Not for the first time, he thinks about how exactly he got here.
It wasn't as if there was some sort of great moment when he decided to do something great. He always just did what was in front of him. He joined his lordship's army because he was good in a scrap; he learned to win fights, because in battle you learn quick or you're dead; he learned to win battles, because it makes staying alive much easier; then he found himself choosing the battles, and the wars, and then he just chose the right ones.
Now the kingdom is united and peaceful and a damn sight bigger than it was, and he's gone from Her Majesty's highest general to the newly created Duke of the newly created Duchy of Volturgard.
He's a nobleman now, they tell him. Toffiest of the toffs. Just barely not royalty. He always thought you had to be born posh, but when he'd said so to the heraldry-master, the old man had chuckled at him and asked where he thought they came from in the first place, "Beggin' yer pardon, yer grace".
What nobody had told him was what to do here.
He's in the biggest, fanciest house he's ever been allowed inside, through the front entrance, and all these funny-dressed servants who should be hitting him and shouting at him to show some respect are bowing and offering him little glasses of bright rich-scented drinks in funny little glasses.
He sips it. Hates it.
He is announced to the room, and what a room! It's bright, lit by a hundred candles and lanterns, and filled with tittering women in dresses worth what he used to make in a year, and men who seemed to have overslept the morning the chins were handed out, and they're all staring at him. He can't make out their expressions.
His hostess greets him and bows and fusses and he smiles and nods and very soon is left by a table.
He gets a drink. Something sour and sweet and cloudy and not very strong.
Can he ask a servant for whisky or red wine or dwarf beer or something? Is that one of those things that gets the nobs to look at you funny forever?
Gods.