Raymun.Dary (2)

The forces of Darry set up camp in an open area near the river to begin their rest.

As the sun set, the soldiers sat around campfires, cleaning their gear and discussing the coming battle.

However, inside the tent of Lord Raymun Darry, the atmosphere was unusually tense.

Lord Raymun Darry sat upright on a crude wooden chair, having summoned his vassals and primary knights.

At only twenty-four years old, he appeared far too young and far too silent before these battle-hardened vassals and knights who were much his senior.

The vassals and knights beside him mostly regarded their young lord with a hint of contempt.

They sat in a circle, and without waiting for Raymun to speak, they began to argue fiercely among themselves.

The topic revolved around their sluggish pace of march; everyone was eager to reach the battlefield quickly, slaughter the Ironborn, and earn military merit so they could receive rewards from Lord Tully and King Robert, who was far away in King's Landing.

Their voices were so chaotic and loud that they completely ignored their Lord, Raymun Darry, as if he were merely an inconsequential bystander.

"In my opinion, we should force-march immediately to get ahead of the other lords! Why are we stopping here?" a knight with a bushy beard shouted.

"Exactly! Whoever arrives first will be the first to claim glory!" another knight in plate armor chimed in.

The noise and arguing inside the tent grew louder and louder.

It continued until Ser Joseth, a short, stout man with a shrill voice, spoke up loudly!

It was hard to imagine that such a fat man could have a voice so piercing that the entire room turned their gaze toward him.

Seeing that everyone's attention had shifted to him, he continued.

His words were merciless: "Hmph! House Darry stood on the wrong side during the rebellion that overthrew the Mad King; you were royalists, enemies of His Majesty King Robert!"

He paused, scanning the room, and seeing no one refute him, his voice grew even louder.

"The lord's three brothers were steeped in sin; they fought for the Mad King's son, Rhaegar, against King Robert, and were all buried together in the Trident."

Then, he turned directly to face Raymun Darry and spoke loudly.

"And now, this is the time for House Darry to show loyalty to King Robert and atone for its sins! Why, then, is my lord acting so coy?"

But he failed to notice that the atmosphere in the tent had turned strange, even heavy.

Some of the knights and lords who had been speaking so boldly shut their mouths, their uneasy gazes darting between Ser Joseth and Raymun Darry.

Meanwhile, several soldiers clearly loyal to Raymun Darry had already quietly placed their hands on the hilts of their swords.

Their chests heaved violently, emitting heavy, ragged breaths, their eyes flashing with a dangerous light.

They looked at Raymun Darry, waiting only for his command to sever the head of this pig.

Yet, Ser Joseth was completely oblivious to this, or perhaps he simply did not care.

He continued to ramble on.

With a tone that was detached, arrogant, and gloating, he said, "Oh, and what of Lord Raymun's sisters? To ensure the continuation of the house, they were married off to the younger sons of old Walder Frey?"

"Let me think, which son of old Frey was it? The old man has so many children they are impossible to count, ha-ha-ha!"

Seeing the situation in the tent spiraling toward a violent confrontation, Ser Ronald of Fruitwood, the knight commander for Raymun Darry, stood up quickly.

He interrupted Joseth with an unquestionable tone and addressed everyone present: "Tonight's meeting ends here! Everyone, please return to your quarters and get some rest; we will need our energy for the march ahead."

His gaze swept sharply over Ser Joseth, filled with a clear warning.

Under the pressure of Ser Ronald's firm attitude, the vassals and knights left the tent one after another, still harboring their unspent anger.

Only Ronald and Raymun Darry remained.

Ser Ronald turned around to look at the young lord sitting there.

Raymun's expression was unchanged, as if those words had not touched him at all.

He merely lowered his head slightly, as if lost in thought.

Ser Ronald sighed softly.

He stepped forward and whispered, "My lord, you need not take the words of that fool Joseth to heart. However, your practice of hanging portraits of the past Targaryen kings in the castle is too dangerous. It only exposes us to peril and cannot change what has already happened. If someone with ill intent sees them and reports it, well..."

He did not finish his sentence.

He paused, his tone growing heavier. "Furthermore, House Darry has been secretly aiding the two young dragons of Targaryen. House Darry has already sacrificed enough for them! Joseth was right about one thing: we must show our worth and make contributions in this war so that we can better hide our true intentions and better protect ourselves."

Raymun Darry still did not answer, his gaze lowered as if completely immersed in his own thoughts.

Seeing that his lord remained silent, Ser Ronald sighed again.

Just as he was about to say more, a thought flashed through his mind. He recalled the information he had gathered when he spoke to that sixteen-year-old nobleman to verify his identity.

Ser Ronald spoke again, his voice softening: "My lord, Suleiman of Foulkeep, along with his two guards, arrived at Seaguard not long ago and even participated in a battle to block an Ironborn landing."

"Suleiman's father and two brothers were killed in that battle. His two guards are also veterans who have fought the Ironborn on the front lines."

Raymun Darry's head lifted slightly; he finally reacted.

He slowly raised his head to look at Ronald, a cryptic curve forming at the corner of his mouth: "That sixteen-year-old child?"

A flicker of imperceptible interest flashed in his eyes.

He was twenty-four years old, the youngest son of House Darry.

Before him, his three older brothers—Damon, Desmond, and Rodland—had all gone to the battlefield at ages even younger than his own.

Damon had died at the Trident at the same age he was now, twenty-four; Desmond had been only twenty, and Rodland even younger, just eighteen. They had all died for Prince Rhaegar.

Yet he, Raymun Darry, had never once participated in a real battle.

Now, hearing that a "Foulkeep" lordling much younger than himself had not only gone to war but had lost both his father and brother, he felt a strange sense of resonance and interest. He suddenly developed a strong curiosity about this young man who seemed to behave in such an eccentric and peculiar manner.

"Summon Suleiman Foulkeep," Raymun Darry said indifferently to Ser Ronald.

"Lord Suleiman, Ser Ronald requests your presence at the lord's tent."

A soldier from Darry found Suleiman, who was queuing for a meal with the soldiers by the campfire, and respectfully delivered the order.

Upon hearing this, Suleiman was instantly stunned. His head buzzed, and the wooden bowl of broth in his hand nearly dropped to the ground.

Summoned? Lord Raymun Darry was summoning him?

He suddenly felt a surge of intense nervousness, his heart thumping wildly against his ribs as if he were about to be caught in the act of something.

It was over; had his freeloading and pilfering been discovered? Were they going to be kicked out?

"Quick, eat a few more bowls!"

Suleiman said to Lushen and Roslyn, who were still feasting away without a care in the world.

Lushen and Roslyn immediately stood up to get back in line.

Lushen and Roslyn did not understand why Suleiman wanted them to eat more, but they trusted him implicitly; if Lord Suleiman said to do it, they would do it.

Suleiman sighed, having no choice but to head toward Raymun Darry's tent with trepidation.

In his mind, he cycled through countless excuses, such as:

"I was just helping to store them, keeping them safe for you temporarily!"

"It's a fine family tradition of mine to pack up leftovers so as not to waste food!"