ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

The first obstruction waited six miles from FireStorm. Wayne’s scouts returned at speed and led the convoy to a stone culvert split beneath the road. Autumn water had eaten through the exposed earth, widening the break until a freight wheel would sink past its hub. Fresh axe cuts marked two supports that should have survived the rain.

No soldiers waited beside the damage. Three Caron riders watched from the western rise. ”The road is unsafe,” their sergeant called when Arlan approached. ”Turn back.”

”Who cut the supports?”

”The storm, perhaps.”

”Storms have learned to use axes.”

The sergeant shrugged. Lord Elton’s men were charged with keeping raiders away, not repairing every ditch for merchants who ignored warnings. He offered no order Arlan could contest and no cargo to seize. The broken road performed the work without giving FireStorm a man to accuse.

Morton studied the water. ”The northern track adds two days. It may not carry these wagons after last night’s rain.”

Returning would tell every watcher that four reinforced carriages could be stopped with an axe and patience. Forcing the crossing without repair would break an axle, perhaps overturn a load, and leave Red Sun Flame or glass in the mud. Arlan dismounted. ”We repair it.”

Wayne divided the guards before anyone mistook the order for simple labor. Five remained on the slopes with bows. Ten cut timber uphill. Others unloaded the first carriage and carried its crates across by hand, while the wheelwright crawled beneath the broken edge with a rope around his waist.

Travelers collected on both sides of the gap. A farmer with three grain carts cursed the delay until he noticed the Caron riders. Then he blamed the rain loudly enough for them to hear. A peddler claimed the culvert had endured worse weather for twenty years and immediately denied saying it. Arlan paid both groups for help in front of witnesses.

Logs were laid across the break, stone packed beneath them, and brush driven into the wet spaces before earth covered the surface. The first wagon crossed empty while men held ropes from either bank. One wheel sank halfway through, but the new axle took the strain until the guards hauled it free.

The second attempt used a wider bed of stone. It held.

The third carriage exposed another weakness. Its rear wheel struck the new edge at an angle and twisted hard enough to bend one iron brace. The wheelwright heated the piece over a roadside brazier, hammered it straight, and added a second fastening before allowing the wagon onward. The repair delayed them another hour, but it also proved which part would fail first on a worse road. Morton entered the damaged brace beside the cargo losses even though nothing had broken inside the crates.

Cargo passed over separately before the carriages followed under partial weight. The work consumed most of the daylight, dirtied every cloak, and taught the watching sergeant more about FireStorm’s wagons than Arlan preferred. It also reopened the road for every cart waiting behind them. The farmer crossed after the convoy and lifted two fingers in thanks. The Caron riders left without offering any.

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The next obstruction appeared the following morning. Three oaks lay across a wooded stretch in alternating directions. Their smaller branches had been cut and scattered around the trunks to make removal slower. Shallow pits waited beside the road where drivers might try to pass, deep enough to break a draft horse’s leg without resembling battlefield traps.

Wayne found a watcher before the axes began. The man was a charcoal burner from a nearby hamlet, hungry, frightened, and carrying two silver stags he could not explain. Two strangers had paid him to count how long FireStorm required to clear the road. He had seen neither face clearly and knew no names.

”Hang him and the next watcher hides better,” Arlan said when Wayne asked what should be done. ”Pay him for the next warning.” Morton gave the charcoal burner three copper stars and promised twice that sum for names, routes, or advance notice. The man left staring at the coins as though betrayal had become more complicated than he wanted.

The guards cut a lane through the trees. Axes, ropes, horses, and an afternoon removed what no single strong man could lift. Two merchants trapped behind the convoy lent drivers after learning FireStorm would not charge them for using the cleared road. By sunset, the procession had gained four grain carts and a cloth wagon seeking the safety of thirty armed guards.

The sabotage meant to isolate FireStorm had created a larger company of people delayed by the same hand.

Wayne drew the carriages together for the night. Watches stood in pairs, and no barrel or glass crate was opened merely to impress travelers. Morton counted every strap at each halt. When one fastening had rubbed nearly through, the wheelwright replaced it before dawn instead of trusting luck for another mile.

Rainwood appeared on the third evening. Its walls rose above a broad field of carts, pens, roadside stalls, and waiting animals. The main gate stood open. Ordinary traffic continued through it, although Caron clerks had erected tables beneath the gatehouse and soldiers recorded every wagon entering from the north.

Gareth Caron waited beside them with two hundred men distributed along the wall and market approaches. No bow pointed at Arlan. That was more deliberate than a drawn one.

The four freight carriages halted while Wayne’s scouts returned to formation. Merchants who had joined the convoy stopped behind them, close enough to witness whatever happened and too far forward to retreat without turning every cart in the road. Gareth looked over the repaired wheels, the mud on the guards, and the larger procession following FireStorm.

”You wanted the lawful road,” he called. ”Take it.”

A clerk painted a red mark on the first wagon wheel and copied the driver’s name. Another counted guards, barrels, crates, and accompanying merchants. The inspection delayed the convoy without producing anything Arlan could call confiscation. ”No seizure?” Arlan asked.

”Why seize goods no one will buy?” Gareth turned his horse so the people waiting near the gate could hear him. ”Any warehouse, tavern, carrier, or household trading with FireStorm will lose Caron protection. Licenses will be reviewed. Debts will be collected. Roads to their property may prove difficult to patrol.”

The threat did not challenge Renly’s warrant. It divided the cost among men too small to carry each grievance to Storm’s End.

A tavern keeper could admit Arlan through his door and lose his license a week later. A carter could accept one profitable load and discover his brother accused of unpaid tolls. A merchant could buy glass legally and still watch a warehouse burn while every patrol arrived too late.

Gareth pointed through the open gate. ”Enter, Ashenblade. Let them watch you carry it all home.”

Arlan gave the order to move. The Caron clerks marked every FireStorm wheel. Soldiers watched every merchant who looked too long at the red sun on the barrels. No spear blocked the passage, and nothing about the welcome promised that leaving would be as simple.

The convoy rolled beneath the gatehouse into Rainwood. Behind it, the grain carts crossed the repaired road without being marked at all.