The woman reminded Solomon of Lady Donella Hornwood.
He remembered her story. A widow taken by Ramsay Snow, forced to marry, locked in a tower, and starved to death, eating her own fingers.
That was the reality for women in Westeros who held power without protection. Lady Rona was another Donella in the making.
Solomon knew his actions were brutal. He had destroyed her husband and father-in-law.
But they had brought it upon themselves. They had betrayed him first. They had killed his men.
Lady Rona was luckier than Donella. As long as she obeyed, Solomon wouldn't starve her to death.
"How do we do it?" Bronn asked, a wicked gleam in his eye.
Solomon looked at him. "Don't you want to ask what we are doing first?"
"Ask?" Bronn blinked. "Why ask? Just tell me the price!"
"Give Lady Rona some trouble," Solomon said, sitting down. "Also, find out how many people in this castle are still loyal to House Deepden."
"Cost is not an issue, Bronn. I want results."
"I want Lady Rona to feel isolated. I want her to feel that this castle is a trap and she has no one to turn to."
"Deal!" Bronn stood up eagerly. "I promise you, Solomon! Rona's castle will become a hornet's nest."
"I'll make you look like a savior when you step in to 'help' her. Trust me, women fall for that."
Bronn disappeared out the door, already scheming.
After the Battle of the Forest, ravens took flight.
They carried shocking news to every corner of the Riverlands, across the Mountains of the Moon into the Vale, and even further.
In the Hand's Tower in King's Landing, Jon Arryn sat in his study. The afternoon sun bathed his heavy oak desk in warm light.
Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, rubbed his temples. He was reading reports on the coastline defenses.
The Ironborn were raiding everywhere. It was depressing reading.
But the real headache wasn't the Ironborn. It was the King.
Robert Baratheon was spending the treasury like water. The realm's finances were teetering. Robert was a perpetual teenager—drinking, whoring, and refusing to govern. Jon had to manage him like a child.
Caw!
A raven's cry broke the silence.
Moments later, a servant entered, followed by Maester Colemon, Jon's personal maester.
"My Lord, a raven from the Eyrie," Colemon said, handing over the scroll.
Jon took it. It bore the Arryn seal.
He scanned the first line, frowning.
As he read on, his tired eyes widened in disbelief.
"A sixteen-year-old river lord?" he muttered. "Three hundred farmers?"
"That 'Shit Lord' family?"
And... "Turned into a black lion?"
Colemon stood silently, waiting.
Jon read it again.
The letter detailed a campaign in the Riverlands. Two thousand wildlings came down from the mountains to raid.
They were met by a boy of sixteen, leading three hundred peasants armed with farm tools.
The boy routed them. He chased them. He slaughtered them.
The letter mentioned a hill of heads—four hundred wildling skulls piled at the edge of the mountains. A monument with an inscription: "Invaders of the Riverlands! Here lie your bones!"
The Mountain Clans were now terrified of his name.
Jon leaned back.
Sixteen years old. Three hundred farmers. Two thousand wildlings. A black lion.
It sounded like a bard's song, not a military report.
Wildlings were undisciplined, but they were fierce. The Vale had fought them for thousands of years. Even a King of the Vale, Roland Arryn I, had died at their hands.
Jon knew why they persisted—some lords in the Vale used them for dirty work.
But this report... came from the Eyrie. They wouldn't send unverified gossip.
And he had received other letters from the Riverlands and the Vale in the last day. All mentioned the same things: "The Defeat of the Clans," "The Boy General," "The Black Lion of the Riverlands."
Maybe this boy could be useful. The Vale lords needed a wake-up call.
"This boy's name will ring across the Riverlands and the Vale," Jon whispered.
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