ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

Horton Caron knew exactly what the badge meant, and why Elton had allowed it into a raider’s hands; he had no innocent explanation for it.

Elton’s bargain with the Blacktooth band had included such tokens, meant to smooth the raiders’ trading once FireStorm had been broken and its heir was dead. Horton had ridden here expecting corpses, frightened survivors, and a convenient excuse to fold the masterless holding more tightly beneath Nightsong; instead, the raiders were dead and one of Elton’s tokens lay at his feet.

One of Horton’s men rested a hand on his sword hilt; Arlan noticed without turning his head.

”Nightsong has guarded these marches for generations,” he continued. ”I would prefer to believe these raiders stole the badge and used your house’s name without leave. That would make them thieves as well as killers.”

The explanation offered Horton a road out without surrendering anything aloud; the young knight stared at Arlan long enough to understand it; behind him, horses shifted in the mud and leather creaked as men adjusted their seats. Nobody in Horton’s party wanted to be the first to turn a political accusation into another fight while forty raider bodies lay in front of them.

”The border breeds vermin,” Horton said at last. ”A dead brigand cannot explain where he stole a token.”

”Then we agree on something.” Horton’s jaw tightened. Arlan looked past him to the men waiting on horseback. ”FireStorm is the hereditary holding of House Ashenblade. Storm’s End recognizes our tenure, and I will defend it from raiders whether they descend from the mountains or come by some other road.”

The warning required no additional ornament. Horton stooped, picked the badge from the mud, and wiped it once against his glove. ”You have shown courage in defending your people. I will report that the raiders were destroyed.”

He looked toward the bodies again, then added, ”Keep your holding quiet, Ashenblade. The marches are dangerous enough without minor houses creating trouble of their own.”

”Then we both have work to do.”

Horton mounted without another word; his men turned with him, and the line of torches withdrew along the road faster than it had approached. Arlan watched until their rear guard passed beyond the bend, noting that none challenged the villagers’ right to keep the captured arms. Whatever Horton intended to tell Elton, forcing the issue at FireStorm had become more expensive than the plan expected.

FireStorm did not cheer until the last hoofbeats faded. Then the yard erupted. Morton was first to kneel, mud soaking through his breeches as he bowed his head; others followed, though Arlan had no desire to spend the night watching forty-seven people abase themselves after barely surviving two fights.

”Up,” he said.

Morton raised his face. ”My lord—”

”We have forty bodies outside the wall, wounded people inside it, and a gate that no longer closes properly. Kneeling can wait.”

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The order turned emotion into work; men stripped usable leather, blades, bows, and coin from the dead before dragging the corpses away; anything made of iron was separated from stone and wood because FireStorm had too little metal to waste. Serviceable hide armor went into one pile, damaged pieces into another for patching; stones were carried to the gate where the bar had split. Women boiled water, bound wounds, and set thick rye porridge over the fire; children who had spent the night hidden behind boards emerged slowly and stared at the blood-dark sword resting near Arlan’s hand.

No one slept. The dead had to be moved before they fouled the yard, the wounded needed attention, and the village had to be ready if the riders from Nightsong returned with different orders; victory had created work faster than it created security.

By the latter half of the night, FireStorm looked less like a place celebrating victory than a poor holding trying to make tomorrow possible.

Arlan sat on the threshold with a wooden bowl of the first strong spirit Morton had managed to collect from the crude still. It was clear, harsh, and much stronger than ordinary ale; the warmth eased some of the ache left by fever and fighting.

A message waited inside the Forging Shack; Arlan opened it only after Morton had accounted for the wounded and the gate had been braced well enough to last the rest of the night. The system remained indifferent to the blood outside; only Larry reacted as a craftsman whose weapon had been used far beyond a normal first outing.

Larry had apparently felt the deaths through the weapon.

”Not bad, kid. Forty lives and you still kept the blade under you instead of the other way around.” The dwarf’s next line carried the same blunt enthusiasm as before. ”Find yourself a title the group recognizes. Better goods make that little sword look like kitchen steel.”

Arlan acknowledged the message and closed the interface; the warning about title remained useful, but the immediate facts were simpler: his balance was empty again, the sword was still Common quality, and FireStorm had gained no political protection merely by surviving. Whatever came next from Elton Caron would not be another careless raid if the lord of Nightsong had any sense.

A sentry ran through the broken gate before Arlan finished the bowl.

”My lord! Men from Rainwood are coming. Twenty guards. The tax collector is with them.” Morton stopped beside the cookfire.

The sentry bent over, trying to recover his breath. ”He says House Ashenblade owes three years of land taxes and a tenfold penalty. He says if we do not pay, he’ll seal FireStorm and take the people for debt.” Arlan set the bowl down. Torches were already visible beyond the wall.

Raymond Weil entered FireStorm surrounded by twenty armored guards and holding a silk handkerchief over his nose, and he looked at the blood in the mud with open disgust, then at Morton as the steward approached carrying a roll of old receipts.

”Master Weil,” Morton began, ”Ser Edwyn paid every levy that was demanded. I have the marks and seals here.”

Raymond took the parchment, glanced at the seals Morton had preserved, and let it fall into the mud.

His boot came down on it; Morton made an involuntary movement toward the paper, then stopped when two guards shifted their hands to their swords. The old steward had kept those receipts because a minor holding survived on proof that stronger neighbors had already taken what they were owed. Watching the ink dissolve under Raymond’s heel told everyone present that the collector had not come to inspect accounts.

”Nightsong’s ledger says otherwise.” Morton’s face changed.

Raymond ground his heel once, smearing wet ink across the paper. Morton stared down at the ruined receipts with a helpless fury Arlan had not seen during the fighting. Years of payments under Ser Edwyn were disappearing beneath the collector’s boot. Raymond looked toward Arlan.

”Three years,” he said. ”Ten silver stags each year. Thirty in arrears. The penalty is tenfold.” He smiled thinly.

”Three hundred silver stags, Ashenblade. You have three days to find them.”