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CaveLeather Solomon stepped into the tent and immediately felt two pairs of eyes on him.
Lord Raymond Darry sat in the main chair — a young man with long brown hair and a lean, strong build.
His gaze was direct and uncomfortably sharp, like he was trying to peel Solomon open and see what was underneath.
Ser Ronald stood beside him, watching with a more guarded expression.
For a moment Solomon was convinced they had called him here to throw him out for eating with the soldiers and taking leftover bread.
He was already preparing the most sincere apology he could manage when Ser Ronald spoke first.
“Lord Solomon, there’s no need to be nervous.
Lord Raymond simply wishes to ask you about the ironborn, so we can better prepare.” Oh.
That’s all?
Solomon almost laughed out loud in relief.
Seven hells, just say that from the beginning!
I thought I was about to get kicked out for stealing soup.
Lord Raymond continued to study him with quiet interest.
“Your father and brothers died in battle?” Solomon hesitated for a second, unsure why the young lord was asking about his family.
Still, he answered respectfully.
“Yes, my lord.” Raymond nodded slightly, as if turning the answer over in his mind.
The tent fell into an awkward silence.
Ser Ronald quickly stepped in.
“I heard you also went to war.
And nearly died.
But you’re only sixteen.” He sounded genuinely surprised — and a little disapproving.
In his mind, no noble house should risk sending every male to battle at once.
Solomon met his eyes calmly.
“My father believed that when our lord calls, every man who can hold a sword must answer.
Even if it means the bloodline ends.
That oath has been passed down in our family for generations.
It’s crude, but we treat it as seriously as any sacred vow.” Raymond suddenly spoke again.
“What kind of men were your father and brothers?” Solomon kept his answer short.
“Good men, my lord.” He didn’t want to talk about them.
Not here.
Not with these two strangers.
He wanted to steer the conversation back to the ironborn and the war.
Ser Ronald seemed to sense his reluctance.
He cleared his throat and changed the subject.
“Lord Solomon, you’ve traveled with us for some time now.
You’ve seen our soldiers.
In your opinion, how do Darry men compare to the ironborn?” Solomon was quiet for a moment.
Then he looked directly at Lord Raymond.
“Does my lord want the truth, or the answer that will make everyone feel better?” A faint spark of amusement appeared in Raymond’s eyes.
“The truth.” Solomon’s polite smile faded.
His voice turned flat and cold.
“Then the truth is this: your soldiers are being butchered by the ironborn.
One ironborn is worth ten of your men.
They treat your levies like pigs and sheep waiting to be slaughtered.” Ser Ronald slammed his hand on the table.
“Nonsense!” he barked.
His face flushed with anger.
“A sixteen-year-old boy lecturing us about war?
You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Solomon didn’t argue.
He simply gave Ser Ronald a small, tired smile that said I knew you would react like this.
Lord Raymond raised a hand, silencing his castellan.
“Let him speak.” He turned back to Solomon, eyes sharp.
“Why do you say that?” Solomon took a slow breath.
He didn’t want to talk about swordplay or bravery or who swung harder.
Those things mattered, but they weren’t the real difference he had seen on the beach at Seagard.
Instead, he asked a question of his own.
“My lord, how many men do you have in total?” Raymond glanced at Ser Ronald, who answered stiffly.
“Over four hundred light infantry.
More than a hundred heavy infantry.
And thirty knights.” It was a respectable force for a minor lord answering his liege’s call.
Ser Ronald clearly expected Solomon to be impressed.
Solomon wasn’t.
He looked Ser Ronald in the eye and asked the question that actually mattered.
“How many of those men know why they are fighting?
And what they are fighting for?” Ser Ronald looked taken aback for a second, then puffed out his chest.
“Every man in House Darry’s service is ready to fight and die for Lord Raymond and our house!” Solomon stared at the older knight for a long moment, then let out a quiet, almost pitying breath.
“Really, Ser Ronald?” he asked softly.
“Are you sure about that?”
CaveLeather