Sir Haven was stunned.
He hadn't expected that after the recent division of spoils—and with their funds running tight—Matthew would be dividing more money again.
Joy lit his face, but a flicker of worry trailed behind it.
"My lord, uh… isn't this a bad time to be handing out pay?" he asked, rubbing the back of his head, trying not to grin too wide.
Matthew gave him a flat look, clearly unimpressed. He pointed toward the door. "Stop talking nonsense and go round everyone up."
"I'm going, I'm going!" Haven chuckled, dashing off faster than a rabbit chased by dogs.
Fishy, still recovering, covered his mouth watching the man's childish sprint, shaking his head in disgust.
Matthew saw it and immediately flicked him on the forehead. "Don't just stand there gawking. Go to bed."
The boy's eyes flicked toward the large, soft bed in Matthew's room, his feet staying glued to the spot.
"That's enough," Matthew said, only half suppressing a smile. He gave Fishy's round head a light thump. "Go. You just finished puking—don't you dare vomit on my bed next. I've got too many crates in here to move things around again."
Fishy scratched his cheek awkwardly but still dragged his feet as he left.
On the way back to his room, he nearly collided with Haven leading a pack of half‑drunk mercenaries upstairs.
Without a word, the boy kicked the knight in the shin and bolted away on his short legs.
"Seven hells!" Haven yelled, clutching his leg while the others burst into laughter.
Their noise filled the corridor until Matthew appeared in the doorway, his expression as sharp as a drawn blade. One cold glance from him—silence.
All joking ceased.
He motioned them inside. Moments later, seven men stood lined up before his desk, tense and fidgeting under that razor‑edged stare.
Matthew wasn't truly angry, but their casual, noisy behavior grated on him.
They had forgotten where they were. Guests, not masters.
Being rowdy under someone else's roof was asking for trouble.
If word reached Ser Roger Hog that his tower guests had been shouting and laughing after midnight, the old man's goodwill would crumble.
And Matthew wasn't about to let that happen.
"This time, I'll overlook it," he said evenly, tapping his fingers on the table. "But not again. We're guests—act like it. Don't make the Hog family regret their hospitality. Understood?"
No raised voice, no glare—just quiet, absolute authority.
But that tone struck harder than any shouting.
Haven quickly stepped forward, bowing his head. "Understood, my lord. Won't happen again. We'll keep discipline."
The others followed his lead, murmuring apologies one after another.
Matthew nodded slowly. "Good. But next time, there will be punishment."
He let the warning hang, cold and final.
People like them needed reminders—without a lash of fear, they never truly listened.
Then he pushed aside the earlier irritation, stood up, and dragged one of the heavy chests toward the table.
The lid swung open with a satisfying clunk. Neatly stacked copper coins caught the lamplight, gleaming reddish‑brown across the room.
The men's eyes widened at once.
They'd never seen so much money in one place—not tavern coins this time, but piles upon piles of honest, solid pay.
Matthew took out twenty coins first and set them on the table. The crisp clink of copper filled the room.
Smiling faintly at the way his men leaned forward like hounds sniffing meat, he said, "We'll divide it now. Each man gets two hundred copper coins. Tomorrow, we visit the smith and commission proper armor for everyone. How's that sound?"
The younger mercenaries erupted into cheers, forgetting all restraint.
Haven's face darkened instantly. With the efficiency of a commander, he smacked each one on the back of the head.
"What are you yowling for? Never seen coin before? Hah! Two hundred coppers—barely your drink money from the lord himself!"
His tone might've been light, but his hand was heavy. It was almost a perfect imitation of their old leader, Bernas.
The oldest mercenary, reading the room, joined in with curses of his own—though wisely kept his hands to himself.
Soon the group had quieted down again, heads bowed, sheepish.
Matthew sat back, cold‑faced as stone, letting the silence stretch.
Finally, he raised a single finger. "Anyone who shouted just now—half pay."
No one dared protest.
He waited a full heartbeat, then began counting out the coins himself. His eye missed nothing; every offender received exactly one hundred.
The moment they saw others taking double, the guilty ones swallowed their bitterness and managed forced smiles—muttering promises to buy drinks later to save face.
The laughter that followed was subdued but genuine, the right kind of noise this time.
Satisfied, Matthew leaned back and glanced at Haven. "Where's Bors?"
The knight immediately threw him under the proverbial cart. "Still downstairs! The boy threw up all over him—he's bathing in the kitchen."
"Bathing?" Matthew repeated in disbelief, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Figures…"
Then he looked at the rest of them and clapped his hands. "Tell you what—let's join him. We'll ask the servants to heat more water. Everyone gets washed. Might as well clean the filth off before the week's work starts."
The suggestion stunned them for a moment. Then every head bobbed enthusiastically.
No one likes lice or grime.
Matthew smiled faintly. "Good. Move."
He waved them out, grabbing Fishy by the collar on the way. The boy squeaked as he was lifted along like a sack of flour.
Within minutes, the once‑quiet kitchen turned into chaos. Servants dashed frantically, hauling buckets, stoking fires, filling barrels. Flames crackled, steam hissed.
Of course, they weren't unpaid for their trouble—each left heavier by a few coppers at least.
Before long, whispers spread among the staff: The young lord from King's Landing was truly generous.
By dawn, that rumor had reached Ser Roger Hog's ears.
It only deepened his trust in Matthew—and convinced him their deal was safe.
"Money really does make the world easier," he muttered with a satisfied sigh.
Indeed, he could almost feel the weight of opportunity settling on his side. Matthew was a ladder, and all he had to do was climb.
Too excited to sit still, Ser Roger decided to pay him a visit personally—to perhaps discuss more "profitable ventures."
But when he reached Matthew's quarters, the young man was gone.
Inside were only Bors, freshly washed but still damp from the night before, and the boy Fishy, lazily sprawled on a chair.
At the sight of an uninvited nobleman, Bors stiffened instantly, the farmer's humility returning to his face. He rose quickly and bowed.
"My lord… what brings you here?"
Ser Roger took a look around—then at the stacked iron‑bound chests behind them—and smiled.
"Where's your master?"
Bors scratched his head. "Don't rightly know. Think he went out looking for a blacksmith."
"What?" Ser Roger blinked. "Looking outside? The finest smith in Sow's Ridge works right here in my own tower!"
He waved his arms toward the hall. "Go find him! Tell him I'll make an introduction myself."
Bors froze. The coins in those chests alone were reason enough not to leave this room unattended.
He nudged Fishy's leg with his boot. "You go, then. You speak better than I do."
Immediately, the old knight's gaze shifted to the boy.
Fishy clutched his round belly, looking miserable. "Can't, sir. My stomach hurts. I can't walk far."
Roger eyed the two of them, realization dawning. They were guarding something.
His gaze drifted again to the chests.
Those must be the goods meant for Harrenhal—the "delivery for Lord Stannis" Matthew had mentioned.
He looked away at once, schooling his features. Old blood or not, he knew some things a man shouldn't pry into.
"Never mind," he said with forced cheer. "I'll wait till he returns. Tell him Sir Roger was looking for him."
Bors nodded quickly. "I'll tell him, ser."
The old man stretched, waved a hand in parting, and headed for the door.
But as he reached the main hall, he nearly collided head‑on with Matthew coming back inside.
The young knight's face was tight with irritation—probably from a wasted morning search.
"Ah! There you are!" Roger boomed, seizing him by the shoulder before he could speak. "I was just coming to find you. Why go looking for smiths when you have one right here in my tower?"
Matthew blinked, confusion flickering before giving way to sudden excitement. The scowl evaporated from his face at once.
"Of course—you would have one here. Tell me, can your smith forge armor? Full steel, plate if possible?"
Ser Roger's grin faltered, awkwardness flashing across his face—but he quickly puffed up his chest again.
"Of course he can! The best in the ridge! My guards all wear his work."
Matthew glanced toward the door, raising a brow at the leather‑clad sentries. He gestured with both hands. "But aren't those leather?"
The old man bristled. "Bah! You think I don't know the difference? We simply can't afford steel for everyone. You'll see—come, I'll show you my own armor. Finer work you won't find this side of Harrenhal!"
Before Matthew could reply, Roger was already dragging him down the corridor, insisting he come see for himself.
If he could secure this commission, the Hog family coffers might finally see some shine again.
After all, as the old man told himself with pride—
Confidence is half the craft.
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