Raymun Darry sat on horseback, his company on its way to Seaguard, and swept his gaze over the rear edge of the column.
Three figures who claimed they were traveling in the same direction and had joined them followed close behind.
They walked along the edge of the servants' column, mingling with the other soldiers and attendants from Darry.
Whenever Raymun Darry happened to glance their way, an inexplicable, lingering oddness welled up inside him.
In the middle walked the young nobleman, only sixteen, who called himself "Suleiman Foulkeep."
He had brown hair and wore an unremarkable black nobleman's robe, washed so many times that it had faded in places.
He looked like a typical Riverlander—so typical that even if someone took the time to memorize his face, they would still have trouble picking him out of a crowd of Riverlanders.
He had none of the noble bearing or vitality a young lord should possess, nor even the pallor of someone who had spent his life indoors. Instead, he looked roughened by wind and sun.
His two guards.
Both were men in their forties or fifties. From their manner, it was obvious they had only recently put down their hoes.
They walked timidly, glancing nervously around from time to time, as if afraid of offending someone. They seemed less like guards than strong-armed peasants dragged in to play the part.
They wore battered armor and carried a pair of rusty, pitted, dented, uneven, broken old swords that might have been older than he was.
If Suleiman hadn't shown them his land's seal and family sigil.
If Raymun Darry hadn't happened to hear, as a boy, a family maester's lecture on the cautionary examples among Westerosi nobles.
The maester had mentioned the Foulkeep family in the Riverlands, who had been granted noble titles for providing their lord with toilet services.
He had warned that they were a cautionary example of ennoblement, and urged Raymun to rule justly, rewarding and punishing as deserved, lest he become the laughingstock of all Westeros!
He really would have suspected that these three were refugees from some ruined Riverlands village, looking to cadge food and drink.
Even more astounding to him was Suleiman's behavior.
Ever since Suleiman had been given temporary shelter because, as he put it, he was "traveling in the same direction"—
The impoverished young nobleman never tried to make friends or strike up conversations with the nobles of Darry, or even find a seat among the knights.
Every day, Lord Suleiman went with his two "guards."
When the soldiers lined up for meals, he joined them, accepting the black bread and bowl of thin meat broth they handed him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then sitting among them and eating heartily.
He chatted and joked with those lowborn, rough-mannered soldiers, quickly becoming one of them.
He even packed up the black bread he couldn't finish and took it with him!
He had none of the manners or refinement a noble should have—not even a hedge knight would behave like this!
Raymun Darry, as the great lord of Darry, had seen his fair share of people. He had never met anyone so disgraceful and shameless, so devoid of noble bearing, so capable of bringing shame upon the nobility of all Westeros!
"Saved!"
Suleiman sat on horseback, savoring the long-missed comfort of riding a horse provided by Darry.
The horse was a little scrawny, but it was still a hundred times better than walking on his own two legs.
Suleiman shouted wildly in his heart!
Damn it, if he hadn't joined up with Darry's company in time, he, Lushen, and Roslyn, his two pitiful "guards," would have run out of food!
I, Suleiman Foulkeep, had nearly become the first noble in Westerosi history to starve to death on the way to inherit my title!
"To die before achieving anything—to starve to death on the road to my own lord's castle! Who'd believe that? What a damn disgrace!"
As for why he and his guards ate with Darry's soldiers every day, the reason was simple enough to be heartbreaking: he was flat broke!
No money! Not even enough to buy black bread!
Before they left, Old Nicken had packed them a full load of supplies. But when Suleiman asked him what he would do if they took it all—
Old Nicken only smiled and said he would be fine going hungry for a while. He had once been a refugee wandering the land because of war.
He had gone hungry every day. If the Foulkeep family hadn't taken him in, he would have starved to death long ago. He couldn't let his young lord Suleiman go hungry.
Suleiman said nothing. He simply left most of the supplies behind at the castle as he departed.
He thought back to the day he said goodbye to Old Nicken.
He looked back one last time.
Foulkeep: a lonely tower, with no walls and not even the most basic defenses.
Old Nicken stood alone at the tower entrance.
His back was hunched, and he watched Suleiman with tearful eyes. Worry and reluctance were written all over his aged face.
Suleiman waved to him, signaling that he should not worry, then turned away and never looked back.
Old Nicken was a traditional noble's steward. Everything he did was for the family, even if he resorted to unscrupulous means.
Suleiman knew that, just before he left, Old Nicken had taken Lushen and Roslyn, the two farmers, aside.
He could easily guess what Old Nicken had said to them: their families, their wives and children, were still back on the estate.
If they dared to harm him on the road or betray him while he was still alive, what would happen to their families?
Suleiman understood Old Nicken. He was protecting him in the only way he knew how.
It was just that the journey was harder than he had imagined.
Foulkeep was dirt poor. They had no horses!
They could only travel on foot.
On the first day, buoyed by their excitement and the feeling of being out to see the world, they strode along briskly.
On the second day, the three of them could still laugh and chat.
By the third day, none of them spoke anymore. All that remained was their ragged panting.
On the fourth day, Suleiman felt as if every step he took landed on a needle.
On the fifth day, even though Lushen and Roslyn had already realized the problem and were eating as little as possible to save food for their lord Suleiman, their supplies still ran out.
Suleiman was so hungry and dizzy that he felt he could collapse by the roadside at any moment.
"Damn it, to die before achieving anything!"
"What kind of transmigrator are you?"
Suleiman had wailed inwardly at the time, caught between laughter and tears.
Just when he thought he was truly done for, one of the Seven had given him a green light.
They had come across the lord of Darry, Lord Raymun Darry, and his company, which was heading to Seaguard to fight.
Suleiman still remembered how he had summoned all his strength.
He had introduced himself to the noble lord on his tall horse as "Suleiman, the sole heir to the title of Foulkeep." The expression on the other man's face had been a sight to behold.
His eyes had shifted from suspicion to confusion, then to sudden realization, and finally to something impossible to describe.
"Bring a horse for our Lord of Foulkeep!" Raymun Darry had roared with laughter as he spoke to his attendants.
Then he had ridden past Suleiman.
Who cared!
Suleiman chewed vigorously on the black bread in his mouth. It tasted like an enormous stack of paper.
Being alive and having food to eat mattered more than anything.
"Lord Suleiman, what are you thinking about?" a young soldier beside him asked curiously.
The soldiers were all intrigued by this noble lord who was willing to eat with them.
Suleiman swallowed the last bite of bread, wiped his mouth, and smiled. "I was wondering if the food in Deddings Town will taste better than this."
"It definitely will!" the soldiers said with wide grins.
"Lord Deddings is just as great a lord as our Lord Raymun Darry! There must be roast meat and fine wine in his castle every day!"
"And plenty of beautiful women!"
"Hahaha!"
Suleiman smiled.
Once again, he marveled at what a good man Raymun Darry, the lord of Darry, was.
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