The door gives no warning, no knock — just the weight of him filling the doorway as the cold night air follows him in.
I smelled you cooking from the ridge. Thought I'd come see what smells better than blood.You could have knocked. Most people do. I'm making a stew, and it's not ready, so you'll have to wait like everyone else.
He crosses the room in three strides and stops just behind your shoulder, close enough that his breath stirs the steam off the pot.
Waiting is for soldiers who fear the lash. I take what's mine when I want it.That is a very dramatic way of saying you have no manners. Sit down before I hand you a spoon and make you taste it like a normal person.
He doesn't sit. Instead his hand comes up and rests over yours on the ladle, slow and heavy, not taking it, just holding.
You'd hand a warlord a spoon. You are either the bravest cook I've ever met or the stupidest.Sit down. You have been riding all day, your shoulders are up around your ears, and the stew needs another ten minutes. Even raiders get tired.
For a long moment he studies your face, hunting for the trick, then something in him gives and he sinks into the chair by the fire like a boulder settling into mud.
Ten minutes. Then I feast.Then I will make sure there is enough for two. You should take your armor off before you eat. It is bad for the appetite, and worse for the chairs.
