After a few minutes, Matthew could see them clearly—two bound strangers pushed ahead by the northern men.
One was short, with streaked gray in his beard and deep lines etched across his face. The other was young, lean, and pale—a mirror of the elder, almost certainly his son.
The northerners weren't gentle. They shoved the captives roughly, and when one stumbled, a boot followed.
Euron didn't stop them. His only concern was that none of the prisoners die before his lord saw them.
Matthew strode forward, snapping his fingers once. The men halted their rough handling at once.
"Who are you?" he asked.
He stopped five paces away, motioned for his mercenaries to step back, and smiled thinly—the kind of polite, quiet smile that made people's stomachs drop.
The two captives looked up briefly, then lowered their heads again.
One of the northerners, impatient, kicked the older man in the ribs. "The lord just asked you a question, you scum!"
Euron shot him a warning glance, but Matthew was faster. He swiveled and planted a sharp boot squarely on the man's rear, sending him stumbling forward into the grass.
The others froze.
"Anyone else wastes my time," Matthew said coolly, "and you'll collect ten lashes from our deputy here."
Euron grinned faintly, rolling the staff in his hands. His smile, as always, was too calm to be reassuring.
The two prisoners trembled like beaten dogs.
Matthew stepped closer, squatting until his shadow fell over them.
"Can you answer now?"
They hunched lower, pressed their faces to the grass, trembling violently.
Were they trained to resist questioning—or just that terrified?
When silence lingered, Matthew turned his head slightly. "Deaf? Mutes?"
Euron gave a short nod toward the captives. "Hard to say. But they're no hunters. Look at their hands—no bow, no calluses."
Matthew arched an eyebrow. Even before Euron finished speaking, he drew his sword.
"Then let's see if pain unlocks their tongues."
Steel flashed. Light glimmered across the pale faces.
The old man's head jerked up instinctively. Blinded by the glint, he still shouted in panic:
"My lord! Mercy! We're just hunters! Father and son—we've done nothing wrong!"
The sword halted a finger's breadth from his scalp.
Then Matthew flipped it sideways and struck him hard with the pommel.
Crack!
Blood ran down the man's forehead in thin veins like a shattered web. He curled inward, gasping, while his son crawled toward him in horror—only for Matthew's blade to bar the way.
"Who sent you?" he asked, voice low but sharp enough to slice air. "Why were you watching us?"
The young man's eyes flicked up—wide, terrified. "N‑no one, my lord. We were hunting. That's all!"
"Wrong answer."
The sword came down again—not on his throat this time, but across his smallest finger.
The boy screamed, clutching his hand as blood poured between his fingers.
Matthew raised the blade again and pressed the flat edge against his lips. "Scream again, and you'll lose your tongue next."
Silence descended, broken only by the boy's whimpering breaths.
"I'll ask once more," Matthew said. "And you'd better tell me something worth hearing. Who are you working for?"
The point of his blade sank lightly against the prisoner's chest, the cold steel dimpling fabric and skin.
The young man swallowed hard, tears streaming. "We really are hunters! We set traps here days ago—I swear! We returned last night to check and saw signs someone else had hunted nearby. We just… we just followed!"
Matthew tilted his head, glance flicking toward Euron.
The assassin smiled slightly. "So they were spying last night."
He sounded almost amused. "But they're terrible liars. Who checks traps in the dark?"
Matthew nodded once in agreement. The faintest twinge of disappointment crossed his features, and then he sighed.
"Well," he said lightly, "I offered you a chance to be honest. Now I can only help you reach your next life—maybe there you'll make proper hunters."
He raised the sword again, speaking almost conversationally.
That's when the old man lifted his face—blood slicking his brow—and croaked, "Wait, my lord! If we tell you, will you spare us?"
Matthew paused. Then, quite deliberately, he lowered the blade.
"I prefer straightforward men," he said softly. "I gain nothing from killing you—if your words prove useful."
He took three slow steps back, signaling trust. "See? No loss to me, unless you waste the opportunity."
The old man's breath shook. He turned, touching his son's bruised face, glancing once at the mangled hand.
"Forgive me," he murmured.
The boy shook his head fiercely. "No, Father! You didn't do anything wrong! We hunted, nothing more. If they'll kill us, let them kill us—I won't—"
But the father only laughed, a strained, bitter sound. His blood‑streaked face twisted into an odd smile.
"At least you still have courage," he said quietly. "A real Sow's Ridge man." Then, looking back at Matthew, he added: "My lord… I suppose you've guessed who we are."
Matthew's gaze sharpened.
The man's smile deepened. "You didn't expect this, did you? That we're with the Hog family?"
Euron's hand tightened on his weapon.
Matthew said nothing at first—he turned instead to Haven and Euron, voice carefully controlled. "What do you think? Truth or lie?"
Haven's expression darkened. "Lies. Panic makes men creative."
Euron, however, stroked his narrow chin and said, "Maybe not. They look local enough. I've lived in Sow's Ridge a long while—faces, accents, even the way they bow. Doesn't feel like outsiders."
Haven frowned, rubbing his temple. "Then what in the seven hells does Ser Roger think he's doing? We left peacefully!"
Matthew's lips curled into something halfway between irritation and amusement. "He's cautious. Can't blame him. We recruited half the sellswords in his territory—enough to strip the place bare. He probably thinks we'll loot the whole ridge before leaving."
He exhaled slowly, mind already turning.
Then he leveled his stare at the old captive. "Am I right?"
The man chuckled weakly through split lips. "You've already said it, lord. Why make me repeat it?"
He wiped blood from his eyes and smiled a little, terribly calm now.
Beside him, his son stared in horror, realization dawning that his father had led him into the field not to hunt—but to spy.
Matthew remained silent, the scene unfolding like a play he'd already predicted. Haven's face had gone red with disgust, nostrils flaring.
Euron, as always, observed coolly, almost amused by the chaos.
When the laughter died down, Matthew sheathed his sword.
"Go," he said quietly.
Both captives blinked in disbelief.
"Take a message back to Ser Roger," Matthew continued, his voice even. "Tell him this—he underestimates what an ambitious young man is capable of."
He smiled then, polite and sharp as a blade.
"Next time he sends his birds," he added, "I won't bother catching them alive."
The old man swallowed, nodded once, and stumbled to his feet, pulling his son with him.
Under the watchful hostility of the mercenaries, they limped toward the forest until the trees swallowed them whole.
Only after they were gone did Haven's jaw unclench.
Euron broke the silence first, smirking faintly. "Unexpected, wasn't it, my lord?"
Matthew chuckled. "Maybe. But life tends to be."
He looked toward the horizon where the spies had vanished.
Then, half to himself, half to his men, he said, "At least now we know what game we're really hunting."
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