"Scraps?"
Miro, the old mercenary, immediately straightened up. Then he froze, realizing it was the same term Matthew had used earlier.
Matthew couldn't help laughing. "Our battlefield spoils," he said. "Some of it's junk. I'm letting the Hog family's blacksmith try reforging it — maybe he can make new armor for you lot."
The old man's face lit up. The chance of new armor erased all hesitation. "That's great! I'll open the door at once!"
Even battle‑worn men could never resist the promise of better gear.
Matthew nodded, following him out of the room.
Before stepping into the hall, he turned back and said with a grin, "Bors, keep an eye on things. I won't be long."
The big man nodded obediently.
Fishy, meanwhile, had clambered onto Matthew's chair and was waving cheerfully. "Come back quick!"
Matthew shot him a mock glare before closing the door and motioning to Miro. "Lead on."
The old soldier moved ahead, but not too fast — always keeping five careful paces between them.
Miro knew he was still under silent scrutiny. He'd fled once before; men didn't forget that sort of stain.
If he wanted to keep his place, his pay, and his lord's trust, he had to show humility. Deference. Reliability.
And Matthew noticed.
That obedience, that awareness of rank and timing — those were exactly why Matthew had chosen him to oversee the recruiting. A little test, really.
But Miro had passed.
He wasn't quick‑thinking, but he was steady — and steady men built armies.
Matthew needed numbers first, skill second. Strength could be sorted later.
Once there were enough bodies, order would shape itself. Soldiers in front; support behind. Everyone useful. Everyone with purpose.
They reached the third floor.
The moment Miro unlocked his quarters, a fetid odor rolled out like a punch.
Matthew slapped a hand to his mouth and nose, grimacing. "How can you even live in here?"
"Eh," Miro mumbled with a sheepish grin. "You get used to it. Better stink than theft, right? Keeps people honest."
Matthew shook his head, half‑amused, half‑disgusted. "Honest or not, this could knock a knight off his horse."
He stepped carefully inside. Every corner was stacked high with looted weapons and armor — rusted, dented, blood‑crusted.
"From now on," Matthew said curtly, "you're changing rooms."
The old mercenary blinked, startled.
Matthew went to the window and shoved it open, letting in a rush of fresh air. As the scent began to drift out, he spoke quietly, his back turned.
"I don't like seeing my people live like animals," he said. "Others will think I treat you poorly. A leader who lets his men suffer is no leader at all. Don't make me look bad — or sicken yourself while you're at it."
The mild tone hit harder than any scolding.
Miro straightened unconsciously, heat prickling the back of his neck. He bowed his head in shame.
Matthew let it sink in for a moment before softening again, turning with a small smile.
"But that's all small talk. Just take care of yourself, old friend. I'm not done needing you yet."
A blow, then balm — a lesson followed by kindness.
The old soldier's shoulders relaxed. His posture didn't, though; if anything he stood even straighter, respectful as a servant before a lord.
Satisfied, Matthew brushed past him with a friendly jab to the shoulder and knelt beside the pile of shattered armor.
The stench was awful. A lesser man might have gagged.
"I swear," he muttered, "I'll get sick just standing here."
He picked out two corroded chain shirts and three chipped blades — the worst of the lot. Junk enough for a test.
Carrying the pile to the door, he paused again and turned back.
"Remember," he said seriously, "don't sleep among this garbage again. Health matters more than coin."
Miro met his gaze, blinking rapidly, then broke into a wrinkled smile. "Yes, my lord. You're right."
And for the first time in years, he meant it. The warmth in his chest was something he hadn't felt since serving under Bernas.
When he walked Matthew to the stairs, he was humming under his breath, a happy old soldier once more.
Down the kitchen corridor, Matthew passed through the smell of smoke and stew and glanced over his shoulder, watching Miro leave the tower with a new spring in his step.
The young lord smiled slightly to himself.
Exactly as planned.
He'd been right — people weren't bound by coin alone.
Respect and attention cost nothing, but they made loyalty priceless.
No one had ever taught him this; no mentor whispered these lessons. He'd simply learned through life — and death — that men followed the ones who remembered their names.
Every gesture was practice. Every word, a test of what it meant to win hearts.
With that thought, he nodded politely to the startled kitchen maids and asked them to open the back door.
They flustered, hurrying to obey.
"Thank you," he said warmly, pressing a hand to his chest before slipping through.
They blushed at his courtesy.
The moment he stepped outside, Matthew closed his mouth and held his breath against the familiar stink of the Hog courtyard. He hurried straight across to the smith's hut, pushing through the low entry and down the tight stairway.
By the time he reached the forge, voices echoed off the stone walls.
"He's taking too long!" the blacksmith was grumbling. "Maybe the brat ran off."
"Wait," Ser Roger snapped. "Patience, old fool."
Silence—for all of ten seconds—before Quirie began muttering again. "Not running off, huh? Then what's he doing? Dreaming about gold dragons while we rot here?"
Roger rolled his eyes and turned away, too tired to argue.
That was when Matthew's voice floated from the shadows.
"I didn't run."
The two men turned as the young lord stepped into the glow of the forge, carrying his bundle.
He dropped the worn armor and swords to the floor with a metallic clatter.
"Here's your scrap," he said cheerfully. "Let's see what you can make of it."
Quirie rushed forward, scooping up the pieces like treasure. To him, iron was life—no matter how rusted.
Matthew ignored the smell and turned to Roger. "So," he asked dryly, "when does the show start?"
The old knight barked at his companion. "You heard him. Get to work!"
Quirie grinned, excitement replacing his earlier frustration. "What do you need, boy? Plate, mail, or miracle?"
Matthew chuckled. "Chain mail will do. Keep it simple."
"Simple, he says!" the old man scoffed, already hauling the scrap toward the furnace. "Chain mail's the hardest of all, but fine—since you asked!"
Still muttering, he fed the twisted blades and broken rings into the flames, pumped the bellows hard, and watched the fire bite deep.
As the iron melted, bright liquid flowed into a narrow groove carved toward a shallow stone basin. He handled it with surprising deftness — no fumbling, no wasted motion.
Matthew watched closely. Maybe the old knight hadn't exaggerated after all.
When the final drops of molten steel slid into the basin, Quirie grabbed an old lamp, moved to a wall shelf, and rummaged through the dark.
He emerged holding a dusty hammer and a long pair of tongs, eyes gleaming in the lamplight.
Wiping the grime away with his sleeve, he hung the tools beside the forge and dragged out a heavy stone slab from the corner.
The firelight colored his weathered face crimson as he arranged everything into place — each movement purposeful, practiced, alive.
Matthew leaned close to Roger with a smirk. "Not going to help him?"
Roger shook his head quickly. "He hates that."
Matthew tilted his head, surprised. "You two have known each other long?"
"Since we were boys," Roger said softly. "We fought together in the Loyalist army. Spent a year in Haverfield as—hah—apprentice smiths."
He lowered his voice with sudden pride, chin lifting. "And don't think us too old. You'll see — my friend won't disappoint."
> Note: The "Loyalist Army" refers to the coalition that fought for House Targaryen during Robert's Rebellion.
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