Solomon continued to bark his commands, his roar echoing through the night.
"HOUSEHOLD HEADS!! STAND AT THE FRONT OF YOUR RESPECTIVE UNITS!!"
"FORTRESS COMMANDERS!! STAND AT THE VERY FRONT OF YOUR HOUSEHOLD UNITS!!!"
Under the watch of the entire valley, the eight hundred smallfolk divided into eight disciplined, square formations based on their "Households."
At the front of each square stood their Household Head, and before them stood the military commanders of their respective fortresses.
Every man faced the high dais, standing in a heavy, expectant silence, waiting for their lord to speak.
The earlier commotion had vanished. In its place was a bone-deep silence and a sense of discipline so thick it was suffocating.
With their Neighborhood Heads in sight and their Family Heads at their sides, no man dared to whisper. The crowd stood in a solemn, focused hush, their eyes locked onto Lord Solomon.
At the edge of the crowd below the dais, Evelyn watched the scene, her heart thundering against her ribs.
An army in a single day.
Barely twenty-four hours ago, these men had been scattered across different peaks—farmers, blacksmiths, woodcutters, hunters.
Now, though they wore rough tunics and carried pitchforks, scythes, hoes, and axes, they had taken the shape of a true army.
They were an organized, responsive force, ready to move on a single command.
Solomon's gaze swept across the eight silent formations. He knew the moment had arrived.
His voice rang out again, this time infused with a cold, sharpening fury. He roared into the night:
"OUR ENEMY!! HOUSE LEGE OF WILLOWBROOK!!!"
"THEY HAVE ALLOWED THEIR SOLDIERS!!! TO OCCUPY MY LANDS!!!"
He paused, letting the statement fester in the minds of every man present.
"YOUR LANDS!!!!"
Solomon's voice spiked, a sudden thunderclap that made the men snap their backs straight.
He pointed a finger toward the direction of Willowbrook, his fist clenched against his chest. Every word sounded as if it were being ground out between his teeth.
"WHY DO I SAY THEY ARE YOUR LANDS?! BECAUSE I!! SOLOMON!! DO HEREBY SWEAR!!!"
The entire valley held its breath.
"IN THIS WAR!!! FOR EVERY SOLDIER UNDER MY BANNER!! FOR EVERY ENEMY HEAD YOU BRING ME—CAPTURED KNIGHTS AND NOBLES NOTWITHSTANDING!!!"
"AFTER THE BATTLE!! YOU SHALL BE GRANTED A PLOT OF 'SOLOMON FIELD'!!"
A ripple of suppressed, frantic commotion swept through the formations. Men gripped their weapon shafts until their knuckles turned white. Solomon raised a single hand for silence.
He knew he had lit the fire of greed. But a spark was not enough; he intended to pour oil onto the flames until they turned into an all-consuming inferno.
He slowed his speech, explaining the concept to the smallfolk who had never known such a reality.
"THIS FIELD!! SHALL BE YOUR PRIVATE LAND!!!"
"PROTECTED BY MY LAW!! IT SHALL BELONG TO YOU AND YOUR SONS FOREVER!! PASSED DOWN FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION!!!"
"IF YOUR OWN FAMILY CANNOT WORK ALL THE LAND YOU WIN!! YOU MAY RENT IT TO OTHERS!! YOU MAY COLLECT THE RENT!!!"
"NEVER AGAIN SHALL YOU BE FORCED TO TOIL IN THE DIRT FOR ANOTHER MAN'S TABLE!!!"
"EAT WHAT YOU WISH!! PLAY AS YOU WISH!! BUY WHAT YOU WISH!!!"
A collective, sharp intake of breath hissed through the valley.
Private land!
Hereditary!
Rent-collecting!
An end to labor!
These four concepts struck like lightning, splitting the consciousness of every farmer in the square.
In the world of Westeros, land belonged strictly to the noble lords.
These men were tenants, serfs, and laborers. They spent their lives breaking their backs for a harvest where the lion's share was taken away.
They had never even dared to dream of owning the soil beneath their feet.
After a heartbeat of suffocating silence, the crowd erupted into a mountain-shattering roar!
Thousands of voices merged into an unstoppable torrent, vibrating through the stone of the valley.
"SOLOMON!!!! SOLOMON!!!! SOLOMON!!!!"
"BLACK LION!!!! BLACK LION!!!! BLACK LION!!!!"
Solomon did not stop their shouting. He watched with a grim satisfaction. He never used lofty ideals or abstract "honor" to mobilize his men; he knew such things were useless to the hungry.
He promised them possibility. He promised them a world where following him meant obtaining everything they had never dared to dream of. He was making them realize that in all the Seven Kingdoms, only he would protect their interests. Nothing moves the human heart like profit; nothing fuels ambition like a way up.
A farmer from the Gap Fortress threw down his pitchfork, drew the short blade from his belt, and held it high, screaming Solomon's name. His eyes were bloodshot, fixed toward the direction of Willowbrook as if he could already see the boundaries of his new estate.
A woodcutter lifted his heavy axe, roaring with the full strength of his lungs. His shout was no longer a release of fear; it was thick with a frantic hunger for the future.
The veterans who had fought with Solomon since the beginning stood with chests outthrust, looking up at the dais with a fierce, fanatical reverence.
"KILL!! KILL!! KILL!!"
No one knew who shouted it first, but soon the word drowned out everything else.
In the eyes of those eight hundred men, the fear of war was gone. The dread of death had vanished.
In its place was a primal, white-hot craving!
The exhaustion of the march and the lingering bitterness of their lives were incinerated. Their breathing grew heavy and ragged. They felt as if an inexhaustible power was surging from their very bones.
In their eyes, a Lege soldier's head was no longer a terrifying enemy. It was a walking, breathing plot of fertile, hereditary land!
It was a trophy that ensured their sons would never have to push a plow again.
Astride the wooden dais, Solomon felt the vibration of the earth beneath his boots. He looked at the faces below, twisted with a beautiful, terrible fanaticism.
He smiled. This was the result he needed. Only an army like this could truly fight. Only an army like this could be called a "Tiger-Wolf Host."
Solomon slowly unsheathed his Myr-style longsword. The blade caught the torchlight, shimmering with a cold, lethal glint.
He pointed the sword straight toward the night sky and delivered the final order of mobilization.
"NOW!! TAKE UP YOUR WEAPONS!!"
"FOR YOUR LAND!!"
"FOR YOURSELVES!!"
"FOR ME!!"
"MARCH!! GO AND TAKE THEIR HEADS!!!"
The valley's response was a roar louder than any that had come before, a sound that refused to die.
"ROAR!!!!!"
Led by their Household Heads, the eight formations began to wheel. They turned toward the west, their footsteps falling in a heavy, synchronized thud.
An army built in a single day—ignited by the absolute hunger for land—marched out into the vast, waiting darkness.
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