In the evenings, the main hall filled with mild mannered soldiers. They sat there, sipping mead and ale and spoke gently amidst long tables while warming flames from the huge fireplace lit the room. They were rarely the same men, but often new faces. Some were like us, blond and tall, others stout and short, all apparently warriors by their hardened looks, scars, and their weapons. ‘Mercenaries, I am sure of it,’ Sand said one night. ‘He is buying men for Yule. He said their army is too small, but I guess coin can buy you anything.’ ‘But they keep changing,’ I told him. ‘He sends them somewhere, bit by bit,’ Sand agreed. To assault the tower, and Balan was hiding them indeed, I thought. In the Old City. There would be a thousand men there, perhaps. It would ruin the Blacktowers. I chuckled. Money was the least of their concerns. Then there were the Blacktower men, who sat by themselves in the corners.
