Of course, Matthew had his own reasons for complicating things.
He had no intention of letting any single person control all the new recruits.
If one man held total power over the soldiers, then whom would they truly serve—him or Matthew?
That kind of loyalty was dangerous.
Men's hearts shifted easily, and only what he personally held in his grasp could be called his.
That was why he had come to the tavern tonight—to see the recruits, to make sure they saw him.
The arguments between Sir Haven and Miro were perfect. Haven's stubborn outrage, Miro's sly smugness—it all played into his hands.
Outwardly his face remained cold, expressionless. But inside, he was nearly laughing.
Still, once the tension started to boil over, he tapped his knuckles on the table.
"Enough," he said. "Listen to me."
They fell silent as his sigh cut through the noise.
"If you can't agree," he said dryly, "then we'll forget all that. We test one thing and one thing only—their bodies."
The tone dripped with sharp disappointment, as though he were scolding children for bickering.
Miro shut up immediately.
Haven, still flushed, lowered his head and mumbled something under his breath.
Matthew waited until the silence settled in before smiling again.
"Then it's decided," he said. "We'll select by raw ability—strength, speed, endurance in swimming, accuracy in shooting, and balance."
Haven blinked, scratching the back of his head. "How in the seven hells are we testing all that? Sounds like too much work."
Matthew laughed heartily. "Too much? Hardly. They'll lift first, then balance across the log, shoot ten arrows, and sprint to the river for a swim race. Whoever reaches the far shore first—and the top thirty percent—make the cut."
That made Haven stiffen. "And the other seventy?"
The knight's old nervousness about manpower resurfaced instantly. Miro frowned, too, trying to predict the lord's answer.
Matthew looked between them, his expression turning steady, commanding.
"The remaining seventy percent," he said, "if they choose to stay, will form a second group. Every month, they'll be re‑tested. If they surpass the frontliners, they can rise and replace them."
His gaze sharpened. "Rank and pay will reflect those differences—food, salary, recognition. The best eat well, the lazy fight for scraps. Even within the same squad, distinctions will be made by merit and contribution."
When he finished, both Haven and Miro stared at him in shock.
What he was describing wasn't the improvisation of a wandering sellsword captain—it was the framework of a professional army.
Something neither of them had ever seen outside a noble's standing force.
How did this young man—a bastard from nowhere—know such things?
Haven knit his brows, unsettled by the realization. Miro simply lowered his eyes, troubled and impressed in equal measure.
Matthew let the silence stretch, giving them time to absorb it.
Then, with impeccable timing, he called out toward the counter, "Innkeeper! How's our food coming?"
The tavern keeper dropped his rag at once, spinning toward the kitchen. "The gentleman's chicken, pork pies, and lamb—are they ready yet?"
"Almost!" came a tired voice from behind the stove.
The barkeep turned back, smiling so wide his cheeks nearly split. "Just a moment longer, my lord! Anything else you'd like in the meantime?"
Matthew glanced at Miro and asked mildly, "How's the food here?"
Miro looked at the nervous owner, who pressed his palms together in silent pleading.
"It's good," the old mercenary said smoothly. "Better than the last tavern we had, and safer too—no one tries robbing you between bites."
Matthew laughed and slapped the table. "Then bring two more pork pies, two extra roast chickens, and one more serving of lamb. I'll take them to go once we're done."
The tavern keeper's face lit up like a lantern. He shouted the new order toward the back, only to receive a weary, breathless reply.
While the kitchen scrambled, Matthew grinned and added, "Tell me, good man, since we're such generous customers—any discount or gifts for us tonight?"
The owner rubbed his hands eagerly. "Of course, of course! I'll throw in a bottle of our finest ale—on the house!"
"Oh? That one?" Matthew nodded toward the shelf lined with clay jugs.
"Yes, my lord—the best batch we have!"
"Perfect," Matthew said. "I'll take that too."
The barkeep beamed, already hauling the jugs over while shouting more orders at the exhausted cooks.
Soon after, the table filled with steaming dishes—the smell of roasted meat thick in the air.
Matthew inhaled the scent, grabbed a pork pie, and waved to the boy. "Fishy! Come eat."
The child spun around, cheeks stuffed with lamb, and jogged over without even wiping his hands.
Matthew didn't care. He handed him the pie directly.
As Fishy gobbled noisily, Matthew picked up the second one and started eating as well.
Across the table, both Haven and Miro—already full from earlier—found themselves swallowing hard again as they watched.
Matthew noticed.
When he finished his pie, he tore off two chicken breasts and tossed one to each of them.
Haven laughed out loud, catching his piece mid‑air. Miro accepted his more formally, murmuring thanks before eating carefully, almost reverently.
Matthew didn't eat another bite—he just watched.
Only when they'd both finished did he speak again.
"So," he asked, "any thoughts about my selection plan? Improvements, maybe?"
Both men froze, mid‑breath.
Haven shook his head helplessly. "No, my lord. It's… it's perfect."
He felt like an idiot for not having a single useful suggestion.
Miro, on the other hand, smiled slyly.
"The lord's wisdom is beyond anything we could add," he said, voice dripping with admiration. "If we follow your plan, we'll have the strongest company in the land before long."
It was flattery—transparent but effective.
Haven shot him a sharp glare, all but ready to snap at him again, but Matthew lifted a hand to stop it.
"Good," he said lightly. "Then that's settled. Haven, you'll handle the selection tomorrow. Miro, keep recruiting. In three to five days—no later—we march for Harrenhal."
That silenced them both.
After a moment, Haven coughed into his fist and asked carefully, "Sir… I heard you visited the Hog family's smith. Can he really forge enough armor before we leave?"
Miro stiffened instantly.
He could feel heat rising up his neck. Idiot! he thought. Why ask that here?
His panic didn't go unnoticed. Matthew's hand paused mid‑reach for another chicken leg. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as they locked onto the older man.
Under that look, the color drained from Miro's face. Cold sweat trickled down his temples.
He forced a laugh, brittle and apologetic.
"My lord, I—"
Matthew said nothing. The silence itself was punishment enough.
He let it draw out, just until Miro's nerves had begun to crack—then tapped the table with two fingers and smiled faintly.
"All right," he said. "We're all on the same side, so I'll be clear. The Hog family's smith… may not be reliable. If he can't deliver, we'll take our business elsewhere in Harrenhal."
Miro let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his forced smile easing into relief.
Haven caught the exchange and chuckled, forcing the tension to break. "Ah, so that's how it is."
Matthew leaned back in his chair, gaze calm again.
He had given a warning without shouting, asserted control without breaking trust.
And in the quiet that followed, both men understood something perfectly well—
Their lord was watching every word, every move.
And every detail would decide whether they sank or rose beside him.
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