The soldiers in the Deddings mess hall stared, spoons frozen halfway to their mouths.
They were witnessing something impossible: A hereditary nobleman, the Lord of a Keep, was standing in line for stew.
Solomon ignored the gawking. He led Lushen and Lauchlan to a wooden table, sat down, and began to eat the brown slop on his wooden plate. The soldiers whispered furiously—was the "Dung Lord" crazy? Did he prefer peasant swill to the high table?
Solomon wiped his mouth, then reached into his robe. He tossed two heavy cloth sacks onto the table.
Thud. The sound of silver clinking against wood cut through the noise.
"Your wages," Solomon said, tearing a piece of hard bread.
Lushen and Lauchlan stared at the bags as if they were venomous snakes.
"Lord Solomon..." Lushen stammered, his face pale. "What... what is this?"
"Lord Raymun paid me for the story-telling," Solomon said nonchalantly. "But you two did the talking. This is your share."
Lauchlan looked terrified. He pushed the bag away.
"We cannot take this! We are your men! You give us land to till. You give us a roof. To fight for you is our duty! It is the debt we owe for our lives!"
Lushen nodded, his eyes red-rimmed. "My father told me, 'The Lord protects, the smallfolk serve.' We failed your father. We failed the Old Lady... your mother. To take coin from you now... it would be a sin."
Solomon stopped chewing. He looked at them—two grown men, terrified of being paid because their worldview couldn't process it. They were trapped in the feudal mindset: they were property, and property didn't get wages.
It annoyed him.
Bang.
Solomon slammed his hand on the table.
"Enough!" he snapped.
"You are not farmers anymore. You are soldiers of House Bligh. You are my sword and my shield."
He leaned in, his voice low and fierce.
"I need you to stand where others run. I need you to be professional. And in my service, merit brings reward. Punishment for failure, silver for success."
He shoved the bags back toward them.
"Take it. Go to the market. Buy meat for your families. Buy toys for your children. Let them know that following Solomon Bligh isn't a death sentence. Let them know that serving me puts food on the table."
Lushen and Lauchlan sat in stunned silence. The logic was alien, but the weight of the silver was real.
Slowly, Lushen reached out and took the bag. "I... I understand, my lord."
"We are yours," Lauchlan whispered, clutching his pouch. "Unto death."
Solomon watched them, masking his relief. Good. Loyalty is expensive, but at least I know the price.
"Eat," Solomon grumbled. "And stop looking at me like I'm the Stranger."
High above the mess hall, the atmosphere in the solar was suffocating.
The fire in the hearth popped, casting long, dancing shadows over the map of the Riverlands spread across the table. Lady Roslin stood over it, her brow furrowed in deep worry. Her finger pressed down on the map near the Green Fork.
Beside her stood Maester Walder, his grey robes blending into the shadows, his chain of office clinking softly.
"The ravens keep coming, My Lady," the Maester said, his voice dry and tired. "From the eastern villages. From the mountain passes."
He traced the jagged line of the Mountains of the Moon.
"The Hill Tribes. They have come down. A confederation—Burned Men, Stone Crows, Black Ears. A thousand spears, perhaps more. They are burning everything in their path."
Roslin gripped the edge of the table. "They know Lord Baron is away. They know the castles are empty."
"How many men do we have?" she asked, though she dreaded the answer.
"Less than four hundred in the garrison," Walder replied. "If we march out to save the villages, the savages will slip past and take Deddings Town itself. We cannot move."
"And the Tullys?" Roslin asked desperately. "The other Lords?"
"The Riverlords are guarding the coast against the Ironborn," Walder said ruthlessly. "We are alone."
Roslin paced the room. "We must do something! If we let the smallfolk burn, they will say House Deddings cannot protect its own. We will lose the mandate to rule!"
Maester Walder watched her, his face impassive.
"There is... a solution, My Lady."
Roslin stopped. "Speak."
"We cannot risk the garrison," Walder said slowly. "But we have a knight in the city. A man who survived the slaughter at Seagard. A man with a title, but no power."
"Solomon?" Roslin whispered.
"We can muster a levy," Walder suggested. "Three hundred peasants. We give them to Solomon Bligh. We send him to hold Deepvalley Keep."
He pointed to a narrow pass on the map.
"If he holds, the tribes are blocked. If he fails... well, he is an orphan with no powerful kin to complain."
Roslin felt a chill. "Maester... that is a death sentence. He is a boy. We just saved him."
Walder didn't blink. "Better a pawn dies than the King falls. If Deepvalley falls, the savages will be at your gates by the next moon."
Roslin stared at the map. She looked at the shield of House Deddings on the wall—a symbol of protection.
But protection required sacrifice.
She turned back to the Maester, her face hardening into stone.
"Muster three hundred levies," she commanded, her voice hollow. "Stop the grain shipment. And bring Lord Solomon to me."