Evening settled heavy and hot across the hills.
Matthew stood silent atop a weather‑worn stone, eyes fixed on the twin villages far beyond—the lands of the Ward brothers.
Their villages stood so close they could see each other's smoke across the fields. If one called for help, the other could answer before dusk.
That, precisely, was the problem.
Matthew frowned, hands clasped behind his back.
Footsteps scraped the dirt behind him. Euron approached.
Without turning, Matthew asked quietly, "Those watchers—still there?"
Euron followed his gaze toward the thin columns of smoke curling from the village chimneys, then nodded. "Of course. We're here, aren't we? They won't go anywhere until we do."
His tone was light, careless, as if being watched no longer bothered him. But then he looked back to Matthew.
"So," he asked, "you really mean to strike the Wards?"
Matthew nodded, smiling faintly. "They're perfect."
He gestured toward the distant rooftops—the smile never reaching his cold, focused eyes.
"We need an enemy to unite the company. A fight worth winning. And look—one has kindly volunteered."
Euron rubbed his jaw, hesitating. Then, with a half‑amused smirk, he said, "Is this really about uniting men—or proving that speech you gave at noon? You want them to see you were right, so they obey without question."
The accusation hung in the humid air.
Matthew's expression froze, but only for an instant. When he turned, his polite smile returned.
"And what," he asked softly, "is the difference? I'm their lord. Belief in me is obedience, no?"
Euron clicked his tongue. "I've known plenty of nobles, my lord. None I've followed thought like you."
He raised a finger, pointing toward the camp below.
"Those men don't care who commands them. Most just want to live. They fear pain, they fear death. Promise them survival or coin, and they'll fight. Expect loyalty or ideals?" He shrugged. "You'll be disappointed."
Matthew said nothing, so Euron pressed on, half in sincerity, half in warning.
"If you expect too much from cattle, you'll end up with nothing. You can't make heroes out of sellswords."
Matthew tilted his head. "Go on."
Euron exhaled. "Training them—disciplining them—it's all a waste. Use them as what they are: expendables. That's how the strong rise. You can't throw gold after beggars and call it leadership."
Matthew chuckled quietly. The words weren't pleasant, but they were honest.
"Thank you for the advice," he said. "But I know exactly what I'm doing."
He looked down toward the camp—the men sprawled lazily around the fire, half asleep, half arguing.
"I'm not like the nobles you speak of," he added calmly. "I don't have the luxury of burning what I've built to ashes for a quick win. These men are chaos—true—but they're mine. And chaos can be shaped."
Euron's eyes darted sideways, uncertain whether to laugh or bow.
Matthew jumped lightly down from the rock, resting a hand on Euron's shoulder.
"One day," he said quietly, "you'll understand what I'm after. For now, just watch."
He squeezed once, then looked toward the faint shadows of movement beyond the ridgeline.
"Can you remove those scouts—quietly? We'll need a clear path to slip in."
Euron blinked, then nodded with the ease of a man who'd already killed that morning.
"My lord," he said with a grin, touching his chest, "that's child's play."
Matthew patted his shoulder twice, smile sharpening. "Good. Go."
The assassin turned and slipped into the darkness, silent as smoke.
To Euron, the "lord's plan" was little more than a fool's game—a slow burn when fire was needed.
Men didn't follow kindness. They followed fear.
Only blood and iron could teach respect.
If this young commander wanted to treat beggars like brothers, Euron would stay long enough to watch him fail—perhaps even save him out of gratitude when the knives came for his back.
But behind him, Matthew stood very still beneath the waning light. His hand closed around his sword hilt, and his eyes glimmered with barely restrained excitement.
He was done being polite.
Blood and fire, then. So be it.
The world, he thought, moved only through change.
And change had come for him, too.
He'd planned to reach Harrenhal quietly—train his recruits, recruit more, exchange the Hog family's insult for patience.
But the Wards' defiance had changed everything.
Just hours ago, he had told his men they were strong.
Would a strong man swallow an insult from swaggering border knights and walk away?
Of course not.
He needed victory. Needed them to taste it.
To feel what triumph under his banner meant.
It wasn't ego, he told himself—it was unity. For their confidence. Their belief.
Selfless motives, he thought wryly. Truly, I might be the Seven's favorite son.
His mouth twitched into a grin as the sun bled over the horizon.
"Tonight," he whispered, "we'll see what they're made of."
This would be the company's baptism—blood and fire polishing rough men into soldiers.
Too soft, Euron had said? Then tonight, they'd see hardness.
Victory would build their respect faster than any speech.
This, he thought, is the best arrangement.
As dusk deepened into night, his excitement cooled into focus.
When Euron returned, wiping his hands clean, Matthew rose to meet him.
"They're dealt with," Euron reported.
Matthew nodded once, then turned to Haven.
"Take your unit," he ordered, "circle around to the front of the village. Find cover and wait. After we strike, you flank them. Trap them between us."
Haven hesitated, glancing back at his tired men. "You sure they're ready for that?"
Matthew's answer came sharp and cold: "They'll be ready."
The knight straightened, bowed slightly, and jogged down the slope, muttering to his men to follow.
When the shape of their retreat faded, Matthew looked at Euron again and asked, almost playfully, "Do you think we'll succeed?"
Euron spread his hands. "I couldn't say, my lord."
Matthew pointed at him with mock scolding. "You're too cautious. I believe we'll win."
He turned toward Bors and the twenty‑odd soldiers gathered around.
"Listen up!" he called. "We march to reclaim what the arrogant Ward brothers stole from the common folk. Their greed shamed this land—tonight we take it back! Will you follow me?"
Bors rose first, gripping his spear. The northern mercenaries followed, faces hard and eager.
Excitement rippled through the camp—fear burned away by the sweetness of promised loot.
Matthew saw it and smiled. Exactly as expected.
They weren't saints—but they were motivated.
"The Wards provoked this," he said, raising his voice. "They wanted trouble. We'll give it to them—and take what's owed in return!"
Whether they truly believed it or not didn't matter.
If he believed, then they all would.
That was how command worked.
He lifted his sword, the fading firelight glinting on the blade.
"Move out! Stay close! No stragglers!"
Bors roared, swinging his crude spear overhead. "Move out!"
His booming voice carried, and a dozen others echoed it—only for Matthew to hush them with a sharp gesture.
"Quiet," he whispered, grin flashing. "We strike like thieves—let the Wards wake to their own ruin."
Laughter, low and wicked, rippled through the ranks.
Then came silence—only the crunch of boots on dry grass.
As Matthew turned downslope, his soldiers followed behind in near‑perfect line, like a brood of disciplined ducklings, steady and instinctively careful.
Whatever else they were—peasants, wanderers, mercenaries—at that moment, they moved as one.
Because every man loves the sound of his lord inviting him to violence.
And tonight, their lord had finally asked the only question that mattered—
"Will you follow me?"
And every heart, eager and foolish, had already answered yes.
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