Harlan's wounded assistant survived the first hour. That was enough to confirm the message; House Caron had closed the mountain approaches, raided merchants known to deal with FireStorm, and taken Harlan into custody. Goods could still be produced, but production meant little if barrels and glassware accumulated behind a wall while coin, iron, grain, and salt remained outside it.
Wayne took the news badly. "Give me twenty men," he said. "We know paths into Rainwood. We go tonight, take Harlan out, and make the guards regret touching him."
"And then what?" Arlan asked. Wayne's jaw tightened.
"We fight our way back."
"With Harlan wounded or dead between us, and every road alerted." The veteran did not answer.
A rescue might become necessary, but a blind attack would give Elton exactly what he needed: an armed Ashenblade force striking men under Nightsong's authority inside Rainwood. Storm's End had given Arlan a border warrant, not permission to raid a market town whenever trade became inconvenient. Arlan looked at the stacked glass and the barrels of Red Sun Flame.
"We use the official road."
Morton stared at him. "To Rainwood?"
"Tomorrow."
"Gareth will be waiting."
"He has been waiting since the first blockade." Arlan laid Rolland Florent's warrant on the table. "I am a lawful landed vassal carrying goods to a lawful market. If House Caron attacks the caravan openly, it turns a blockade into defiance of Storm's End. Elton has spent too many years protecting his position to make that choice casually." Morton looked unconvinced but stopped arguing once Arlan began issuing assignments.
The village spent the afternoon preparing a caravan; Morton treated the work as if he were provisioning a small military expedition, because losing the cargo would cost more than losing a single season's trade. Every barrel was checked for leaks; every crate was packed so glass could not strike glass when wheels hit ruts; every horse was inspected before being assigned to a wagon.
Twenty barrels of the best Red Sun Flame were selected and packed with straw where the wood might strike against other cargo; each bung was sealed and marked. The glassware required more care: cups nested only where layers of cloth kept them apart, flat panes were braced against wooden frames, and the pieces carrying Baratheon designs were packed separately so they could be shown without exposing an entire crate. Handled pitchers and decorative pieces filled the remaining fitted crates. The crowned stags on several pieces were intended for buyers tied to Storm's End.
Wayne selected thirty guards, all men who had fought during the bandit clearances and learned to keep formation under pressure. He rejected several eager recruits who had joined too recently, preferring men he had already seen hold a shield while frightened. Longbows and arrows were divided among those who could actually use them; the rest carried spear, shield, and short sword rather than pretending variety was skill. Their leather armor was checked, bowstrings replaced where necessary, and food packed for several days.
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After dark, Arlan went alone into the locked room adjoining his chamber. The space had been built for one purpose: to give the Forging Group somewhere to deliver goods without appearing in front of villagers who had no reason to understand how objects crossed between worlds. He closed the stone door and opened Larry's private chat.
"Thirty Common-quality spears and round shields. Four reinforced freight carriages. Strong axles. Thick bodies able to resist ordinary arrows." Larry answered quickly.
"Planning to trade or invade?"
"Trade."
"Humans always say that before ordering shields. Twelve silver stags. No credit." The price appeared with the order. Arlan accepted.
[Twelve silver stags deducted.]
The delivery arrived as carriage parts, shields, and spears inside the room. Arlan inspected the hardwood, iron hoops, axle fittings, and narrow shutter pieces before dismissing the interface. The workmanship was consistent enough to make the explanation harder than the purchase.
He moved the parts out in sections before dawn. Recovered timber from a bandit cache and frantic work after the blockade supplied the public story; nobody was invited to compare every board against old inventories. The lie only needed to leave the villagers with familiar causes rather than four completed wagons appearing inside a locked room.
The wheelwright and blacksmith assembled the first carriage beside two existing carts. One imported hub fitted too tightly for mud and grit, so the wheelwright widened the clearance and added a leather cover. The first load test bent a brace where the body met the axle; the blacksmith doubled the fastening before anyone trusted glass to it.
Wayne then drove the carriage around the yard under half weight, turned it between the well and smithy, and stopped it on the steepest usable slope. The thick walls resisted practice arrows, but the added timber lengthened every turn and made a frightened driver more dangerous to the cargo than most archers.
The other three carriages were assembled from the corrected pattern. Spears and shields entered the guard stores by count rather than passing from the secret room into waiting hands. A weapon lost later would therefore have a name and date beside it, while a broken fitting could be replaced by craftsmen who had already handled the design.
By sunrise, FireStorm could explain the convoy because its own people had done visible work upon it. They had not made every part. They had made the purchased parts usable on a road built from mud, ruts, bad bridges, and men who preferred sabotage to open battle.
Morton arrived before sunrise with the ledgers for the journey. He had listed the cargo by barrel and crate, the food issued to thirty guards, fodder for the horses, coin reserved for road expenses, and empty space intended for whatever grain, iron, salt, seed, cloth, or medicine they could buy in Rainwood. "If we actually manage to sell everything," he said, "the return journey may be heavier than the outward one."
"Then leave room for weight, not hope." Wayne checked the guard roster a final time. Five men would scout ahead. The rest would remain close enough to the wagons that an ambush could not separate cargo from protection. Nobody was to chase a thief or answer an insult without orders.
The last instruction earned several disappointed looks. Arlan ignored them. A caravan was not a raid; its success would be measured in goods sold, supplies purchased, and men brought home alive.
When the eastern sky began to grey, FireStorm opened its gate. Women brought hot porridge to the guards before departure, children stood on stones to see over the crowd, and the workers who would remain behind checked the cargo one last time because their next grain and iron purchases depended on what those wagons earned. Morton climbed onto his old horse with the ledgers tied close beneath his cloak.
The guard captain walked the line once more before allowing anyone to mount, checking shield straps, spearheads, bowstrings, and waterskins. A damaged buckle on the road could become a dead man during an ambush, and Wayne treated small failures with more suspicion than dramatic speeches; four reinforced carriages waited in a row behind Arlan's black horse. For a holding that had owned almost nothing but damaged farm equipment weeks earlier, the sight alone drew a silence from the villagers before the first blessing was shouted.