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It wasn't that Oliver was too stupid to seek out the highest authority. The old grudge his family had earned made it impossible for Tywin to help him.
Help was out of the question. The fact that Tywin hadn't used the opportunity to stab him in the back was already the Hand showing remarkable restraint.
Tywin Lannister's capacity for grudges and cold cruelty was common knowledge among the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms. House Chesed was a sinking ship. It could not afford even an idle glance from the Old Lion of Casterly Rock. One look, even an accidental one, could bring a wave big enough to finish them.
Oliver's situation wasn't even especially tragic. War, banditry, and hunger were the true colors of this continent. A band of mountain bandits driving a ruined noble to desperation? Perfectly ordinary.
But Corian had caught a scent that didn't fit.
The location was too remote.
The hills above the small tributary of the Blackwater, on the northeastern edge of the Kingswood…
He quickly pulled up every map detail he could remember.
The place sat far from any major trade route. The land produced little, the forests weren't especially rich—otherwise the crown would have claimed them long ago. Besides the decaying Chesed Castle, there were almost no proper villages or prosperous holdings nearby.
Bandits needed to eat.
They usually chose spots near trade roads or rich villages—places to raid, to fence goods, or at least with water and good defensive ground.
The hills near Chesed Castle were easy to defend, but they had almost no raiding value. Robbing Chesed Castle itself made no sense. If Oliver and his fifteen men didn't dare attack the bandits, then the bandits clearly outnumbered them. A group that large couldn't survive in those poor hills for long. Food alone would be a constant crisis.
Unless they weren't there to raid in the usual way.
Or their target wasn't Chesed Castle—or at least not only the pitiful game in the woods.
Or… something else in those hills had drawn them there.
Corian's mind moved quickly, discarding possibilities.
Mines? Unlikely. House Chesed had held the land for centuries. They would have noticed something valuable by now, and the crown would never have left it alone.
A smuggling route? Possible, but the tributary was too shallow for boats and the land routes were rough. Little practical use.
The most reasonable explanation was that these were unusually stupid bandits—or desperate ones forced to hide in such barren ground.
And that explanation only proved how far House Chesed and its lands had fallen. Even this kind of bandit felt safe "setting up shop" here because they knew there would be no real resistance.
Interesting.
A faint, thoughtful smile touched Corian's mouth.
He didn't find that explanation very convincing.
A month ago King's Landing was still crawling out of war. Even if Chesed Castle wasn't inside the city walls, hiding in that kind of place to raid during such a sensitive time made little sense.
Two days ago he had won his fight in the Small Council, but Tywin's eyes missed nothing. The Old Lion had surely spotted weaknesses in Corian's "immortal" display.
This was a perfect chance to dangle bait in front of the lion and see if he would move before the fighting pits opened.
It was also a chance to observe the power vacuum on the edges of the Crownlands—those "wild" nobles who lived outside Tywin's and the court's usual sightlines.
Stepping away from the center of the storm for a while might reveal something useful.
"The Black Hand will solve your problem, Ser Chesed," Corian said at last.
Oliver looked up, blank for a second. Then the words sank in.
Just like that? Straightforward agreement?
"I heard your trouble," Corian continued. He stood and walked to the window, speaking with his back to Oliver. "A band of bandits has taken root near your lands and cut off your winter supplies. You don't have the strength to deal with them."
He turned. In the backlight his dark eyes looked very deep. "Tell me—if those bandits disappeared, could Chesed Castle survive the winter on its own? I mean with normal hunting restored."
Oliver shot to his feet, almost dizzy with relief. "Yes, Ser! We could! As long as the traps and hunting trails are safe again, and we still have the little coin we saved, we can trade timber in Duskendale for grain and stretch it. We can make it through! At least no one will starve!"
After days of rejection in King's Landing, hope finally felt real.
"Good," Corian said. "Then I'm going to Chesed Castle with you."
"What?"
Oliver stared. He had expected money, or men sent to clear the bandits, or even a polite refusal. He had never imagined that Corian—the man even Tywin treated carefully—would go to his remote, broken castle in person.
Corian raised an eyebrow, amused. "Don't you trust me to handle a few bandits?"
"No! Of course not—I mean, of course I do!" Oliver waved his hands, words tumbling out. "I just… it's too much trouble for you! Chesed Castle is far and poor. The road is hard, and we have almost nothing fit to host you."
Corian cut him off with a small gesture. "My idea of 'hard' is probably different from most people's. And I prefer to see problems with my own eyes instead of reading reports in an office."
He walked back to the desk and pulled the bell cord.
A tall, powerfully built Dothraki warrior pushed the door open.
"You called, my blood of my blood."
"Your wounds have healed well enough," Corian said, studying Irgo. "We're going on a ride. Prepare for tomorrow morning. We're heading to Chesed Castle. Bring ten good men—armored and ready."
"Yes, my blood of my blood!"
Irgo's face lit with fierce excitement. Corian's healing had mended him days ago. Resting in the Hall of Order had left him restless; a Dothraki who couldn't ride and fight was miserable. He asked no questions, simply turned and went to gather the men.
Oliver stood where he was, still half-convinced he was dreaming.
"Return to your lodgings and rest," Corian told him once Irgo was gone. "If you have nowhere in King's Landing, the Hall of Order has guest rooms. At first light tomorrow, meet us near the old flour mill outside the King's Gate."
"Yes—yes, Ser!"
Oliver bowed deeply, deeper than any time before. This man wasn't making empty promises. He was actually coming.
Night fell.
A different kind of gathering was happening in the hills on the northeastern edge of the Kingswood.
Darkness lay thick over the wooded slopes. The air smelled of rotting leaves, damp earth, and the sharp, musky scent left by indulgence. A small campfire crackled in a clearing. Its jumping light threw twisted shadows across the gnarled trees like dancing demons.
The singing was rough and off-key, heavy with Dornish accents, the words crude and explicit. It mixed with loud laughter and the broken, breathy cries of women.
Around the fire, several men in nothing but thin shirts—or half-naked—laughed and groped women whose clothes were already half off. Farther back in the shadows, other sounds continued without pause. The whole scene felt wild, almost feral, completely out of place in the quiet, lonely forest.
It looked like an open-air orgy.
One man sat apart from the noise.
He leaned against an old tree beside a whetstone, ignoring the debauchery around him. His focus stayed on the longsword in his hands. Steel whispered against stone in steady, cold strokes, cutting through the sounds of pleasure like a blade through silk.
Firelight lit one side of his face—a typical Dornish profile, darker skin, high cheekbones, eyes calm and almost somber in the flickering glow.
After a while a lazy figure stumbled out of the deeper woods, still tying his breeches, a loose grin on his face. He was younger, curly-haired, moving with a loose, satisfied swagger.
He grabbed a wineskin by the fire, took a long pull, then looked at the man still grinding his sword.
"Hey, Andrey!"
The younger man's voice was mocking. "You're really killing the mood, you know that? We've been riding hard, eating cold food, drinking dirty water. We finally find a little fun and you sit there like a statue. Can't you let yourself enjoy something for once?"
Scrape… scrape…
The sharpening stopped for a heartbeat. Andrey lifted his eyes and gave the younger man a flat look. There was no warmth in it, only a trace of distaste.
"My body and my loyalty belong to the Princess. Men who think with what's between their legs wouldn't understand, Garin."
His voice was low and steady, a sharp contrast to the noise around them.
Garin barked a laugh and slapped his thigh hard enough to draw looks from nearby men. "Andrey, that pure-knight act doesn't suit a Dornishman at all!"
Scrape… scrape…
The whetstone moved again, slower now, heavier.
Andrey's gaze returned to the blade as if Garin were nothing more than an annoying fly.
"Whether I seem Dornish or not isn't for you to judge, Garin. And I don't need to be like you… or like my brother."
He paused, the stone drawing a thin line of sparks across the middle of the sword. "As for the Princess—her ambitions, her plans—you couldn't even touch the edge of them. If we hadn't grown up together, I wouldn't have brought you on this at all. Let me remind you: don't get carried away. We're not here so you can amuse yourself. If you ruin what the Princess needs, I'll make sure you never see Dorne again."
The last words came out slow and deliberate, heavy with warning.
Garin's face flushed dark—whether from wine or anger. "Carried away? Amusing myself? Andrey, who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"
He raised his voice. More heads turned. Even the sounds from the tents quieted. Only wind and crackling wood remained.
"We may not have sworn on our swords to save our virtue for the Princess like you did, but don't forget—we've done just as much dirty work! This past month we've killed how many smallfolk to spread fear? And a few days ago that old man got away from us, rolling down the slope. You were right there. That shiny sword of yours didn't stop him, and now he's gone—alive or dead, who knows. Is that what you call 'not ruining the plan'?"
The argument had killed the party mood completely.
Andrey finally stopped sharpening.
He slowly raised the longsword until the blade sat level with his eyes. Firelight ran along the polished steel like liquid. It reflected his calm, empty gaze and Garin's twisted, angry face.
"Because of that," Andrey said quietly, "I have to remind you even more clearly, Garin."
Without warning, the sharp edge came to rest against Garin's throat.
Andrey's eyes stayed cold. His voice carried no emotion. "Unnecessary killing leaves traces. Letting someone escape leaves bigger traces. You enjoy this too much—the killing, the feeling of power. You've forgotten why we're really here and what we're supposed to be doing."
"If you still don't understand, then let my sword explain it to you."
Garin felt the steel against his skin. His bluster collapsed.
"Easy… easy, brother," he said, forcing a smile. He carefully pushed the blade aside with one finger. "The old man getting away is actually better, isn't it? It spreads more fear."
He reached into his open shirt, fumbled for a moment, and pulled something out.
"Don't forget… right now we're all wearing the same colors."
It was a badge.
Iron, edges worn, stained with sweat and dirt. But the black iron gate symbol on it stood out clearly in the firelight.
"Ilenwood."