ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

Dawn found FireStorm under a layer of smoke.

The back-hill storehouse had collapsed inward during the night; burned oak beams lay across the stone shell at crooked angles, and heat still breathed from pockets of black grain where the fire had not fully died. Three guards lay side by side in the clearing, and their throats had been cut cleanly, their blood gone dark in the morning cold.

Someone had drawn the mark of the Blacktooth raiders in the mud beside them, and Arlan crouched by the nearest corpse and ignored the mark.

The wound mattered more; one controlled cut had opened the throat without the ragged tearing left by a chipped knife or the crushing damage of a stone axe. The killer had known the depth needed and had not required a second attempt.

Michael Watson had spent too much of his first life around efficient violence to mistake that for mountain work, and Wayne stood behind him with a spear clenched in one fist. The captain had spent seven years guarding the marches and had seen real raider attacks often enough to recognize the difference too. ”Not Blacktooth,” Arlan said.

Wayne looked from the wound to the painted mark. ”No, my lord. Men from the Red Mountains hack, and even when they have steel, most of it is poor. This was soldier’s work.”

Arlan rose and moved toward the storehouse wall; the previous night’s damp had held several boot prints in the mud. Hard leather soles, with iron reinforcement at heel and forefoot. Caron household men wore similar boots, but so did trained guards and caravan fighters across the lowlands. The print named a kind of killer, not his employer.

The false clan mark had been left for people who looked at symbols before tracks.

The fire itself offered the same lesson; whoever had entered had not stopped to loot. The iron fittings remained where heat had twisted them, and the dead guards still carried small personal items that ordinary raiders would have taken, and the attack had been aimed at food, seed, and fear rather than whatever could be carried away. Even the dead men’s boots remained on their feet, another detail Morton noticed only after Arlan pointed it out.

Morton waited by the ruined doorway with soot in his grey hair and ash smeared across his sleeves, and he had already tried to count what could be salvaged and found almost nothing worth counting.

”Three months of stores,” he said. ”And the seed we bought for the next planting. The rye is ruined. The oats too.”

His voice shook despite the effort to control it, and beyond him, villagers had gathered in a loose half-circle. Some had helped unload those same sacks only hours earlier; now the smell of burned grain hung over them while the bodies of three men lay between the storehouse and the road.

One woman wiped her eyes with the back of a flour-stained hand; no one asked whether there was enough food. The question was written on every face, and Wayne went down on one knee. ”Give me thirty men. I’ll follow the tracks into the mountains and bring back whoever did this.”

This content has been misappropriated from NovelPhoenix; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

”No.” Wayne looked up sharply.

”They want us chasing the mountains,” Arlan said. He brushed ash from his fingertips and pointed toward the boot prints. ”The men who entered here were trained and equipped from the lowlands. If raiders helped, they were the cover, not the hand that opened throats.”

Morton’s face tightened. ”Lord Elton would burn the food of one of his own vassals?”

”He has already tried raiders, false taxes, arrests, and a trade blockade. Open war gives Storm’s End a clean reason to move against him. Fire in the dark gives him hungry refugees and denial.”

Wayne’s knuckles whitened around the spear shaft. ”Then we ride for Nightsong.”

”With what accusation? Tracks in mud and a painted mark meant to blame someone else?” The captain’s jaw worked, but he said nothing.

Arlan turned to Morton. ”Send word to Harlan in Rainwood. He is to buy grain from merchants who do not depend on House Caron, and if that means Free Cities ships and foreign brokers, use them. Rye, oats, seed grain, whatever can be moved inland. Pay more if necessary.”

Morton hesitated only long enough to measure the expense in his head. ”I’ll send the fastest rider we have.”

”Wayne, divide the watch into three shifts. Fields, stores, kiln, distillery, and everyone entering FireStorm is recorded. No loaded cart leaves without being checked, and nobody walks the outer roads alone after dark.”

”Yes, my lord.”

Arlan raised his voice for the villagers beyond them. ”The grain burned. We buy more. The seed burned. We replace it; FireStorm is not a stack of sacks in a shed. As long as the people are here, the holding remains.”

Arlan could still spend the coin from Rainwood. Glass and distilled spirits remained to sell, with workers and tools to make more. He needed the villagers at those tasks before panic scattered them.

Morton began assigning hands to salvage iron fittings and unburned stone, and the villagers moved because work gave fear somewhere to go. Wayne sent pairs of guards around the perimeter and ordered the tracks protected until they had been sketched and measured.

Arlan stayed until the sun rose above the Red Mountains and wet earth had smothered the last embers. A thin iron strip lay half buried beside the wall; the maker’s stamp had been filed away. He wrapped it separately for the smith. The attack pointed toward trained lowlanders using a mountain mark, but it did not yet prove who had paid them.

* * *

A hundred miles away, Elton sat at the head of a carved oak table while a roaring hearth warmed the hall of Nightsong, and House Caron’s nightingale banners hung behind him. Twenty armored retainers stood along the walls, and Gareth lounged below his father’s seat with a silver cup in hand.

The spy in the center of the hall bowed low.

”The storehouse burned cleanly, my lord. Three guards dead. We left the Blacktooth mark beside them.”

Gareth laughed and raised his cup. ”Then the boy can drink his precious spirits while his people starve.” Elton took one measured sip.

”You have been frightened by a sixteen-year-old for long enough that a burned shed now feels like victory.” Gareth’s smile stiffened.

”He sold glass under our blockade,” Elton continued. ”He walked into Rainwood under drawn bows and walked out richer. He survived pressure that would have broken Ser Edwyn. Damage is not defeat.”

”Then what do you want done?” Elton tapped FireStorm’s mark on the border map.

”No grain. No iron; no cloth. If he has silver, make the silver useless, and refugees become loyal very quickly when fed. They become practical just as quickly when hungry.”

A knight near the table bowed. ”And merchants who ignore the order?”

”Take one household apart publicly. The others will learn caution.”

The first spy was dismissed. Before Elton could drink again, the doors opened and a second rider stumbled into the hall with mud to his knees. He forgot to bow.

”My lord. News from FireStorm.” Elton’s cup stopped halfway to his mouth; the messenger swallowed.

”They are not starving.”