Solomon drew the Myrish blade gifted to him by Raymun Darry. The fine steel flashed a cold silver arc in the dim forest light.
"Lushen! Sound the horn!"
"Soldiers! With me! Kill!"
This was his first time leading a charge. But he was ready.
With a roar that shook the leaves, Solomon and Lushen's squad burst from the dense undergrowth, slamming into the flank of the already panicked Burned Men.
Savages equal merit! Merit equals gold! Time is money!
Solomon took the lead, weaving through the trees with supernatural agility. His sword moved like lightning, every strike seeking a vital point.
The strange enhancement to his senses—perhaps a gift from his arrival in this world—was fully active. The world seemed to slow down.
A wildling with a battle axe roared and lunged at him.
Solomon sidestepped the heavy blow with effortless grace. A simple flick of his wrist, and the man's head was severed from his shoulders.
Behind him, his soldiers stared for a split second.
"Is that... is that Lord Solomon?"
They had never seen a noble fight like a demon before. It only fueled their frenzy.
Meanwhile, at the rear of the column, Lauchlan's squad struck like a dagger into the enemy's back.
The trap snapped shut.
The Burned Men were encircled. The Stone Crows, seeing the slaughter, abandoned their loot and their "allies," fleeing toward the forest edge.
Within minutes, the remaining Burned Men—less than a dozen—were compressed into a tight circle, surrounded by dripping spears.
Solomon raised his hand. The killing stopped.
He looked at the survivors. Del son of Cheek was propped up by two of his warriors, bleeding heavily from an arrow wound.
"Drop your weapons," Solomon said coldly. "Surrender or die."
Del spat blood onto the ground. He looked at the Lowlander with pure hate.
"A warrior of the Burned Men never drops his weapon!" he sneered.
Solomon smiled. A cold, predatory smile.
"Is that so?"
He turned to his men.
"Throw spears! Loose arrows!"
The soldiers blinked. The enemy was practically defenseless. Why waste arrows?
But they obeyed instantly. Solomon was their provider, their god of fortune. His word was law.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Another volley of wood and iron tore into the small circle.
Screams of agony filled the air. Soon, only bodies remained on the forest floor, twitching in the dirt.
"I don't take prisoners," Solomon said flatly.
It was the final injection of madness.
The soldiers roared and surged forward.
"Merit! Money!"
They fought over the bodies to deliver the killing blows, to claim the heads and ears. There was no mercy, no hesitation.
The massacre ended as quickly as it began.
Silence returned to the forest. But it was a heavy silence, absent even of birdsong.
Solomon looked around.
Limbs and entrails were scattered across the leaves. This was war in the age of cold steel—meat grinding against meat. It was a test of the human soul.
But when he looked at his men, he saw no trauma.
They looked at him with eyes burning with fanaticism. Their faces were smeared with blood and mud, but they were grinning. They were hungry for more.
Since that first payout, they had ceased to be farmers. They had become beasts. Human life was now just a currency exchange.
This is the law of Westeros, Solomon told himself. To survive, to protect what is yours, you must be stronger, crueler, and colder than the enemy.
Mercy was a luxury for the victor.
He exhaled slowly. Is this the army I wanted? Perhaps not. But it is the army I need.
Solomon turned his gaze to the terrified captives huddling on the ground.
Outside the walls of Runestone. The siege camp of the Mountain Clans.
It was a sprawling, chaotic mess of animal skin tents, crude lean-tos, and massive bonfires. Garbage and bones were scattered everywhere.
The Burned Men occupied the largest section. They loved fire above all else.
Inside the great tent of Timett son of Timett, the air was thick with smoke and tension.
The chieftains of the clans sat in a circle. They wore furs and looted armor, their unique and terrifying weapons close at hand.
Timett sat at the head. He was a nightmare made flesh—massive, covered in burn scars, with one empty eye socket that seemed to stare into your soul. He was a Red Hand, a war chief of the Burned Men.
To his left sat Shagga son of Dolf of the Stone Crows. He was a hairy giant, drinking looted wine from a horn, his twin axes leaning against his thigh.
To his right was Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black Ears. A small, wiry woman, flat-chested as a boy, with a necklace of dried ears.
Around them sat the leaders of the Milk Snakes, the Moon Brothers, the Sons of the Mist, the Painted Dogs.
The chieftain of the Milk Snakes coughed nervously.
"There is a rumor," he began. "They say there is a..."
"Rumors!" Timett barked, his voice like grinding stones. "What ghost story have you cowards invented now?"
"It is not a story..." the Milk Snake chief stammered. Everyone feared Timett. "They say there is a Lowlander army. They say... they are hunting us."
The eyes of the other chieftains flickered. Several raiding parties had failed to return recently.
"Hunting us?" Shagga laughed, bits of wine dripping from his beard. "The sheep hunting the wolves?"
"It is true!" the chief of the Howlers shouted. "My son took men to find grain! He never came back!"
"Your son probably got killed by a rabbit!" Timett sneered. "Cowards!"
"Who are you calling a coward?!" the Howler chief jumped up, hand on his sword.
The tent erupted.
Accusations flew. Old feuds resurfaced. The fragile alliance, built only on the promise of loot, was cracking under the pressure of the unknown.
Weapons were drawn. The air hummed with the threat of violence.
Shagga slammed his axe into the dirt. Boom!
Even that didn't fully silence them. Chella watched with cold eyes, hand on her knife, ready to kill anyone who came close.
"Enough!" Timett roared.
He stood up, towering over them. He drove his longsword into the earth, burying it halfway to the hilt.
"If you want to run back to the mountains like beaten dogs, go! If you want to plunder, you follow Timett son of Timett!"
The meeting broke up in chaos. The chieftains stormed out, taking their anger and suspicion with them.
No consensus was reached. The alliance was fracturing.
And out in the dark, the hunter was still watching.