Silence lingered for a few seconds in the underground forge—then laughter erupted.
Matthew was laughing so hard he nearly doubled over.
Ser Roger Hog's face was simply priceless.
The old knight looked as if each coin he owned had been torn in half before spending it and then counted twice again. He couldn't bear even a tiny loss.
Quirie, standing nearby with his hammer still in hand, glanced at Matthew in utter confusion.
He had no idea why the young man was laughing.
Roger, however, understood perfectly—but his pride wouldn't let him show it.
He clapped his old friend on the shoulder and attempted a bluff. "Why don't we wait until George gets back? My grandson will be thrilled to see you forge armor again."
Quirie's hard eyes softened immediately. He really did care for the boy; he'd watched him grow up. The thought made him smile—a warm, rare sight.
But patience was not something Quirie had in abundance anymore.
It was true—Hog family commissions had dwindled for years. He barely got enough work repairing plows and axes, let alone armor.
Now, finally, there was the promise of real steel again. He wasn't about to wait another day.
"Let me try it now," he said firmly, eyes shining.
"If it works, young George will be even prouder when he returns."
Matthew almost laughed again. Not even pretending anymore, he thought.
Still, he admired the nerve. If the old man could craft decent armor out of his junk metal, the gamble would pay off a hundredfold.
All he needed now was for Ser Roger to take the bait.
The old knight exhaled sharply, plucking one of his own beard hairs in frustration. Pain flickered across his face.
He was trapped.
Matthew watched him silently, amusement dancing behind calm eyes. Under that gaze, Roger felt his head start to ache.
Then he looked back at Quirie—eyes wide with hopeful expectancy—and nearly cursed out loud.
"Why am I always broke?" he muttered under his breath.
He wanted to blame the Haverfield family's politics, but deep down, he knew that wasn't it. He was just too softhearted—and right now, cornered.
After a long internal struggle, he sighed heavily and grasped the blacksmith's shoulder.
"All right," he said. "Do it. I trust you."
Quirie's dim eyes suddenly flared to life, blazing like his forge.
He gripped the knight's hand firmly. "Don't worry, ser! When I went to Haverfield years ago, I learned plenty from their armorers. I know I can do it!"
Roger forced a smile that looked painful. That had been decades ago. He doubted the man had lifted a proper hammer since.
The more he thought about it, the worse it sounded.
But it was far too late now.
Quirie was already turning toward Matthew, breaking into a grin that looked half‑mad, half‑ecstatic.
"Boy! Bring the scrap iron you don't need. I'll show you the craftsmanship of the Hog family!"
Matthew blinked, then smirked and turned that grin back on Ser Roger.
"So you're agreeing to the wager, then?"
Roger's face twisted as if he'd bitten something sour—but he nodded.
He didn't want to disappoint his childhood friend. And honestly, what pride did he have left to lose anyway?
If this fool's forge could still burn, perhaps it would rekindle some dignity long buried with his family's fortunes.
Quirie laughed heartily, swinging his fist through the air, excitement glowing on his soot‑stained face.
Matthew chuckled softly, turned on his heel, and walked out. "I'll fetch the spoils—the cracked blades, dented shields, whatever can be melted down. Let's see what your magic can do."
---
When he stepped back out of the dim stone hut, the stench hit him anew—a mix of livestock, dung, and smoke.
It was almost nostalgic.
He adjusted his damp tunic with a grimace, thinking wryly, I might as well be back in King's Landing.
Holding his breath, Matthew strode across the courtyard, into the kitchen, and quickly shut the door behind him.
A few maids clustered near the water buckets looked up in surprise.
He smiled politely, nodded, and moved past them down the narrow corridor into the main hall.
He had no time to entertain gossip—but as soon as he was gone, whispers burst like fireworks behind his back, along with shrill giggles.
Their laughter followed him faintly even as he climbed the stairs. He could only shake his head.
On the fourth floor, Bors and Fishy were still there—no sign of anyone else.
Seeing him, Fishy bounded up cheerfully. "Why are you back alone?"
"Had to take care of something," Matthew said, ruffling his hair. Then he looked at Bors. "Fetch the old soldier for me, will you?"
Bors nodded without question and lumbered toward the door.
"Go to the tavern from last night," Matthew added as the big man reached the hall, "same one as before."
Bors paused, nodded once, and disappeared down the stairs.
It wasn't far to the tavern—half a slope, a few hundred paces.
Bors loped down the hill quickly, cutting across dirt paths until the modest wooden building came into view.
But today, the place was packed—lines of people stretched out the door and down the road, at least a dozen paces long.
He scratched his head and edged toward them. Before he could ask anyone, a familiar voice shouted his name.
"Bors! Didn't expect to see you here!"
It was one of the younger northern mercenaries. The man clapped a friendly arm around his shoulder, grinning.
"Came to fetch old Miro," Bors said.
"Ah." The man nodded knowingly, then smirked. "How about a drink before you go?"
Bors chuckled and waved it off. "Another time. Orders come first. Could you fetch him for me instead?"
The younger man looked disappointed but shrugged. "Fine, fine. Wait here."
He squeezed into the noisy crowd and disappeared through the tavern door.
Bors waited patiently by the roadside, arms crossed.
He didn't wait long.
Moments later, Miro emerged, flanked by two flushed, grinning mercenaries.
Bors waved. "Here!"
The two younger men waved back and veered off toward the side street, leaving only the old soldier to approach.
"What's the matter?" Miro asked with mild curiosity.
Bors shook his head. "No idea. The lord wants you back at the tower. Said we'd find out when we got there."
Miro sighed but started walking anyway. "Then let's not keep him waiting."
Halfway up the road, they passed the growing line of would‑be fighters outside the tavern. Bors gestured toward the crowd.
"What's going on here?"
The older man straightened up proudly. "Recruiting," he said. "I told them at the tavern there's work under you and the young lord. Pay's good, so they came running. Who turns down coin?"
Bors frowned. "Won't that mean we'll get… cowards? Drunks? Useless men?"
Miro shrugged. "Hard to tell who's who till the swords come out. And if we find cowards—well, we'll cut them loose. Or cut them down."
The younger man fell silent at that.
Experience had taught him something Miro clearly hadn't learned: cowards always ran fastest when things went wrong.
He glanced sidelong at the old soldier, a faint look of disdain flickering across his face.
He'd have to warn Matthew about this.
Better to sort out the rats before battle than after.
They walked in silence for the rest of the climb, both moving faster than usual—as if trying to outrun something unspoken.
Within minutes they had reached the fourth floor of the tower again.
Bors entered first to announce their arrival.
Miro lingered outside, masking impatience until Matthew's calm voice called out: "Come in."
The old mercenary stepped forward, bowing slightly.
"My lord. You wanted to see me?"
Matthew sat at the desk by the window, sunlight outlining his profile—sharp, controlled, unreadable.
He gestured lightly. "Sit."
Miro shuffled forward quickly, perching on the edge of the chair as though afraid to make it creak. The tension made his shoulders stiff.
Matthew leaned slightly toward him, voice calm. "How goes the recruiting?"
The old man rubbed his palms on his knees, glancing once at Bors before answering. "All right so far. With Sir Haven and Morty standing by for show, plenty signed up—but I can't vouch for quality."
"Fair," Matthew nodded. "Don't worry about that. Get as many as you can—we'll sort them later."
His lips curved upward. "But let them know—only those who pass our test will earn silver stags. Fail, and they get copper."
Miro grimaced. "That might not go over well…"
He'd already bragged about generous pay; to backtrack now felt humiliating.
Matthew stood, resting a hand lightly on the desk. His tone turned cooler but still steady.
"Real fighters won't fear being tested. Frauds will. You understand?"
The explanation left no room for argument.
After a brief pause, Miro nodded. "I'll try it your way."
Matthew clapped a hand on his shoulder, his smile returning. "Good. Don't overthink it. Even if fewer sign up, I'll blame no one. Now—let's see your room. We've got some scrap I need you to fetch."
The old soldier's brows rose in confusion, but Matthew's grin was reassuring, almost conspiratorial.
"Just a little test," he said. "We've an old blacksmith downstairs waiting to prove himself."
---