The Northwind Rider

"No need for that, surely."

By then, Margaery understood exactly what sort of man stood before her. Savarro tried to solve the problem with steel, but Harlon barely looked at him.

"Boy," Harlon said, "when I was selling my sword in the Disputed Lands, you were still hiding behind castle walls and crying for your mother."

His boot struck before Savarro could answer. The guard flew from his feet and hit the ground hard enough to choke on dust.

Margaery's composure nearly cracked. "You are... Blood Wolf Company?"

"Blood Wolf Company. Harlon, commander of the Northwind riders." He gave her a rough little bow. "Lady Margaery, if you please."

He had meant to hide behind the shape of an ordinary hunter, but she had used her true name. Ronan had prepared his men for that.

Before the Blood Wolf Company entered Westeros's war of kings, he had made them learn the faces and names of every great lord and lady worth taking.

This was exactly the sort of moment that lesson had been meant for. Savarro struggled upright. He still wanted to prove himself, but Harlon already had a crossbow aimed at his chest.

"Give it up," Harlon said. "Death is serious business."

Margaery did not want to watch Savarro die. "You only take nobles, do you not? Let him go."

Harlon laughed without warmth. "Prisoners do not choose terms."

He motioned toward the horse. Margaery mounted, Savarro took the reins, and Harlon rode behind them with the lazy posture of a man who did not need to show every threat in his hand.

They moved away from the trees instead of toward them. Only then did fear begin to settle properly in Margaery's stomach. She had laid bait for a wolf and stepped into its jaws instead.

She hoped Loras would notice in time. Savarro did. The guard kept glancing back, watching Harlon's eyes. Twice, perhaps three times, Harlon let his lids sink for a heartbeat, as if the road bored him.

Savarro mistook habit for weakness.

He passed the reins back to Margaery, whipped her horse, and spun with his sword across his chest. The crossbow bolt came as expected. Prepared for it, Savarro barely managed to knock it aside.

For one bright instant, he believed he had saved his queen.

Harlon only sighed. From his saddlebag he drew a weighted rope, swung it once, and sent it hissing after the fleeing horse. The line caught the animal's legs. Horse and rider crashed down together.

The horse screamed. Margaery lay still. Savarro's triumph died.

"Damn you," he whispered.

"Now you want to fight?" Harlon asked.

Savarro knew he was outmatched. He also knew he was not livestock for the slaughter. A warrior, if he had to die, should die facing the charge.

He gripped his sword like a boy learning the weight of steel for the first time.

Hooves passed him. The outcome was never in doubt. Savarro had no song, no miracle, and no hero's fortune waiting over his shoulder.

Harlon felt a little sorry when it was done. The man could have lived, and had spent his life for a noble lady instead. Men in Westeros took this knightly devotion seriously. To Harlon, it looked too much like a sickness.

Mercenary law was simpler: keep yourself alive, spend others when you must.

That law had carried him through gutters, bad contracts, and worse employers until Ronan Harrow gave him brothers worth protecting. Even so, this business of dying prettily for a silk-born lady had never made sense to him.

Margaery rose before he offered help. Mud streaked her gown, and her hair had fallen loose, but the grace beneath it remained stubbornly intact.

"Does every man in the Blood Wolf Company fight like you?" she asked.

"Of course."

He did not give her time to decide whether that comforted or frightened her. Pride sat openly in his eyes, and Margaery understood that it was not personal vanity.

He believed in the company the way other men believed in houses, kings, or gods.

That made the Blood Wolf Company far more dangerous than hired swords should be.

On the road, Margaery asked question after question. Harlon answered what did not touch secrets and deflected the rest. One name appeared again and again in his replies. Commander Ronan.

At last she turned in the saddle. "If one of your men is captured, what happens?" Harlon frowned.

"And if that man were you, Commander Harlon?"

His eyes sharpened. He bent low against his horse an instant before an arrow cut through the space where his chest had been.

Loras Tyrell rode into view with a bow in hand.

"Margaery, are you hurt?"

She shook her head.

Behind him, Highgarden guards streamed onto the road in bright armor, fifty or sixty men at least. Harlon moved closer to Margaery. Loras thought he meant to use her as a shield and loosed again.

This time Harlon stopped playing. He twisted away, drew, and returned the shot before Loras could see the angle.

"Look out, brother!"

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