Night cloaked the mountain forests. The wind howled through the trees, carrying the sound of hundreds of men marching and breathing in a ragged, rhythmic heat.
A forest of torches merged into a winding dragon of fire, snaking along the jagged mountain paths toward the western Weeping Gorge.
The mobilized farmers, dressed in rough tunics, gripped their pitchforks, hoes, and axes. A fire burned in their chests, a feverish heat that turned their blood to liquid iron.
The promise of land for merit burned hotter than any torch.
Solomon rode at the front. He looked back at his host—men armed with farm tools, only a few carrying proper military spears. They had no armor, save for scraps of wood lashed to their chests as makeshift protection. He let out a quiet, weary sigh.
The weather had turned; the spring snowmelt from the Peaks of the Moon had swollen the rivers into torrents. There was no better opportunity than this. If he missed this window, who knew when another would open? Yet, Bana and Bronn were still missing—damn them. He lacked the armor to protect his men and couldn't even manage uniform weaponry. He had only managed to outfit three hundred junior officers in gambesons and salvaged swords, with fifty direct retainers in mail and fine steel. The strategic importance of iron for cold weaponry was a problem he desperately needed to solve.
The column reached a fork in the road.
One path led west toward the Weeping Gorge— the battlefield marked on every map.
The other wound downward, toward the riverbank swallowed by the shadows of the valley. There, the mountain run-off crashed against the rocks in a deafening roar.
By instinct, the men began to bank toward the west.
Suddenly, Solomon raised his arm. His voice cut through the mountain wind, carrying a command that brooked no argument. "All units, wheel! Target: The riverbank of the Peaks of the Moon!"
The order struck like a boulder dropped into a still pond, sending a ripple of confused murmurs through the ranks.
Lauchlan looked at Solomon, his face a portrait of bewilderment. "Lord Solomon."
"The Weeping Gorge is to the west," he said, his voice hesitant. "If we strike now while they're unprepared, we can seize the land back. Why are we heading for the water?"
Solomon offered no answer.
He simply signaled for the column to continue. He turned his horse and was the first to descend the narrow path leading to the bank.
Filled with doubt, the army followed their lord. When they reached the water's edge, the flare of their torches drove back the darkness, revealing a sight that stole their breath.
Lined up along the bank were hundreds of massive wooden rafts.
The timber he had ordered felled weeks ago had been processed and lashed together with thick, heavy ropes.
Lushen and Lauchlan stared at the rafts, their confusion only deepening.
But the moment Bolin saw the timber floating on the water, his entire body jolted.
In that instant, every disparate thread of the last few weeks—the seemingly "useless" logging orders, the mysterious smiles, the unexplained preparations—snapped together into a terrifyingly brilliant whole.
"I see it... I see it all!!!" Bolin's voice was thick, his massive frame trembling—not with fear, but with a sudden, electric rush of adrenaline. A genius. Lord Solomon is a goddamn genius.
"We're going downstream!!!" Bolin's eyes snapped wide, and he practically roared the realization. "We aren't going to the Weeping Gorge at all!!! Our target is Willowbrook!!!"
Lushen's jaw dropped. He tried to speak, but the sheer audacity of the plan robbed him of his voice. He could only open and close his mouth like a landed fish before his mind settled on a single, recurring thought: Exactly what I expected from Lord Solomon.
By dawn, while Roger Lege believed they were still gathering in the mountains, they would appear beneath his city walls like vengeful spirits.
"Seven Gods above! Lord Solomon is a devil!" Lushen whispered to himself. "Downstream..."
Lauchlan scratched the back of his head as a nagging thought surfaced. "But Lord Solomon... didn't we say we would never set foot on their ancestral land?"
Solomon turned his horse, looking back at him. A small, dry smile touched his lips. "House Lege's soldiers are currently standing inside my ancestral home. They were the ones to tear up the old rules first."
It was a hollow smile. In truth, Solomon had planned this strategic deception from the start; he was always going to launch a blitzkrieg. But House Lege had conveniently handed him the moral high ground by occupying the Reekfort, saving him the trouble of inventing a pretext. His reputation would likely be a mixture of praise and infamy after this—Westeros had yet to adopt the concept of "all is fair in war."
Lauchlan lowered his head, embarrassed. Yet, a confusing memory flickered in his mind: Lord Solomon had ordered those trees cut down long before House Lege ever moved on the Reekfort...
Solomon climbed atop a jagged rock by the river's edge and unsheathed his Myr-style longsword. The torchlight cast his shadow long and predatory against the rushing water. He spoke with a voice that rivaled the torrent.
"HOUSE LEGE HAS OCCUPIED MY ANCESTRAL HOME!!!"
His voice boomed across the bank.
"SINCE THEY REFUSE TO PLAY BY THE RULES, WE SHALL NOT BE POLITE!"
Solomon paused, then pointed his sword at Lauchlan. "Lauchlan! Take two hundred men! Depart immediately for the west!"
"Reclaim our lands in the Weeping Gorge! Plant my banner on every hill! Crush any who resist, and grant public plots to any who submit! Mobilize them as you go, then march to Willowbrook to meet me!"
From within the ranks, a young soldier blurted out a question he couldn't hold back. "What kind of heads count for the land merit?"
Before the words were even out of his mouth, the "Family Head" beside him delivered a swift kick to his backside, sending the boy sprawling into the dirt.
Solomon raised a hand, signaling for someone to pull the boy up.
He looked at the sea of hungry, expectant faces. He knew this was the question burning in every one of their hearts.
"ANY MAN WHO STANDS AGAINST YOU WITH A WEAPON!!!" Solomon's voice was as cold as a winter gale. "THEY ALL COUNT!!!"
The soldiers' breathing grew heavy and ragged.
Solomon turned back to the main host. He sheathed his sword and threw his arm toward the rafts on the water.
"THE REST OF YOU!! EMBARK!!! OUR TARGET IS WILLOWBROOK!!! BY MIDDAY, WE SHALL BE AT THEIR GATES!!!"
Finally, he turned to a rider on a swift palfrey. He drew a small signet carved with a black lion from his tunic.
"You! Ride the best horse we have! Take the northern trails to Deepwood! Deliver this to Lady Rona!!"
"Tell Old Nicken and Toman: the hour has come! Have them lead the four hundred men I had them pre-mobilize from Lady Rona's lands! March west with all speed! We meet at the walls of Willowbrook!"
Under the barks of the officers, over six hundred soldiers began to board the rafts in an orderly fashion.
The torches were stamped out, one by one.
In an instant, the host vanished into the deep night. The "fleet" of hundreds of rafts became a silent, black ghost, drifting noiselessly down the rushing current toward the heart of the Lege lands.
In Willowbrook, Roger Lege sat in his solar, an arm around his favorite mistress, savoring a goblet of fine wine.
"The five days are up," he said with a smirk, looking at the woman beside him. "This so-called 'Black Lion' is nothing but a toothless cub. He knows how to bark, but he's too afraid to bite."
"It seems his title needs an update. Perhaps we should call him 'Solomon the Spineless'."
The woman giggled, feeding him a plump purple grape.
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