The Darry column made camp on open ground near the river as the sun began to set.
Soldiers gathered around cookfires, cleaning weapons and talking in low voices about the fighting that waited at Seagard.
Inside Lord Raymond Darry’s tent, the mood was far more strained.
Raymond sat in a plain wooden chair, twenty-four years old and painfully aware of how young he looked compared to the hardened knights and vassals around him.
Most of them treated him with thinly veiled contempt.
They didn’t wait for him to speak before launching into a loud argument about the pace of the march.
They wanted to push harder, reach Seagard faster, kill ironborn, and earn rewards from Lord Tully and King Robert before anyone else could claim the glory.
The tent grew louder and more chaotic by the minute.
Then Ser Jocelyn spoke.
He was a short, fat knight with a voice so shrill it cut through every other conversation.
When he raised it, the entire tent went quiet.
“Hmph.
House Darry stood on the wrong side during the rebellion against the Mad King,” Ser Jocelyn said, looking straight at Raymond.
“Your three older brothers all died fighting for Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident.
Now is the time for House Darry to prove its loyalty to King Robert.
Yet here you sit, dragging your feet like some reluctant maiden.” A dangerous silence followed.
Several of Raymond’s loyal men quietly moved their hands to their sword hilts.
Ser Jocelyn either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
He kept going, his tone turning mocking.
“And your sisters… married off to old Lord Walder’s sons, weren’t they?
So many Frey boys to choose from.
How many did it take to secure the family line this time?” The air in the tent grew thick with tension.
One wrong word and blood would be spilled.
Ser Ronald, the stocky knight who served as Raymond’s castellan and commander of his household knights, stood up abruptly.
“The meeting is over,” he said in a hard voice.
“Everyone get some rest.
We march again at first light.” His glare lingered on Ser Jocelyn long enough to make the fat knight shift uncomfortably.
One by one, the vassals and knights filed out of the tent until only Ser Ronald and Raymond remained.
Ser Ronald turned to his young lord.
Raymond’s face was calm, almost distant, as if the insults had barely touched him.
“My lord,” Ser Ronald said quietly, “you should not take Ser Jocelyn’s words to heart.
But hanging portraits of the old Targaryen kings in the great hall… that is dangerous.
It changes nothing about what has already happened, and if the wrong person sees them and reports it…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
After a moment, he continued in a heavier tone.
“House Darry has already done more than enough for the Targaryen cause by secretly aiding the two young dragons.
Ser Jocelyn was right about one thing — we need to show real loyalty in this war.
It’s the best way to protect what we’re truly doing.” Raymond still didn’t answer.
His gaze remained lowered, lost in thought.
Ser Ronald sighed and was about to speak again when another thought occurred to him.
“My lord,” he said, changing the subject, “that boy from House Stinkfort — Solomon.
He and his two guards reached Seagard not long ago.
They fought in the battle against the ironborn landing.
His father and both older brothers died there.
The two men with him are survivors of that same fight.” Raymond slowly lifted his head.
For the first time that evening, genuine interest flickered in his eyes.
“A sixteen-year-old boy,” he murmured.
“He already went to war and lost his entire family.” Raymond had been twenty-four when the rebellion ended.
By that age, his three older brothers — Damon, Desmond, and Rodrik — had already died fighting for Prince Rhaegar.
Raymond himself had never swung a sword in a real battle.
The thought that this strange, awkward young knight from the poorest house in the Riverlands had already seen more war than he had… stirred something in him.
“Bring Solomon Stinkfort to me,” Raymond said.
— A soldier found Solomon sitting by one of the cookfires with Luden and Rosslyn, waiting in line for food like everyone else.
“Lord Solomon.
Ser Ronald wants you in Lord Darry’s tent.” Solomon froze, the wooden bowl of thin broth halfway to his mouth.
They found out.
His mind immediately jumped to the worst possibility.
They had noticed him and his guards eating with the soldiers every day.
They had seen him wrapping up leftover bread and taking it with him.
Someone had reported it.
We’re about to get thrown out.
Or worse.
He forced a calm expression onto his face and turned to Luden and Rosslyn.
“Eat more,” he said quietly.
“As much as you can.
Right now.” The two men didn’t understand why, but they trusted him completely.
They immediately got back in line for another serving.
Solomon handed his own bowl to a nearby soldier and followed the messenger toward the large tent at the center of the camp, his heart hammering in his chest.
He spent the entire walk frantically thinking of excuses.
“I was just saving it for later so nothing went to waste!” “It’s an old family tradition — never leave food behind!” “I was holding it for you, my lord!
As a gesture of respect!” None of them sounded convincing.
When he reached the tent, he took a deep breath, straightened his faded black robe as best he could, and stepped inside.