"This…"
Ser Roger Hog hesitated.
He wanted Raif's head—it would earn his grandson the glory needed for knighthood. But trading away his own townsmen to get it? That, he couldn't stomach.
Sow's Ridge was no prosperous city like Haverfield. Every strong back here was worth gold.
Seeing the old man waver, Matthew took another sip of wine and spoke in his calm, coaxing tone.
"Don't overthink it, Ser. For every man I recruit locally, I'll pay ten silver moons. How's that sound?"
The knight's thick brows furrowed, eyes glinting with calculation.
After a long pause, his expression bloomed into a smile again. He raised his cup high. "Make it one gold dragon, and we might just have a deal."
So there was still room to bargain.
Matthew grinned and lifted his own cup. "Agreed—though if the numbers get too high, final payment will have to wait until after the mission's done. I can send someone back to settle it then."
Ser Roger clinked his cup against Matthew's, still smiling that politician's smile.
"Fair enough. But you'll leave a deposit."
Both men met each other's gaze and began laughing—each already knowing exactly what the other was thinking.
After that, all formality vanished. They ate and drank like old friends, talking of everything from war stories to family.
Whenever the topic shifted to his grandson, Ser Roger's face lit up. The man's rough exterior melted away, replaced with the obvious warmth of a proud grandfather.
Matthew humored him, praising the boy just enough to draw out yet another round of cheerful bragging.
By the end, Ser Roger was far gone—head lolling, cheeks flushed red.
Matthew poured himself one last drink, smiled faintly, and promptly poured it onto the floor.
"Wine," he muttered, "the enemy of ambition."
He set down his cup and signaled to the servants. "Take the lord to his chambers."
Two stout men hurried in, half-dragging the heavy, snoring knight away.
Watching them struggle, Matthew shook his head in mild disgust. The sight of a drunk man reminded him just how much he disliked the loss of control.
"Come on," he said aloud, turning to the wide-eyed boy beside him.
Little Fishy sat there rubbing his stomach, too full to move. It took him two tries to slide off the chair.
Matthew sighed, then laughed under his breath, giving the boy a nudge with his boot. "You ate too much again. If you can't sleep tonight, don't come scratching at my door."
Fishy patted his belly proudly, giggling. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."
Matthew rolled his eyes. Poverty had taught kids like him to treat overeating as victory.
He reached out and mussed the boy's hair, then prodded his round stomach. "Next time, slow down. Eat like that again and you'll stunt your height."
The boy froze, eyes going wide. The words hit harder than a slap.
He went pale, lips trembling as if he'd just heard a death sentence.
Matthew groaned, covering his face. "Gods, not now. I meant later—not forever."
"Still," the boy mumbled weakly, "that means I can't eat like this anymore. That's… sad."
Matthew waved him off in exasperation and strode toward the stairs. "Come along when you can," he said, already halfway up.
Fishy tried to follow, but every movement made his overfilled stomach wobble painfully.
By the time Matthew reached the second floor, the boy was still on the landing below, arms outstretched.
"Brother! Wait for me!"
Matthew smirked and deliberately walked faster. Undisciplined brats needed a bit of tough love.
The boy pouted as Matthew vanished from sight—but before he could take another step, laughter burst from the entryway below.
He turned and saw Sir Haven and Bors entering the hall, surrounded by the off-duty mercenaries.
Their return was boisterous, full of drink and laughter.
Bors, towering above the rest, was the first to spot the boy. He broke away from the group and scooped Fishy up effortlessly.
"What are you doing here alone?"
The boy barely had time to open his mouth before his face turned green. The sudden lift churned his stomach violently.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, shaking.
Bors blinked, confused, and quickly set him down—just as the poor kid dropped to his knees and gagged.
It was a messy, spectacular scene.
The mercenaries turned at the sound. Haven pointed, bursting into uncontrollable laughter. "By the Seven! Did he just—hah! Maybe he swallowed horse dung!"
Fishy groaned, eyes watering, too sick to even curse back.
Bors sighed deeply, kneeling beside him, expression soft with concern.
"You ate that much?" he asked gently, resting a hand on the round little belly. "You know kids can't eat until they burst, right? It's dangerous."
That single sentence broke what little composure Fishy had left. His bottom lip quivered; tears welled up fast.
Seeing that only made the men laugh harder.
Even Haven couldn't resist. He gave the boy's head a playful rub and said wickedly, "Don't cry! I'm helping with digestion."
Before the boy could dodge, Haven gave him a light kick on the backside. It wasn't hard, but enough to make him yelp.
"See? Walk it off. You'll thank me later!"
Fishy glared up through tears, refusing to believe him. With all his strength, he looked at Bors instead, reaching out a trembling hand.
"Bors… could you carry me back? I'm tired."
The big man hesitated, but compassion won out. He lifted the boy again, cradling him carefully.
It was a big mistake.
Barely two steps later, Fishy emptied his overstuffed stomach all over Bors's chest.
The laughter that followed nearly shook the tower's walls.
Bors just stood there—his dark skin gone darker still, flushed in anger and embarrassment.
Even the servants rushed in after hearing the commotion, only to shriek in horror at the stench and the mess splattered across their freshly scrubbed floor.
They'd spent hours cleaning it earlier.
Sir Haven, always quick on his feet, tossed a few coins into the air. "Our apologies, ladies! A small token for the trouble—and don't worry, the culprit's going straight to his lord for punishment!"
He shot the miserable boy a mischievous glance, half amusement, half mock‑threat.
Fishy gulped. He knew what that meant.
"Come along," Haven said, hoisting him up like a kitten and marching toward the stairs.
Bors, too mortified to move, just nodded numbly when one of the servants approached and asked, "Would you like a wash, good sir?"
He fished out a coin with a grimace. "Is this enough?"
The servant snatched it eagerly. "Plenty, ser. Please, this way—coat off, please!"
Bors all but threw away the soiled garment and followed them down the hall toward the kitchen bath, muttering curses under his breath.
Upstairs, Haven arrived at Matthew's door with the now thoroughly defeated boy dangling from one arm.
He rapped smartly. "My lord, we're back!"
He'd gotten far too comfortable calling Matthew that lately—and the more he said it, the smoother it came.
The door creaked open.
A wave of stale alcohol hit Matthew's nose, and his brows furrowed instantly.
Wine smell on himself was fine. On others, unbearable.
Still, he said nothing—just looked down at the pale, sickly little figure Haven was holding.
"What," he said flatly, "is this?"
The knight raised both hands in surrender. "Not me! This little monster puked all over Bors."
Matthew's expression stayed perfectly calm as he took the boy from him. Then, setting Fishy on the floor, he straightened and gave Haven a meaningful look that froze the man where he stood.
Without raising his voice, he simply reached down, lifted Fishy again by the collar like a pup, and gave two firm smacks to his backside.
The boy yelped, flailing, clutching at his rear and sniffling.
Matthew only frowned deeper and added a few sharper swats for good measure until the tears finally came.
When he set him down, the boy stood quietly, hiccupping and wiping his face.
Matthew turned away without another glance. "Go gather everyone," he said to Haven. "And find Morty, too. We're sharing out the money tonight."
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