Ser Ronald, have you ever heard the saying “We Do Not Sow”?
Ser Ronald nodded.
Of course he knew.
Those were the famous words of House Greyjoy, the ruling family of the Iron Islands and the leaders of the rebellion now burning along the coast.
Solomon took his time.
His eyes drifted up toward the peak of the tent as if he could still see the beach at Seagard that day.
On one stretch of shore near Seagard, he said quietly, the ironborn longships had come riding the waves straight onto the sand.
More than a hundred ironmen had poured out into the waist-deep water, roaring as they came.
Their axes and blades flashed in the sunlight on the sea.
They didn’t form ranks.
They didn’t even try.
They just spread out, screaming at the tops of their lungs, and charged straight toward the five hundred Riverlands men waiting in proper formation.
In their eyes, Solomon continued, the tight spear wall and locked shields in front of them weren’t an army at all.
They looked like a crowd of naked women spreading their legs and waiting to be taken.
The ironborn hunted for gaps in the line, howling insults and threats the whole way.
When they found an opening they leapt straight into it—one after another—screaming like madmen.
They bit through necks with their teeth.
They drank blood from open wounds to slake their thirst.
They used severed arms and spilled guts as trophies and decoration.
Screams filled the air.
Men wailed in agony.
And then the Riverlands lines began to break, one after another, no matter how hard the lords and captains in the rear shouted themselves hoarse.
The rout spread like a tide no one could stop.
Ser Ronald and Lord Raymond sat in silence, listening.
Solomon kept going, voice low and steady.
They don’t fear death, he said.
They hunger for it.
Their god is the Drowned God.
Only men who die in battle are allowed into his halls.
The drowned dead feast forever in his watery palace beneath the waves, and mermaids grant their every desire.
Ironborn carry no coin.
They pay the iron price—taking what they want from the corpses of their enemies with steel, never with gold or trade.
They slaughter the people of the green lands, steal everything worth stealing, and rape the wives and daughters of the dead.
To them, that is simply the iron way of life.
They need no orders.
They need no rousing speeches.
They are born for battle and plunder.
His voice was quiet, but in the stillness of the tent every word landed clearly.
Lord Raymond and Ser Ronald had to admit the boy was a hell of a storyteller.
“And the soldiers of House Darry…” Solomon looked at both men without a trace of mockery, only calm fact.
“They seem like good lads.
Clean clothes.
Weapons polished.
They know how to drill, how to form ranks, how to obey commands.” “But they’re farmers.
Craftsmen.
Townsfolk.” “Most of them have never seen real war.
They were only called up because their lord told them it was their duty.
A lot of them even had to bring their own gear.” “They have homes.
They have land.
They have wives and children waiting for them.” “They’re afraid of being maimed.
Afraid of losing a hand or a leg and not being able to work or feed their families anymore.” “They’re afraid of dying, because if they fall their land gets taken and the people they love starve.” “They know how to fight other men like themselves.” “But they have no idea how to fight men who were born to raid, to kill, and to die trying.” Solomon paused, then met Ser Ronald’s eyes directly.
“So tell me, Ser.
Do you still think your soldiers are the kind who’ll fight and die bravely when they’re matched against men like that?” Ser Ronald wanted to snap back, but the picture Solomon had painted was nothing like the clean, ordered battles he had trained for his whole life—infantry in ranks, archers providing cover, knights charging home.
For a moment he had no answer.
He could swear that his own knights and the household men of House Darry would fight to the death.
But the levied smallfolk?
He could not promise the same.
Lord Raymond listened without interrupting, a thoughtful look on his young face.
He had never swung a sword in real battle.
Everything he knew of war came from books and the stories older men told.
Solomon’s words were brutal, but they carried a raw truth he had never heard before.
He thought of his own brothers, dead at the Trident.
Lord Raymond asked quietly, “Then what should we do?” The question showed he was taking Solomon’s judgment on the matter seriously.
Still, he knew some men were good at pointing out problems without being any good at solving them.
He was already thinking he would raise it himself at the next meeting with his vassals and knights.
Ser Ronald’s expression darkened further at the sight of his young lord asking a sixteen-year-old boy for military advice.
Solomon didn’t answer right away.
He was thinking fast.
He couldn’t say too much.
Couldn’t sound like some expert strategist.
That wouldn’t fit a boy his age from a house too poor to keep even a maester.
The details about the ironborn he could pass off as things he had heard during the fighting around Seagard.
Most of what he actually knew came from the history, games, and stories he had read before he crossed over.
He had to be careful—useful, but not so useful that he exposed himself.
He chose his words with care.
“My lord,” Solomon said.
“I don’t have Ser Ronald’s experience.
I’m only telling you what I saw.
What I felt.” He lowered his posture first, hoping to blunt some of Ser Ronald’s anger.
Solomon rubbed the back of his neck.
“If I had to say… the key is not giving the ironborn a chance to fight the way they want to.” “The ironborn are strong swimmers.
They don’t fear drowning.
Some of them can move through the sea in full armor like it’s nothing.” “They’re experts at sudden raids.
They love getting in close, fighting in the chaos, striking fast and disappearing again.
That’s how they raid.” “They live on their savagery and their fanaticism.
If our men get dragged into that kind of bloody brawl, we’ll lose a lot of them.” “But I think once the ironborn run into a disciplined formation of real soldiers—if we can hold the line and not give them any gaps to exploit—then they’re not as unstoppable as they seem.” He stopped, thinking how to finish without sounding like he was giving a lecture.
“But with House Darry’s men… my thought is we should avoid fighting them on their terms.
If we have no choice but to face them, we ought to pick ground that favors us and find ways to break their rhythm.” He kept it deliberately vague.
The core idea was avoid their strengths and play to your own, but he didn’t want to sound too polished saying it.
Ser Ronald listened.
He was still annoyed by the way the conversation had started, but what the boy was saying didn’t sound like complete nonsense.
Still, it was strange hearing it from someone so young.
Lord Raymond nodded slowly, a thoughtful look on his face.
Solomon’s words were simple, but they cut straight to the heart of the problem.
House Darry’s soldiers weren’t suited to the ironborn way of fighting.
They had to avoid getting pulled into that chaotic melee.
Lord Raymond looked at Solomon and saw something of himself in the boy—two young nobles, one who had lost his whole family before he ever saw battle, the other who had watched his father and brothers die at sixteen.
“Ser Ronald,” Lord Raymond said suddenly.
“You heard Ser Solomon’s thoughts.
Take them into consideration.” “While we’re on the march, strengthen our scouting—especially anywhere near the coast or the rivers.” “When we pick a campsite, be more careful.
Make sure the defenses are solid.” “As you command, my lord.” Ser Ronald glanced at Solomon, his expression complicated.
Lord Raymond turned back to Solomon, his eyes warmer now.
“Ser Solomon, thank you for your counsel.” It was clear the conversation was over.
“Thank you, my lord.” Solomon had given them something useful.
It was the least he could do to repay Lord Raymond for taking him and his men in.
These past days in camp he had noticed something.
From the common soldiers all the way up to the knights, the officers, and the vassal lords—every one of them looked down on the ironborn.
In their minds the ironborn were just ragged pirates in broken armor, carrying rusty blades or even wooden clubs.
He hoped Lord Raymond would have better luck than that.
Solomon wished him well in silence and turned toward the tent flap.
“Wait.” Lord Raymond’s voice stopped him.
Solomon turned back, unsure what else there could be.
Lord Raymond met his eyes.
“I want you and your two guards to share what you know about fighting the ironborn with my soldiers.” Solomon looked at him for a second.
“Will we be paid?” Lord Raymond smiled.
“Of course, Ser Solomon.”