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x “Todd Flowers, by Lady Olenna’s command, at your service.” The knight bowed with the practiced ease of a man who had done it often and meant it only when necessary.
Samwell looked past him.
One hundred Tyrell soldiers stood in ordered ranks in the yard.
They were not peasants with sharpened sticks.
They wore good leather, carried shields, spears, swords, and bows, and held themselves with the hard patience of men who had been drilled until boredom became discipline.
A hundred men like that could break the household guard of many poor lords.
Lady Olenna had handed them over to him.
For a moment, Samwell wondered whether he had underestimated the Queen of Thorns.
Then he remembered that she had underestimated him as well.
She might think she had lent him a sword and kept the hilt.
He intended to see whose hand closed around it.
No, he thought, that made him sound like the weapon.
His gaze returned to Todd Flowers.
The knight was in his thirties, tall and weathered, with a scar that ran from his left ear toward the corner of his mouth.
His surname marked him plainly.
Flowers.
A noble bastard of the Reach.
In Westeros, bastards carried their own names: Snow in the North, Rivers in the riverlands, Sand in Dorne, Flowers in the Reach.
A royal decree could wash the stain away, but until then a bastard stood close enough to power to smell it and far enough away to be reminded of his place.
Some bastards changed the realm regardless.
Bloodraven had.
Jon Snow would.
Perhaps Todd Flowers meant to do the same in some smaller fashion.
“Do we depart now, Ser Samwell?” Todd asked.
“Not yet.
I need more men.” Todd’s mouth tightened.
“More?” “The Red Mountains have beasts, bandits, and clans that do not love lords.
One hundred men is generous.
It is not enough.” “Then we go where the sellswords gather?” “No.” Samwell turned toward the gate.
“We go to the docks.” By noon, they stood near the banks of the Mander, where the summer heat had driven most dockworkers into whatever shade they could find.
Men lay on coils of rope, sat on crates, drank thin ale, or slept with hats over their faces while barges shifted lazily in the water.
Samwell ordered Todd to send soldiers through the docks with the news.
Ser Samwell Greenhand, chartered by Lord Mace Tyrell, was marching south to settle new lands.
Any man willing to join could register.
Food and drink would be provided.
Meat would be served every day.
Pay would be seventy copper pennies a month.
If a man died in service, his family would receive five silver stags.
Todd stared at him.
“That is too generous.” “A generous lord recruits better men.” “You do not have a lord’s treasury.” “Then I had better make the men worth the coin.” Todd still looked unhappy, but he obeyed.
The rumor spread faster than smoke.
“Meat every day?” “Seventy coppers?” “Five silver stags if we die?” “What house is Greenhand?
Never heard of it.” “Do you know every lord in the Reach?
Look at those soldiers.
This is real.” A young dockworker named Gavin was among the first to run.
By the time the sun stood high, a crowd had gathered.
Samwell climbed onto a crate and raised his voice.
“I am Ser Samwell Greenhand, a chartered knight of the Reach.
Lord Mace Tyrell has granted me a charter to settle new lands in the south.
I need strong men willing to work, march, fight, and build.” He let the promise hang in the hot air.
“Men between eighteen and thirty-five, step forward.” The crowd thinned at once.
Too young, too old, too cautious, too drunk, too lazy.
They drifted back, muttering.
Still, hundreds remained.
Samwell pointed toward a distant tower rising beyond the river road.
“Run to that tower and back.
The first men to return will be considered.” For a heartbeat, the crowd stared at him.
Then the smart ones ran.
By the time the fastest returned, sweating and gasping, Samwell ordered Todd’s soldiers to close the line.
Everyone still on the road was dismissed.
There were still too many.
He could not feed an army of dockworkers, and taking half the smallfolk of Highgarden would make Lord Mace ask questions.
Samwell drew his sword and held it horizontally at the height he wanted.
“Pass beneath the blade.
If you can walk under without ducking, leave.” The short men groaned.
One by one, they came forward.
Those tall enough to bend their heads beneath the sword were kept.
Those who passed under easily were sent away.
Gavin watched the line shrink and felt his stomach sink.
He was not tall.
He had no family name, no patron, no chance of becoming a squire in any proper castle.
He came from the alleys near the docks, where boys learned early that dreams were only hunger wearing clean clothes.
But a new knight meant a new household.
A settlement meant new places.
If he missed this chance, he might never see another.
When his turn came, Gavin lifted his chin, rose onto his toes, and squeezed his eyes shut.
His hair brushed the flat of the sword.
Silence.
The seconds stretched.
His calves began to tremble.
Still he stayed on his toes.
Samwell watched him for a while.
Then he said, “Enough.
You are recruited.” Gavin collapsed to his heels with a breath that was almost a sob.
Samwell crouched slightly.
“Your name?” “Gavin, my lord.” “From today, you hold my reins and see to my horse.” The boy blinked.
For a moment he did not understand.
Then his eyes reddened.
“Yes, my lord.
Thank you, my lord.” Samwell rose and looked over the men he had chosen.
One hundred and eight dockworkers.
Not soldiers.
Not yet.
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS TheDevotedReader I hope you enjoyed this chapter.