Matthew watched the father and son stumble away, supporting each other until they vanished into the dusty heat.
The farther they went, the darker his face grew.
He had been polite at Sow's Ridge—very polite. Always fair in trade, never greedy, never dishonorable.
And this was how the Hog family thanked him?
The disrespect burned in his chest like dry coals.
Everyone nearby could feel it. The air thickened; even laughter dared not breathe.
Those who had spent time in Sow's Ridge traded uneasy looks. They feared he might whirl the company around and storm back in vengeance.
Even Sir Haven's knuckles twitched at the thought. His old instincts whispered war, but another part of him saw common sense. Several of his men—farmers, barely armed—glanced his way, waiting for orders.
Matthew took a long, deliberate breath. Then, to everyone's surprise, he smiled.
"See that?" He pointed south—the direction of Sow's Ridge. "They're afraid of us."
His tone was deceptively calm, but there was a spark beneath every syllable.
The contrast—the smile over rage—made men uncomfortable. Some thought he had snapped.
Fishy was the first to shout, puffing his little chest. "My lord, let's go show them! We can beat them up!"
Behind him, Bors and the five northern brutes were already rising, fire in their eyes, the scent of battle making their blood race.
Matthew let them stir a moment longer, then lifted his hand to quiet the noise. His smile sharpened.
"No need," he said lightly. "Their fear proves we're the stronger ones."
Haven, though confused, nodded quickly—praise was praise, after all.
"And since we are the strong," Matthew continued, "we'll act like it. Stronger every day, until the weak can't even lift their eyes to us."
He turned, addressing them all, his voice climbing with every sentence.
"Remember this insult. Burn it into your memory. When we return—next time—they'll kneel before us and beg forgiveness. Then we'll truly enjoy it."
The tone carried his fury without venting it—hot enough to boil blood, controlled enough to command.
The men felt it. Their chests thumped, their cheers shook the air.
They realized he wasn't marching them to revenge; he was pulling them forward—with rage as fuel.
He raised his fist, shouting: "Now we move! To Harrenhal! We'll recruit more men, buy armor, forge better weapons. We'll become strong enough that no‑one dares bar our way again. Do you want that?"
A roar answered: "We want it!"
The noise rolled through the field like thunder.
Matthew's grin vanished. His eyes hardened. "Then form up! Perfect lines! No wandering, no slouching. Show me your resolve!"
A single spark of laughter died instantly.
They scrambled into formation, straightening backs, fixing feet.
In those moments, Matthew seemed carved from the same steel as the sword at his hip—unyielding, cold, magnificent.
"Good," he said at last. "Catch up to the wagons. There's food waiting for the first to arrive."
Motivation came easy when hunger tugged at hearts.
The promise of food, the pressure of his eyes, and the heat of his anger drove them harder than any whip.
Dust billowed behind the running columns.
Matthew stalked alongside, his presence pressing them forward. When one man stumbled, his boot followed. None dared bark back.
Even Haven obeyed in silence.
They'd all seen that edge behind the commander's calm—a patience balanced on a knife's point.
He was furious, yes. But that fury was controlled, sharpened into purpose.
If they misstepped now, it wouldn't be words that cut them—it would be his sword.
No one in this company was foolish enough to test that.
And so, the flames of resentment that had threatened to break them instead welded them tighter together.
Matthew knew it, too.
Anger gave him the perfect excuse. A leader pretending rage could mold men faster than a thousand speeches.
If he couldn't punish the noble who spied on him, he'd punish their weakness instead.
By the time the wagons came into view, the two columns marched perfectly in rhythm.
---
By afternoon, the heat had become merciless.
The plains shimmered like a gigantic furnace; even the grass had wilted, turning dark and brittle under the sun.
The world burned, and yet his soldiers kept walking.
Sweat drenched every shirt, every back; men gnawed jerky with cracked lips and parched throats. Still, not one complained.
Matthew marched among them, face scarlet with sun, gnawing on tough venison that felt like chewing leather.
Fishy tugged at his sleeve, offering him the waterskin.
Matthew smiled faintly, drank deep, then lifted the flask.
"Who needs a drink?" he called.
Hands sprang up instantly, dozens of them. Yet not one man broke rank or stepped out of line. The formation held.
He chuckled and passed the water along, letting each take only a mouthful.
When they handed him the empty skin, he looked at it and smiled again.
They're learning.
Little victories, he thought, mattered more than any feast.
He tossed the flask back to Fishy, ruffling the boy's hair before turning his gaze forward.
Beyond the wagons, he could already see rooftops in the distance—smoke curling faintly into the sky.
Using the quick hand signs Bernas had once taught him, he estimated the distance.
Then his voice rang out: "Pick up the pace! A village ahead—three miles! We rest there!"
No one had the energy to cheer. They just moved faster, pushing through exhaustion with gritted teeth.
The rhythm of boots, wagons, and wheezing breaths merged into one endless sound.
By the time the first houses came into full view, hope surged—only to freeze the moment they saw what waited.
Dozens of villagers stood outside the gates, gripping pitchforks and hoes.
And in front of them—five armored soldiers, weapons glinting.
Their leader planted a longsword into the dirt. A spiked flail hung at his belt. His build was massive, his face carved with disdain.
"Stop!" Miro cried to the drivers. "Someone's blocking the road!"
Matthew had already seen. He turned toward Haven and jerked his chin forward.
The knight swiped the sweat from his brow and strode up to join him.
Together they approached the opposing line.
The big knight on the other side called out first. "I am Ser Wely Vord. Who are you?"
Matthew stepped forward, perfectly calm. "Our company serves under Lord Stannis Baratheon. We're bound for Harrenhal."
Ser Wely's gaze flicked to Haven's polished plate—finer than his own—and his suspicion wavered. But he eyed the ragged ranks behind them and frowned.
"Too many men," he said curtly. "Find another road."
Haven bristled. "You dare speak so to a servant of Lord Stannis? You insult his name?"
The accusation hung heavy, but Vord only sneered. "I am sworn to House Riverun, not Stannis Baratheon. You'll take the long way around."
Haven's temper flared. He reached for his sword.
Vord's hand went straight to his flail—turning the air thick with threat.
Matthew stepped between them instantly, catching Haven's arm before steel left the scabbard.
"Enough," he said. His voice carried farther than its volume.
Then, to Vord, he nodded. "If your house forbids passage, we won't challenge it. We'll leave."
Reluctantly, Haven lowered his weapon.
The two commanders exchanged terse nods before retreating to their positions.
But every step Matthew took away darkened his expression.
First the Hog family's spies—now the Vords barring his path.
Coincidence? Perhaps. But if fate insisted on throwing obstacles, he would use them.
He smiled thinly to himself.
Perfect, he thought. I needed a reason to test their mettle anyway.
And as the sun blazed overhead, the heat mixed with anticipation.
Somewhere behind his cold eyes, the seed of battle had already begun to bloom.
---