Aryn started to speak. "Wait, the last time we trusted strangers, they led a fucking band of Mordecai right to us."
He was quickly silenced by the deep frown of the blacksmith who also emphatically shook his head to Kella. "No, milady, you have us mistaken for the rabble. The group you came with were merchants and vagabonds with nothing to lose. We, on the other hand... we have been fighting the cause for years."
He bowed his head low to Kella again as they reached the horses. "Your thanks will keep us warm for years, milady. Now please, we have little time before more soldiers descend upon us. There are patrols all around this area. We have to get you out, you and Lord-"
The blacksmith turned expectantly back to Aryn, waiting for a response. Aryn stared back at him, face covered in dirt and grime, eye half swollen shut. The Ironhand's mouth hung open for a moment and frosted breath hung still in the air. "Lord..." Aryn repeated.
He turned to Kella then and, despite his best effort, doubled over and erupted in laughter.
"You hear that? A LORD, he says!"