The hall was silent except for the crackle of torches.
Matthew stood before the huddled villagers, his restraint burning out at last.
He turned to the northern brutes beside him. "Take five men," he said evenly. "Search every house again. Then burn the village."
For a heartbeat, the man only stared at him. Then he nodded and went, saying nothing. Orders were orders.
A ripple of panic swept through the peasants.
"No! Please, don't burn our homes—please—"
The cries rose in waves, women's voices breaking into wails.
Matthew's brow twitched. He looked toward the mercenaries hovering nearby and spotted the narrow‑faced Hound skulking at the edge of the torchlight.
A flick of a glance. A sideways gesture of the hand.
The Hound understood at once.
He drew his sword, grinning, and shoved through the crowd toward one of the louder women.
His blade thrust cleanly into her chest.
A scream erupted—and multiplied. Children shrieked, women covered their eyes, the living pressing back against the stones.
When the sword came out slick and dark, the noise choked off as if cut by hand.
The Hound grinned wider, eager for another, until Matthew's voice cut through the din.
"Enough," he said. "They're quiet now. That's enough."
The mercenary hesitated, then wiped the blade and stepped aside.
Matthew sat down heavily on the stone steps, one arm resting on his sword hilt. His face stayed utterly calm.
Only when the firelight flared did he mutter, half to himself, "That is the price of greed."
He raised his voice so all could hear. "Remember this feeling."
His soldiers grinned around him, some amused, others thrilled.
The villagers said nothing, clutching their children and watching their homes burn higher, smoke blotting out the stars.
Matthew watched too, detached. His gaze drifted over his troops instead.
From stance alone, he could tell who was learning, who was afraid, who had begun to stand straight when he entered the room.
Good, he thought. It's working.
Discipline was creeping in. Obedience born not of loyalty, but of fear and habit.
That was the first step.
Strength didn't come from weapons—it came from men who listened without hesitation.
And obedience, once learned, spread faster than belief.
Those who followed orders would be examples; the rest would either mimic or perish.
But he needed more of the former. Too few still met his standard.
Arms crossed, fingers drumming on his sleeve, Matthew considered ways to cull without brute force.
The Hound, for instance—greedy, clever, restless—had to go sooner or later.
Not yet. But soon.
His eyes narrowed as a thought took root: Use them.
He still had the Ward captives. Throw the troublesome ones into a fight and call it glory.
If they won, all well and good.
If they died—no real loss.
The idea sprouted quickly, feeding on itself.
"Better few and good," he murmured, repeating the words like scripture.
He'd find them another enemy soon enough. A small power, an easy fight—something to sharpen them and to cleanse.
He frowned. There weren't many targets near these borderlands between the Riverlands and the Crown's realm.
Then his expression brightened. "The Riveran family at Harrenhal…" he whispered.
Yes. Weak, divided, neglectful. The ruined fortress could be a gift.
If he stirred the pot right, there might be treasure amid the ashes.
The Hound and his kind could lead the way. If they failed, he'd pull back with the rest.
Matthew rubbed his chin, mind racing. The plan was clean, audacious, simple.
He had men. He had money. He had momentum.
The next step was to risk it—calculated risk.
The Hound certainly wouldn't protest; fools rarely did when pointed toward loot.
He mentally listed each name that had irritated him tonight, marking them for the coming "advance party."
Standing, he stretched, joints cracking like kindling.
Behind him, soft footsteps rustled.
Matthew turned at once, sword drawn.
Euron froze, hands raised, face pale in the torchlight. "It's me," he said quickly.
Matthew's eyes narrowed. "You shouldn't sneak up behind me. Next time, you'll be dead before you open your mouth."
Euron grimaced, retreating a step. "There won't be a next time. Seven hells, my lord—you nearly took my nose off."
Matthew snorted, sheathing his sword. "And Wely Ward?"
Euron scuffed his boot in the dust. "I don't know. Someone hauled him into the river. Couldn't catch them."
Matthew exhaled sharply, a ghost of laughter curling at the edges.
Incompetence or bad luck—who could tell?
The knight had been half‑dead already; losing him now was almost an insult.
Still, Matthew glanced at Euron's lean silhouette and desperate grin and decided to let it pass.
A living assassin, however unreliable, was still worth more than none.
"Fine," he said. "Next time, finish the job."
He turned away, ending the conversation. To punish or scold would only reveal irritation; silence hurt more.
Euron lingered, uneasy but silent.
Matthew crossed to the heap of plundered goods.
Gold glinted between ashes. He bent, picked up a single coin, brushed the dirt off, and smiled.
"Now this," he murmured, holding the coin to the firelight, "this never disappoints."
Laughter rippled around him; the tension cracked.
He turned, still smiling, and tossed the coin lightly. "Want one, Euron?"
The assassin blinked—wariness returning instantly. So that's what this is about.
But he forced a grin and bowed his head. "Of course I want it, my lord. And when we reach Harrenhal, I'll want more. A place like that—coin won't go far."
Matthew's smile crooked sharper. "Good answer."
He grabbed a polished chainmail shirt from the pile and tossed it across.
"You killed Maken Ward. That's your reward. But only that one."
Always reward and punishment together—never pure favor. Let them guess, let them balance on uncertainty.
Euron caught the armor clumsily, staring down at it as if at something holy. "I understand."
He thought Matthew generous.
Matthew knew better. He nodded slightly, turned back to the treasure, and crouched to gather the scattered coins one by one.
Each clink was a measure of certainty.
Tomorrow the system would refresh.
Perhaps he'd buy new strength—better gear, better men.
He just hoped the cost would be worth it.
And if not—someone else would pay it.
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