he found one with dried spit along the rim.
Tarn watched that and said, "We need every bowl."
Brea held up the dirty one. "Then drink from this yourself."
Tarn looked at it and said nothing.
They marked sick bowls with red clay and a cut beneath the rim. Watched bowls got one scratch on the base. Clean bowls were moved to the far side of the main hearth. It was messy, but it was better than nothing. Varr took over the instructions once he understood them, which helped. Red Smiths listened to him. They did not listen to Torren unless Brea repeated him.
That was fine.
Torren did not need them to listen to him. He needed them to listen to someone.
...
The first real argument came when a woman tried to give a fevered child a stronger drink.
Torren saw the extra sap-water before it reached the bowl. "No."
The woman froze. "She is hot."
"That does not mean more."
"She is small. She burns faster."
"She also vomits faster."
The woman looked at Brea.
Brea took the horn cap from her. "Measured. Like he said."
The woman's face twisted. "He is not ours."
"No," Brea said. "But the measure is useful. Use it and hate him after."
That worked better than anything Torren could have said.
Varr came over, took the horn cap, and checked the amount himself. "Smaller for children."
"Yes," Torren said.
"I know."
"You almost gave too much to Rodd."
Varr glared at him. "That was before I knew."
"Now you know."
Brea looked between them. "This is a very stupid way to help people."
Tarn, passing behind them with two men carrying supplies, said, "It's working enough. Keep being stupid."
...
By late afternoon, the fever dens had order.
Not much. But order.
Steam for the worst breathing. Small drinks for those who could swallow. No drink for those who coughed through water. Boiled cloths. Marked bowls. Sick hides separated from work hides. Children moved away from the hearths where fevered adults slept. Varr cursed every time Torren corrected a measure, then corrected the next person himself. Brea moved faster than everyone and looked angrier each time she saved time.
Rodd slept after the second steam.
That mattered. He still looked bad, but he slept without fighting each breath. Tarn stood over him for a while and said nothing. Then he turned to Torren.
"You said it needs days."
"Yes."
"We may not have days."
"I know."
Tarn looked toward the unloaded bundles. "Come."
Torren followed him to the storage hollow.
There, the stolen goods had been sorted. Grain in one pile. Cloth in another. Herbs in smaller bundles. Willow bark. Bitterleaf, not much but more than Torren had carried. Clean linen. Clay jars with waxed lids. A cracked wooden box with small compartments. Some were empty. Some held powders or dried leaves. There were also things Torren did not understand: little metal tools, a roll of fine thread, a small knife too delicate for fighting.
Tarn saw him looking.
"You know what that is?"
"No."
"Good."
Brea came in behind them. "Maester things."
Tarn shot her a look.
She ignored it. "He already guessed it wasn't village goods."
Torren looked from the box to Tarn. "You went after a maester's stores."
Tarn did not answer.
Torren said, "Where?"
Tarn's jaw moved once. "Strongsong."
That made Torren go still.
Belmore's seat. A castle. Not a village, not a shepherd's hold, not a lonely storehouse. A castle.
"You attacked Strongsong?"
Tarn's eyes hardened. "We attacked stores."
"In a castle."
"That part went badly."
Brea folded her arms. "We took from villages first. Bitterleaf, food, cloth. Not enough. The fever kept spreading. The Red Smiths needed more. Sons of the Mist and Sons of the Trees needed more. So we tried for the maester's stock."
Torren looked at Tarn. "All of you together?"
"Not all," Tarn said. "Enough."
"How many?"
"Enough to lose men."
That was the only number he would give.
Brea continued because Tarn clearly did not want to. "The villages were easier. Still ugly. But easier. Strongsong was not. We never reached the room we wanted. Took what we could from outer stores and a lower house near the walls. Then arrows came. Then men in mail. Then we left fast."
"A lot of you are wounded."
Tarn's face tightened. "I noticed."
"And Sons of the Mist? Sons of the Trees?"
"They split from us after the lower ridge," Tarn said. "They took their wounded home. We took ours."
"Are they sick?"
Brea answered. "They had cough before we went."
Torren rubbed at his eyes. "And they went anyway?"
Tarn stepped closer. "Yes. They went anyway. Because bitterleaf does not grow just because people ask nicely. Because Milk Snakes closed the road. Because children were hot and men were choking and everyone had already tried waiting."
Torren said nothing.
Tarn looked angry enough to hit him, but the anger was not really for Torren. It was for the raid, the dead, the failed castle attempt, the sick still waiting, and the fact that the stolen goods were not enough to make the choice feel worth it.
After a moment, Tarn looked away. "You think it was stupid."
"I think it was desperate."
"That is not better."
"No."
Brea picked up one of the waxed jars. "Some of this may help. Some may be useless. Some may kill if we guess wrong."
"Then don't guess," Torren said.
Tarn looked back at him. "You know these?"
"No."
"Then what good are you?"
"I know the method I brought. For the rest, use what you know. If you don't know a jar, don't feed it to someone because it looks important."
Brea nodded. "That, at least, is sensible."
Varr entered the hollow slowly, leaning on his staff. "The boy is right. Maester jars are not magic because they came from below."
Tarn looked annoyed. "You heard?"
"I am old, not deaf."
Brea muttered, "Depends on the day."
Varr ignored her. "We use the leaves we know. We keep the jars sealed until someone can identify them. If no one can, they stay sealed."
Tarn's hand closed on the hilt of his bronze sword. "We bled for those."
Varr looked at him. "Then do not make the bleeding worse by pouring unknown powder into a child."
For a moment Tarn looked like he might argue. Then the fight left his shoulders.
"Fine."
...
They worked until the sky dimmed.
Torren showed Varr and Brea the method again and again until both could correct others without asking. Varr sent two Red Smiths to check their own weirwoods, not to gather deeply, only to see whether there were old cracks or natural bleeding. He did not ask Torren to come. Torren did not offer. That was Varr's place, not his.
Brea organized the stolen bitterleaf into portions. Tarn made the wounded line separate from the fever line, after Brea yelled at him for letting men with arrow cuts sit beside coughing workers. The Red Smiths did not like any of it. They were tired, hurt, and angry. But they obeyed Tarn and Varr, and that was enough for the method to start taking root.
Rodd woke near dusk and asked for water.
Brea gave him a small amount and watched him swallow. He kept it down. That was good. Not victory. Good.
Tarn saw it too.
He stood beside Torren near the cold work hearths, looking at the quiet tools.
"You came late," Tarn said.
"Yes."
"Not your fault."
Torren looked at him.
Tarn frowned. "Do not make a face. I said it once."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
Torren looked back at the hearths. "You should keep the steam going through the night."
"Varr knows."
"Good."
"Brea knows too."
"Better."
Tarn was silent for a while. Then he said, "Mist and Trees live in the same valley. Outsiders call them two clans. They do not like that."
"What are they?"
"Two bloods. Two chiefs. Same roots, mostly. They decide together when it matters."
"And does it matter now?"
Tarn gave him a tired look. "They attacked Strongsong with us. They have wounded. They had cough before leaving. Yes, it matters."
"How do I reach them?"
Tarn looked toward the northern ridge, where mist had started pooling between the stones even before night. "You follow the red wash until it turns grey. Then you climb where the water sounds wrong."
"That is not a direction."
"It is if you know the place."
"I don't."
"I will send Lark to the first mist stone. No farther."
A thin young Red Smith nearby looked up sharply. "Me?"
Tarn pointed at him. "Yes, you."
Lark looked unhappy. "The mist path after dark is bad."
"Then leave before dark and come back before worse."
Torren said, "I can leave now."
Brea turned on him. "You can barely stand."
"I can walk."
"That is not the same."
Tarn looked him over. "You sleep two hours. Then go."
"I don't have two hours."
"You have two hours because if you fall off a ridge in the mist, you become no help to anyone. Sleep."
Torren wanted to argue.
Then he realized he might actually fall if he tried to leave immediately.
"Fine," he said.
Tarn nodded. "Good. I like you better when you are too tired to be difficult."
Brea snorted. "He is still difficult."
...
Torren slept badly beside a cold storage wall.
When Lark woke him, the sky was not yet fully dark, but the light had gone thin. Brea gave him more bitterleaf, a fresh strip of willow, and one small bundle of pine. Varr gave him a bark strip with Red Smith marks confirming that they had taken the method and that it had not killed Rodd by the time Torren left.
"That is all I will say," Varr told him.
"That is enough."
Tarn handed him back nothing sharp. No weapon. Torren noticed.
Tarn noticed him noticing. "You came without steel. You can leave without it."
"I wasn't asking."
"Good."
Then, after a pause, Tarn took a small bronze pin from his cloak and held it out. It was plain, red-gold, shaped like a short thorn.
Torren looked at it. "What is that for?"
"If Mist or Trees think you stole the path, show them. They know our work."
"I thought you didn't share your work."
"We share enough that people know not to touch the rest."
Torren took the pin carefully. "Thank you."
"It is not a gift. Bring it back if you live."
"That is not usually how gifts work."
"It is how mine work."
Brea gave him a cloth packet. "For the first bad breathing you find. Do not waste it on someone walking and complaining."
"I know."
"You look like you need telling."
Torren tied the packet to his belt beside the Milk Snake caps. He now carried signs from half the mountain and still had no knife. It was beginning to feel ridiculous.
Tarn walked him to the edge of the camp.
The Red Smiths had restarted one small hearth behind them. Not for work, not yet, but for boiling water. The sound was wrong for the camp, but at least it was sound.
At the ridge path, Tarn stopped. Lark waited ahead, shifting from foot to foot.
Tarn pointed north. "Mist and Trees are there. Same valley. Don't call them one clan. Don't ask about the great tree unless they bring it up. If the old woman calls for you, go."
Torren looked at him. "What old woman?"
Tarn's face was tired, but there was a hint of something like caution in it now. "You'll know if she wants you."
"That is not helpful."
"No. But it is true."
Lark started up the path. Torren followed.
Behind him, Tarn called once more. "Painted Dog."
Torren turned.
Tarn stood with one hand on the bronze sword at his hip. "You came late for us. You may be later for them."
Torren had no answer that would help.
So he nodded and kept walking north, toward the grey mist gathering between the stones.