Solomon didn't cheer.
He was too tired.
He gripped the wooden railing of the ramparts, his knuckles white, staring down into the valley.
The water was black and churning.
It swallowed the wildlings whole. Men who, moments ago, had been screaming for his blood were now flailing helplessly in the freezing current.
They clawed at the muddy banks. They stabbed their weapons into the earth, trying to anchor themselves.
But the river was stronger. It ripped them away, smashing them against rocks and trees, dragging them under.
Some managed to climb onto boulders, gasping for air.
"Soldiers!" Solomon ordered, his voice flat. "Spears! Arrows!"
"Anything moving in the water... shoot it."
"Yes!"
The soldiers, their faces masks of dried blood, obeyed without hesitation. There was no mercy left in them.
Arrows whistled down. Men on the rocks were picked off one by one, tumbling back into the dark water.
The flood washed the valley clean. It took the blood. It took the bodies. It took everything.
"It's over, Lord Solomon," Lauchlan whispered, standing beside him. His eyes were red with tears.
Solomon nodded slowly.
The adrenaline that had kept him upright finally drained away. A wave of exhaustion hit him like a physical blow.
"Good job, Lushen," Solomon mumbled, his eyes closing. "Good job, brothers."
His knees buckled. He fell backward.
He expected to hit the hard wood, but strong arms caught him.
Lauchlan held him up.
Solomon slept.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Footsteps approached. Heavy. Limping.
"Protect Lord Solomon!" Lauchlan hissed, drawing his dagger.
The soldiers instantly formed a wall around their sleeping commander, swords pointing outward.
Out of the darkness walked a demon.
Bronn was covered in mud and blood from head to toe. His clothes were shredded. He limped badly, favoring his left leg.
He looked like he had crawled out of the Seven Hells.
His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and burning with a mix of fury and adrenaline.
The soldiers were terrified of him, but they didn't flinch. Their lord had proven himself. They would die before letting this sellsword touch him.
Bronn ignored them. He stared at the sleeping boy in Lauchlan's arms.
He grinned. It was a rictus of bloody teeth, more terrifying than a snarl.
He raised his sword. It was coated in gore.
THUNK!
He stabbed it deep into the wooden floorboards in front of the soldiers.
"Tell... Solomon..." Bronn rasped, pointing a shaking finger at the sleeping lord.
"Every life here! Including his! Goes on my bill!"
"Or we are not done!"
With that, he turned and snatched a dagger from a startled soldier's belt.
Without a word, he vaulted over the railing and dove into the receding floodwaters below.
Splash.
The soldiers rushed to the edge, confused. Was he deserting now?
A few minutes later, Bronn climbed back up the ladder. He was soaking wet, shivering, and carrying something heavy by the hair.
He threw three severed heads onto the deck. They rolled to the soldiers' feet.
The Chief of the Milk Snakes. The Chief of the Mist Sons. And a third chieftain whose face was frozen in a scream.
Bronn kicked one of the heads toward Lauchlan.
"Tell Solomon!" Bronn shouted, tossing the dagger back. "I killed the three chiefs!"
"One thousand stags per head! Not one copper less!!"
Outside Deepden Castle. The Clan Camp.
Timett son of Timett stared at the walls of the castle.
His men were dying on those walls. Every assault failed. Every day, fewer warriors returned to the fires.
He was anxious.
He had planned to starve the Lowlanders out. But his foraging parties kept disappearing.
And now, three whole tribes—nearly five hundred men—had vanished into the night to chase a "ghost army."
They hadn't come back.
Timett gripped his sword hilt. He knew what that meant.
Half his army was gone.
"This is not what the Valley Lowlanders promised us!" Timett snarled, slashing his sword into a tree trunk.
"I told you, Timett," Chella of the Black Ears whispered, her voice like dry leaves. "Lowlanders are liars. They promised us food. They promised us easy plunder."
"Can we trust them?"
Timett looked at the castle. It was a nail in the coffin of his people. If they couldn't take it, they couldn't retreat to the mountains safely. They were trapped.
"Lies!" Timett roared. "It was all lies!"
"Someone betrayed us! Someone told the Lowlanders we were coming!"
He looked at the dark forest, feeling the eyes of an unseen predator closing in.
He had lost half his strength. And he didn't even know the name of the man who had taken it.
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