"Lord Solomon!"
A scout sprinted up to Solomon's horse, bowing breathlessly. He was one of the ten men pulled from the ranks for their speed—a makeshift reconnaissance unit for an army that barely knew how to march.
"The town ahead refuses us entry," the scout reported, panting. "But they offer grain and fodder if we camp outside their walls."
Solomon frowned. "Did you show them Lady Roslin's seal?"
"I did, my lord," the scout replied nervously. "But the Reeve said... he said with the wildlings raiding, bandits are everywhere. He claims he cannot verify the seal. He asks for your understanding."
Solomon gritted his teeth. Understanding? It's cowardice.
This was the third town to shut its gates. The local officials, appointed by House Deddings, were hedging their bets. If Deepvalley fell, the wildlings would come. They didn't want to waste resources on a doomed expedition, nor did they want to open their gates to three hundred armed, hungry peasants.
They were waiting to see who won.
"Fine," Solomon spat. "Take the grain. We camp here."
Lauchlan scratched his head. "Lord Solomon, do we really need to dig trenches? We aren't even in the war zone yet."
"You know nothing, Lauchlan," Solomon snapped. "Discipline starts now. If we don't dig when it's safe, we won't dig when we're dying. Fortify the camp!"
"Yes, my lord!" Lauchlan straightened, chastised.
That evening, the camp was a study in contrasts.
Lushen's company was silent. His men moved with terrified efficiency, afraid to make a sound. Any soldier who lagged behind felt the sting of Lushen's cane. Fear had made them orderly, but it had also made them brittle.
Lauchlan's company was a mess. Men chatted, laughed, and slouched. Lauchlan joked with them, trying to be their friend. His formation was loose, his sentries distracted.
Solomon watched both from his fire, polishing his Myrish blade. One is too hard, the other too soft, he mused. They will learn. Or they will die.
Lushen and Lauchlan approached the fire, their faces grave.
"My lord," Lauchlan said quietly. "We have a problem."
Solomon didn't look up from his sword. "Speak."
"A deserter," Lauchlan whispered. "Or... a man thinking of it. His name is Tommen. Twenty years old."
"Who told you?"
"His tent-mate. The boy is scared. He plans to slip away tonight."
Solomon's eyes went cold. Desertion was a cancer. If one man ran and lived, ten would follow.
"Bring him to me?" Lauchlan asked, hand on his sword. "Shall we hang him?"
"Why does he want to run?" Solomon asked.
Lauchlan sighed. "His father went with Lord Baron to the coast to fight the Ironborn. No word for months. He is likely dead. Tommen supports his mother and two sisters. He fears if he dies here, they starve."
Solomon paused. It was a valid fear. It was the fear of every man in the camp.
"Assemble the men," Solomon ordered, standing up. "All of them. Now."
Three hundred men gathered in the center of the camp. The mood was tense. They shuffled in the dark, whispering. Why were they up? Was the enemy here?
Solomon stood on a raised platform, the firelight casting long shadows across his face. He looked at them—scared, cold, reluctant.
"I called you here," Solomon began, his voice carrying over the wind, "because I know what you are thinking."
The whispering stopped.
"You don't want to be here. You want to go home. You are afraid that if you die, your mothers will weep and your sisters will starve."
A few men lowered their heads. Someone sniffled in the dark.
"Bring the box!" Solomon roared.
Lushen and Lauchlan heaved a heavy wooden chest onto the platform.
"Open it!"
They threw back the lid. Inside, stacked in neat rows, was the silver Lady Roslin had given him for recruitment. In the firelight, the coins glowed like captured stars.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Most of these men had never seen a silver stag, let alone a chest full of them.
Solomon drew his sword.
"First, understand this!" he shouted. "There is no going back! If you run, Lady Roslin will hunt you down! You will hang as oathbreakers, and your families will be cast out to rot!"
The men flinched. The threat was real.
"I am in the same boat!" Solomon continued, pacing like a caged wolf. "I am the last of my line! If we fail, House Bligh ends! We have only one way out—through the enemy!"
He pointed his sword at the chest.
"But hear my oath!"
"I swear by the Seven! By the Father who judges and the Warrior who arms us!"
"If you fight for me... if you die for me... your families become my families!"
"If you fall, I will feed your mothers! I will dowry your sisters! If your land is taken, I will give you land in Mirekeep! I will build you houses of stone!"
He stabbed the sword into the earth.
"No man who follows Solomon Bligh will leave his kin to starve! That is my vow! If I break it, may the Dragon burn me and my line end in darkness!"
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with emotion.
Then, Tommen—the boy who had planned to run—stepped forward. His face was wet with tears.
"For Lord Solomon!" he screamed, his voice cracking.
"For the Silver!" another man shouted.
"We are with you!"
The cheer started as a rumble and grew into a roar. They weren't cheering for war. They were cheering for insurance. They were cheering because, for the first time, a Lord had promised that their lives had a market value.
Solomon watched them, his face grim.
I have bought their loyalty, he thought. Now I just have to make sure I live long enough to pay the bill.