Chapter 7.4- The Seadragon's Roar

Now was one of the few times during this mess of a march that I was doing neither of those two things— marring through the mud or resting on Igneel’s back. Instead, I was left with the ignoble duty of setting up camp— read: having the levies set up camp while I watched them do it fully aware that Borros would inevitably find something about the camp to complain about and then clap me over the ear because of. Last time, the tents were facing the wrong direction in his masterful opinion. An opinion that was fully shit because they were tents, and we were in the fuckig middle of the stormlands. No one was going to ambush us, and even if they did, it wouldn’t matter because I had a comprehensive rotation of scouts. The night before that, he had grilled me on the scouts and then the night before that one he had decided that the latrines I’d had the levies dig were too shallow.

Some of his criticisms were valid— somehow the latrines had filled up with shit before the night had even been halfway through and I’d had to have people digging new ones in the rain, under a cloudy sky with the only source of light being the campfire that Igneel was kind and helpful enough to keep lit with his flames.

This time, I made sure the latrines were dig enough that the tallest man in the camp could not see out of it, and then half again as deep. Four different latrines. The latrines were for the men-at-arms and levies. Knights, Lords, and little sprogs of Lords like me got the privilege of using chamber pots and then having them tossed into the latrines when we were done. It was a shitty job for whichever servant drew the short straw. Ha. Shitty job. Hadn’t even intended that one. It just happened. Latrines, and then campfire, and then tents after the campfire had been lit. I’d learned my lesson from the very first night when some of the tents caught fire from being too close to the campfire.

Now, I was getting good enough at directing it that I was even beginning to get fancy, having all the tents be pitched up into neat little rows to make walking between them less tedious and to reduce some of the natural inefficiencies that came with a camp this size— like getting information from one point to another. In about two hours, the camp was set up and Borros passed me with a sniff. He said nothing. Nothing at all.

“Oy. What’s this prissy nonsense with the tents?” He asked suddenly after he’d gone steps beyond me.

“Organisation, Ser Borros. It helps the camp followers know where to go and makes things more efficient” I said, and even though there was some distance between us, I could barely react in time to lean with the punch that sent me to the floor. I was up in a second. Staying on the floor was an invitation for Borros to start kicking. I’d learned that lesson the second time.

“Also makes it easy for any cunt with a knife and a dream to go about killing everyone important. None of this fancy shit next time, you hear me?” He asked.

“Yes Ser Borros” I said. Voice monotone as most of my attention was spent holding Igneel off from burning the man to ash. Grandnephew or not, I doubted Boremund would be very forgiving if I killed his son over a punch.