Raymun.Dary (1)

Raymun Darry sat in his saddle, his gaze sweeping across the rear edge of the column as their party made its way toward Seaguard.

There, three figures followed closely, claiming they were merely traveling in the same direction.

They walked along the periphery of the baggage train, mingling with the other soldiers and attendants of Darry.

Every time Raymun Darry cast an inadvertent glance their way, a lingering sense of oddity welled up within him.

Walking in the middle was the sixteen-year-old young noble who called himself "Suleiman Foulkeep."

He had brown hair and wore an unremarkable, black noble's robe that had been washed so many times it had faded to a dull grey.

He possessed the look of a typical Riverlander, so typical that even if one tried to memorize his face, it would take effort to pick him out again once he was tossed back into a crowd of Riverlanders.

He lacked any of the nobility or spirit expected of a young lord, and he didn't even have the pallor of someone who spent much time indoors; instead, he had the rugged, weathered look of someone exposed to the elements.

Then there were his two guards.

Two men in their forties or fifties who, by their demeanor, were clearly farmers who had only recently put down their hoes.

They walked with a cowering gait, glancing around nervously as if terrified of offending someone; they were less like guards and more like able-bodied men press-ganged into service.

They wore tattered armor and carried two rusted, pitted, uneven, and battered longswords that were likely older than he was.

If not for the fact that Suleiman had produced his territorial seal and family crest.

And if not for the fact that Raymun Darry happened to have heard his family maester explain the cautionary tales of Westerosi nobility during his childhood.

The maester had mentioned the House Foulkeep of the Riverlands, which had been granted a noble title for providing latrine services to their liege lord.

He had been warned that this was a textbook example of a base ennoblement, cautioned that as a lord, he must be clear in his rewards and punishments, lest he become the laughingstock of all Westeros!

He truly would have suspected these three were merely refugees from some destroyed village in the Riverlands, looking for a free meal.

What left him even more dumbfounded was Suleiman's behavior.

Ever since they were temporarily taken in under the guise of Suleiman's so-called "convenient path."

This down-and-out young noble never once took the initiative to socialize with the nobles of Darry, nor did he even attempt to find a seat among the knights.

This Lord Suleiman spent every day with his two "guards."

When it was time for his soldiers to eat, he would join them in the queue, naturally accepting the black bread and bowl of thin broth handed to him by a soldier, then sit right in the middle of the men to wolf it down.

He chatted and laughed with those low-born, crude soldiers as if they were old friends.

He even packed away the leftover black bread after he finished eating!

He possessed none of the etiquette or refinement expected of a noble; even a hedge knight wouldn't behave like this!

As the great lord of Darry, Raymun Darry had seen his fair share of people, but he had never witnessed anything so disgraceful, shameful, and devoid of noble bearing—it was a stain on the nobility of all Westeros!

"Saved!"

Suleiman sat in the saddle, feeling the long-lost comfort provided by the horse supplied by Darry.

Although the horse was a bit thin, it was still a hundred times better than relying on his own two legs.

Suleiman shouted frantically in his heart!

Damn it, if he hadn't hitched a ride with the Darry party in time, he, Lushen, and Roslyn—those two pathetic "guards"—would have run out of food!

I, Suleiman Foulkeep, almost became the first noble in the history of Westeros to starve to death on the way to inherit his title!

To die before achieving one's goal, starving on the road to one's own castle—who would believe that if it got out? It's too damn embarrassing!

As for why he and his guards ate with the Darry soldiers every day? The reason was despairingly simple: he had absolutely no money!

No money! He didn't even have enough to buy black bread!

Old Nicken had stuffed them with supplies before they left, but when Suleiman asked what he would do if they took it all.

Old Nicken had only smiled and said that going hungry for a while was nothing, as he had been a refugee displaced by war his whole life.

He had been starving every day, and if not for the Foulkeep family taking him in, he would have died long ago; he couldn't let his young master Suleiman go hungry.

Suleiman had remained silent, only quietly leaving most of the supplies behind at the castle when he departed.

He recalled the day he said goodbye to Old Nicken.

He looked back one last time.

Foulkeep, a solitary tower with no walls, lacking even the most basic defenses.

Old Nicken stood alone at the entrance of the tower.

His back was hunched, his tear-filled eyes watching him, his aged face etched with worry and reluctance.

Suleiman waved at him to set his mind at ease, then turned his head and never looked back again.

Old Nicken was a traditional noble steward; everything he did was for the sake of the family, even if it meant using unscrupulous means.

Suleiman knew that before he left, Old Nicken had specifically called Lushen and Roslyn, those two farmers, to a secluded spot.

He could easily guess what he had said to them—nothing more than reminders that their families, their wives and children, were still on the estate.

If they dared to harm him on the road, or if they dared to betray him, he knew exactly what fate would befall their families.

Suleiman understood Old Nicken; he was protecting Suleiman in the only way he knew how.

Yet, this journey was proving far more arduous than he had imagined.

Foulkeep was dirt poor; they had no horses!

They had to rely on their own two legs.

On the first day, fueled by novelty and the mood of a sightseeing trip, they walked with brisk, flying steps.

On the second day, the three of them could still laugh and chat.

On the third day, not one of the three spoke; there was only the sound of heavy, ragged panting.

On the fourth day, Suleiman felt as though every step he took landed on the tip of a needle.

On the fifth day, even though Lushen and Roslyn had long since noticed the problem and ate as little as possible to save food for their master, Suleiman, their supplies finally ran out.

Suleiman was so dizzy with hunger that he felt he might collapse by the side of the road at any moment.

Damn it, dying before achieving anything!

What kind of transmigrator are you!

Suleiman wailed internally at the time, caught between tears and laughter.

Just when he thought he was truly finished, one of the Seven Gods must have given him the green light.

They encountered the lord of Darry, Lord Raymun Darry, and his retinue on their way to join the war at Seaguard.

Suleiman still remembered the colorful expression on the face of that nobleman, who sat atop a tall warhorse, when he had mustered his remaining strength to announce his title: "Suleiman, the sole heir to the Lord of Foulkeep."

The man's gaze shifted constantly—suspicion, confusion, then a sudden realization, and finally, an indescribable look.

"Bring a horse for our Lord of Foulkeep," Raymun Darry said with a hearty laugh to his attendant.

Then, he spurred his horse and rode past Suleiman.

To hell with it!

Suleiman chewed hard on the black bread in his mouth, which tasted like nothing more than countless sheets of paper.

Being able to survive and having a bite to eat was better than anything else.

"Master Suleiman, what are you thinking about?" a young soldier nearby asked curiously.

These soldiers were full of curiosity about this nobleman who was willing to eat alongside them.

Suleiman swallowed the last of the bread, wiped his mouth, and smiled. "I was wondering if the food in Deddings Town might be better than it is here."

"That's for sure!" the soldiers grinned and laughed.

"Lord Deddings is a great lord, just like our Lord Raymun Darry! In his castle, there must be roasted meat to eat and fine wine to drink every single day!"

"And countless beauties, too."

"Hahaha."

Suleiman chuckled.

He marveled once more: the Lord of Darry, Raymun Darry, was truly a good man!