ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

Torches ringed FireStorm’s yard while Raymond Weil knelt bound near the wall.

The villagers gathered around him carried exhaustion openly. Some still wore bandages from the Blacktooth fighting; others smelled of smoke from the burned fields. No one had slept properly since Arlan woke from fever, and the holding had moved from one threat to the next without pause.

Arlan stood on the steps of the stone hall.

Ser Edwyn’s letter rested beneath Arlan’s tunic, while Lady Ellyn’s brooch had been returned to Morton’s keeping after the old steward woke; only a few days had passed since Michael Watson had opened his eyes in Arlan Ashenblade’s body. In that short span, the world had given him more than enemies; the people before him had begun placing their survival in his hands, and he could no longer treat FireStorm as merely a place to endure until a safer road appeared.

Survival alone was no longer enough.

”I am Arlan Ashenblade,” he said. ”This holding is small, poor, and surrounded by men who believe that makes it theirs to take.”

No one moved. Raymond’s presence made the point of the gathering impossible to mistake; the village had survived men with axes, men with legal threats, and men carrying forged accusations, all within days.

”I cannot promise you that no one will attack us again. They will. I cannot promise the fields will never burn or that every man who fights beside me will come home.” Morton watched from the front of the crowd.

”I can promise that I will not run first and leave you here to pay for my life. I will defend FireStorm, the lands of House Ashenblade, and the people who live beneath its protection. If we have grain, we eat it together. If we have enemies, I meet them with you. And I will see House Ashenblade known and respected throughout Westeros.”

Arlan looked over the bandaged men and the families gathered beside them. They had bled for this patch of stone and soil. He owed them the promise.

”By my sword, I will not forsake this place.” For several heartbeats, there was only the crackle of torches. Then Morton bowed his head.

Others followed, but the response was different from the frightened kneeling after the first raid. These people had fought beside Arlan now, and they had seen him stand against Blacktooth raiders, Nightsong riders, and Raymond’s men. Their loyalty had acquired evidence; a sentry broke through the crowd before the moment could settle.

”Riders from Storm’s End!” The yard went still again. Crowned stag banners appeared outside FireStorm soon afterward. Twenty armored men rode with the messenger, and the young knight at their head wore House Florent’s device on his gear. Rolland Florent dismounted and looked first at the bound Raymond, then at Arlan.

”Arlan Ashenblade? I come on Lord Renly Baratheon’s authority to investigate a report from Rainwood.”

The accusation was the one Raymond had described: collusion with raiders, murder of a patrol, and an attempt to disturb the southern marches. Rolland spoke as a man conducting an inquiry rather than arriving as an ally, and the villagers reacted accordingly; several tightened their hands around farm tools before Arlan gestured for them to remain still.

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Arlan did not argue from indignation. A minor house shouting that a greater lord had wronged it would prove very little in Westeros, and he had already learned what happened to receipts when the stronger man controlled the ledger; he handed Rolland the papers.

Elton’s instructions to Raymond. The prepared false report. Raymond’s signed confession, obtained after the ambush; the Caron-associated badge recovered from the Blacktooth men. Rolland read in silence. His expression hardened before he reached the end.

”Where did you get these?” Arlan pointed toward Raymond. The tax collector made a muffled sound behind the gag. Rolland had him brought forward and questioned separately. Whatever Raymond said confirmed enough of the documents that the Florent knight’s manner changed when he returned.

”Lord Renly has had complaints from these marches before,” he said quietly. ”Nightsong’s strength makes every complaint difficult to prove. You have given me more than complaint.” Arlan waited without interrupting him. Rolland raised his voice for the men and villagers around them.

By Renly Baratheon’s authority as Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Arlan was granted temporary authority to suppress raiders and armed bandits along the nearby southern marches. The wording mattered: it gave him a recognized warrant to do openly what Nightsong had tried to recast as private violence, while stopping short of granting him new land or hereditary rank. Neighboring officers were not to obstruct operations conducted under the warrant, and those caught actively colluding with raiders could be detained or killed as circumstances required.

Rolland made the limits plain as well; serious incidents were to be reported to Storm’s End, and the warrant concerned banditry and border security rather than unrelated private quarrels. It was delegated authority, not ownership of the marches.

The villagers cheered because they understood the practical consequence: Nightsong could no longer call every armed Ashenblade response rebellion without also challenging a written order from Storm’s End.

Rolland took Raymond Weil into custody when he left; the surviving collection guards were also questioned as witnesses, while FireStorm retained the weapons already won in the fighting. Raymond’s departure under Baratheon banners changed the balance more than killing him in the clearing ever could have.

Arlan watched the tax collector disappear beneath Baratheon banners and then went directly into the stone hall with Morton and every man capable of carrying arms.

A charcoal map of the surrounding country was spread across the table; Morton had built it from memory: forest tracks, ruined hamlets, stream crossings, and the rough positions of groups that preyed on anyone too weak to resist. It was not a lord’s survey, but it was enough to plan where twelve men could move without announcing themselves.

”The warrant gives us room,” Arlan said. ”Room is only useful if we use it before House Caron finds another way to close it.” Morton marked three concentrations of bandits in the nearby forests, along with scattered mountain raiders who had made the road toward Rainwood unsafe.

”Holt in the Blackwood has more than twenty men,” Morton said. ”Some fought in Robert’s Rebellion and never went home. Broken Stone Cliff is worse.”

”And there are displaced villagers hiding between them.” Morton nodded.

FireStorm needed food, labor, and armed men; the forests contained all three, though none would come without fighting. Bandits hoarded grain taken from farmers, displaced families hid where they could, and every cleared road made FireStorm more useful to the people living around it; the warrant gave Arlan permission; scarcity gave him the reason. It also gave the men around the table something they had lacked under Ser Edwyn’s final days: a legal answer if Nightsong later asked why armed Ashenblade men were moving through the forests.

”We leave tonight,” Arlan said. Waiting would allow the bands to hear of Raymond’s arrest and scatter, taking stolen grain and captives with them. Moving before that news spread offered the cleaner risk.