She took it eagerly, biting down before flashing him a shy, guilty smile. Then she hid her hands behind her and skipped toward the kitchen.
Before she reached the doorway, though, she stopped, straightened her apron, fixed her posture—and only then walked in with small, prim steps.
Ser Roger laughed, shaking his head. He could remember when he had been that young, trying to look proper one moment and mischievous the next.
That was thirty years ago. Now he had grandchildren. And his lands—and his spirit—were much poorer for the years.
The Haverfield troubles gnawed at him like rats chewing through his sleep.
He sighed again and looked upward toward the fourth floor.
Connections, he thought. I need friends. Smart ones. If George can win this boy's favor, we might both benefit.
Just as he was thinking that, footsteps echoed from above.
Matthew appeared with Fishy in tow, the boy bouncing from step to step on the wide stone staircase.
"Careful," Matthew warned quietly, holding his hand. The last thing he needed was a broken nose from a tumble.
When they reached the second floor, Matthew saw Ser Roger already watching them from below, cup in hand.
He smiled apologetically. "Forgive me for being late, my lord."
Ser Roger waved dismissively, laughter echoing through the hall. "No harm done! I just worried you'd got lost in that big room of yours."
Politeness was met with politeness.
Matthew descended, hand still on Fishy's shoulder, offering a few more gracious words—always good to build goodwill.
Ser Roger found it tiresome but hid it behind a hearty grin.
"Come, sit here!" he said, patting the chair beside him.
Matthew accepted gladly. Why refuse free hospitality, especially from a man whose help he might need later?
He sat down, smiled faintly, and asked casually, "What of the refugees?"
Ser Roger poured him a cup of pale ale. "Already seen to. They're comfortable enough—and very grateful to you, I might add."
Matthew paused briefly, weighing the sincerity. Seeing no deceit in the man's face, he raised his own cup in return.
"They should be grateful to you, Ser. You gave them shelter."
He drank.
Ser Roger laughed and tossed back his own cup. "If I were them, I'd be grateful to you!"
They toasted again, trading compliments like cards in a game.
All the while, Fishy sat stiff beside them, eyes fixed hungrily on the bread and chicken.
He couldn't fathom how two grown men could drink so much without touching the food in front of them.
Ser Roger caught his gaze. Chuckling, he tore off a leg of chicken and handed it over.
The boy looked up at Matthew, who nodded once. Fishy grinned and murmured his thanks before digging in with both hands.
Chewing noises filled the brief silence between the adults.
After several cups, Matthew knew.
The old knight wanted something.
He could feel the weight of an unspoken favor hanging in the pauses between their pleasantries.
Better to drag it out into the light.
"Something on your mind, my lord?" he asked smoothly.
Ser Roger hesitated, then forced a laugh that came out too thin. He lifted his cup again and drained half before setting it down hard. The liquid sloshed across the table.
"It's like this," he said gruffly. "I sent men to inspect the battlefield you mentioned. And—ha!—they found something. Found someone. That bandit leader you killed—Raif. Turns out he's wanted by Harrenhal. Worth a heavy bounty."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "I'd like to buy the head from you. Double the price, fair trade."
Matthew didn't even blink.
He already knew the Hog family was short on coin—it wasn't hard to see.
If Ser Roger wanted to pay double, that meant Raif's head was worth even more, or served some other purpose entirely.
He studied the older man's face and smiled faintly.
"Money isn't everything," he said. "If you'll let me recruit as many men as I need, you can have the head—for free."
The words landed like a blade being carefully drawn.
Ser Roger froze, uncertain whether to smile or sweat.
Matthew simply raised his cup again, eyes gleaming above the rim.
---