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x After crossing a branch of the Honeywine, Samwell and his column saw a tall castle of grey stone ahead.
Moss and ivy clung to the weathered walls, silent proof of all the seasons the old stronghold had endured.
From a tower more than a hundred feet high flew a white banner marked with a flight of black-and-orange butterflies.
House Mullendore.
Lords of Uplands.
Beyond this castle, a short march southwest would bring them into the Red Mountains.
If Samwell succeeded in raising a domain there, House Mullendore would be one of his nearest neighbors.
It seemed wise not to begin that relationship by marching past their gates like a thief in daylight.
He sent Gavin ahead with a formal letter requesting hospitality.
“Samwell Greenhand.” Inside the castle, Lord Martyn Mullendore held the letter Gavin had brought and smiled with open amusement.
“The chartered knight invested by a woman?” Gavin bowed slightly.
“My lord, Ser Greenhand was invested in Lord Mace Tyrell’s name by Lady Margaery, Lord Mace’s daughter.
He is a lawful vassal under House Tyrell.” His lip curled.
“So he was invested by a woman.” Gavin lowered his head and said nothing.
The lord of Uplands gave a small snort.
“Very well.
Invite him in.” Gavin bowed again and withdrew.
He turned to his steward.
“Have the kitchens prepare dinner.
Nothing lavish.
Only enough to keep courtesy alive.” “Yes, my lord.” “Father, is this the useless eldest son of House Tarly?” asked Ser Mark Mullendore.
His eldest son was a large man with a thick beard.
A black-and-white monkey sat on his shoulder, busy cracking a nut between its small hands.
“The same.
Randyll Tarly is a formidable man.
Pity he sired such a son.
It seems he finally stripped Samwell of the inheritance.
Though sending him into the Red Mountains…
I would have thought the Wall kinder.” Mark shrugged.
“If I had to choose, I would rather try settling new land than freeze at the Wall.” “You think settling is easy?” “No.
But the Wall is worse.
Cold, snow, and they say there are Others that cannot be killed.” “Others?” Lord Martyn laughed.
“Children’s tales.
Has anyone seen an Other in thousands of years?
As for the cold, it is summer.
Even the Wall cannot be so terrible in summer.” “Winter comes sooner or later.” “Who knows?
This summer has lasted so long it may last longer still.
Only those northern tree worshippers keep muttering Winter is Coming as if it were a prayer and a threat.” Mark considered that, then brightened.
“Father, could this be the endless summer the Seven promised?
No more winter at all?” “The Seven promise endless summer when the sins of men are ended.
Do you think men have finished sinning?” Mark shook his head and rested his chin on one fist, thinking deeply.
The monkey on his shoulder copied him, as if considering the sins of monkeys.
Then steady footsteps sounded outside the castle.
Mark went to the balcony and looked down.
“Father.
Come see this.” His father joined him.
A column of more than two hundred men was crossing the drawbridge into the yard.
Mark pointed down, stunned.
“Are you certain this Samwell is a discarded waste?” The lord of Uplands stared.
The men below marched in ordered ranks, well armed and well equipped.
Two months of drilling had done its work.
Samwell’s new recruits did not yet have the hard habits battle gave men, but from a distance they no longer looked far different from veteran soldiers.
Leather armor, shields, spears, swords, meat-fed bodies, and the habit of order were enough to fool most eyes.
To Lord Martyn, the famous wastrel of the Reach had arrived leading more than two hundred elite troops.
That was no small force.
Uplands itself kept only a little more than three hundred household soldiers in regular service.
House Mullendore could still call on sworn knights and raise peasants, and in true need he could gather several thousand men.
He was not afraid of Samwell’s column.
But he was lord of a castle.
Samwell was a chartered knight without land.
The comparison was insulting even if Uplands could win it.
“Where did he get so many trained soldiers?” Lord Martyn muttered through his teeth.
The disdain he had felt a moment ago changed into something uglier: jealousy, resentment, and a sharp discomfort he did not care to name.
“Could Lord Randyll have given them to him?” Mark asked.
“How many household men do you think Horn Hill has?
Enough to waste two hundred on a son he disowned?” Mark scratched his head.
He had never been to Horn Hill, but even he knew House Tarly could not afford to throw away such men in the Red Mountains without feeling the loss.
“Then perhaps House Tyrell gave them to him.” “Lord Mace would not even invest the man in person.
You think he handed him a small army?” Mark had no answer.
The monkey began hopping along his shoulder as if troubled by the same question.
The lord of Uplands watched the column a while longer, then turned without another word and went downstairs.
Mark hurried after him.
At the castle gate, the steward had already brought bread and salt.
Guest right was an ancient bond in Westeros.
A guest who came beneath a roof and accepted bread and salt could not be harmed by his host, nor the host by him, without offending gods old and new.
Samwell took a small piece of bread, dipped it in salt, and ate.
Then he pressed one hand to his chest and bowed slightly.
“Lord Mullendore, thank you for your generous welcome.” The lord’s smile was warm and false.
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS TheDevotedReader I hope you enjoyed this chapter.