The black bread was hard enough to be used as a weapon.
Solomon sat on a bench in the courtyard, gnawing on the crust while watching Lushen and Lauchlan do the same. He wasn't just eating; he was plotting.
I need a foundation, he thought, his jaw aching from the stale loaf. Being a noble in name only is useless. I need men who answer to me, not my father's ghost. I need to turn Lushen and Lauchlan into commanders, not just bodyguards.
"Ser Solomon?"
A guard of House Deddings approached, bowing respectfully. "Lady Roslin summons you."
Solomon swallowed the lump of bread with difficulty. Already? Maybe she's feeling generous with the grain.
He stood up, wiping crumbs from his velvet doublet. "Lead on."
The Great Hall of Deddings Keep was a cavern of stone and shadow. Banners of the white-and-blue shield hung from the walls, but they did little to warm the room.
Soldiers lined the walls, standing rigid. The fireplace roared, but the air felt frozen.
Lady Roslin sat on the high seat. Gone was the maternal pity she had shown yesterday. Her face was set in a mask of grim authority. Maester Walder stood by her side like a grey shadow.
Solomon's heart sank. This isn't a charity meeting. This is a briefing.
He walked forward, the echo of his boots loud in the silence. He bowed.
"My Lady."
"Ser Solomon," Roslin said, her voice devoid of warmth. "Deddings Town faces a threat. The Hill Tribes have come down from the Mountains of the Moon."
Solomon frowned. "The clans?"
"A confederation," Maester Walder interjected, his voice raspy. "Black Ears, Burned Men, Stone Crows. Ravens report over a thousand spears. They have broken the mountain pickets and are burning the eastern villages."
A thousand men. Solomon's left eyelid twitched. Why are you telling me this? I have two peasants and a shiny sword.
"Our garrison is four hundred strong," Roslin continued. "They cannot leave the walls, or the town falls. My husband took the main host to the coast. We are exposed."
She leaned forward, her eyes locking onto his.
"I have no knights to lead a relief force. No one of noble birth to hold the line."
Solomon broke the silence. "My Lady, you didn't summon me to tell me the weather report."
Roslin stood up, descending the steps of the dais. "No. I summoned you because I need a commander."
Solomon almost laughed. "Surely there is someone else? Anyone?"
"There is you," Roslin said, a faint smile touching her lips. "I have mustered three hundred levies. Farmers, potters, boys. They need a leader."
Solomon's face went rigid. Three hundred peasants against a thousand savages? That's not a mission; that's a funeral procession.
"My Lady," he said carefully. "Three hundred green boys against the Burned Men? Are you certain?"
"I know it is difficult," Roslin said softly. "I do not ask you to defeat them in open battle. I ask you to march to Deepvalley Keep and hold it. If you hold the pass, they cannot advance."
Solomon tried to play the orphan card again. "My Lady, my family... I am the last blood of House Bligh..."
"I know!" Roslin cut him off, her voice sharp. "I know your tragedy. But we do not have time for tears."
She took a step closer.
"If you accept this task... I will grant you certain privileges."
Solomon paused. "Privileges?"
"First," Roslin said. "Right of Salvage. Whatever you take from the enemy—weapons, horses, gold, captives—is yours. House Deddings claims no share. I will also expand your lands."
Solomon's eyes narrowed. Loot. Legalized looting. That was a fortune waiting to be taken. But the cost...
"Furthermore," Roslin added, dropping the final weight on the scale. "I grant you the Right of Conscription. You may draft smallfolk from any village or town in my domain to bolster your numbers. Anyone you deem necessary."
Solomon froze.
He looked at the Lady, then at the Maester. They were desperate. They were handing him a blank check.
Right of Salvage meant cash. Right of Conscription meant power. He could legally build his own private army on someone else's dime. He could absorb refugees, bandits, and farmhands into House Bligh.
It was dangerous. It was a suicide mission.
But it was also the only ladder he would ever find in this pit of a world.
"One thousand wildlings," Solomon murmured. "Against three hundred farmers."
He looked at Roslin. She looked anxious, pleading.
"I accept," Solomon said.
Roslin let out a breath she had been holding. "Thank you, Solomon. The Seven bless you. I will send grain to Mirekeep immediately."
"I need the writ now," Solomon said, his mind already racing with logistics. "And access to the armory."
"Of course," Roslin nodded. "Whatever you need."
Solomon bowed deep. "Then by your leave, My Lady. I have an army to build."
He turned and walked out of the hall, his stride long and purposeful. Lushen and Lauchlan fell in step behind him, silent and confused.
Solomon didn't look back. His blood was singing.
This is it, he thought, touching the hilt of his sword. The game has truly begun.