In the Darry camp, ever since Lord Raymond had ordered his soldiers to hear firsthand what fighting the ironborn was really like, Luden and Rosslyn had spent every evening by the cookfires.
They sat among the gathered men and told their stories.
Before the levies were called, Luden and Rosslyn had been farmers, craftsmen, townsfolk.
None of them had ever seen a real battlefield.
Until now they had been curious about war—some even excited by the thought of it.
But listening to Luden and Rosslyn describe the ironborn’s cruelty and their utter lack of fear, the soldiers felt the glamour drain away.
War was not glory.
It was cold, and it was death.
Luden and Rosslyn spoke in the same plain, rough language the men understood.
They told them how savage the ironborn were, how they welcomed death like an old friend.
Luden paused and lowered his voice.
“Those ironborn… they’re terrifying.
They’re just a pack of madmen.” “They don’t fear death.
Dying is like going home to them.” “I heard they believe only men who drown at sea or fall in battle get to enter the Drowned God’s halls—that good place under the waves.” “They think once you’re there you’ll have wine and meat every day, more than you can ever eat or drink, and those fish-tailed women will bring you whatever you want.” Rosslyn nodded hard.
“That’s right.” “And these bastards never carry coin.
They see something they want, they kill the owner and take it.
That’s how they pay the iron price.” “When they fight they don’t need anyone pushing them.
No orders.
No speeches.
They treat killing and burning like it’s just another day’s work.
They say that’s the true iron way of living.” Luden and Rosslyn’s words sent a chill through the listeners.
Men swallowed hard, glancing into the shadows as if ironborn raiders might come leaping out at any moment.
But just as Luden was adding extra color to a tale about one ironman felling three Riverlands soldiers with a single axe, a sharp, openly hostile voice cut across the firelight.
“You idiots!” Every head turned.
A fat knight in full armor stood a short distance away, his face twisted with undisguised contempt.
Ser Jocelyn of Darry.
He had already been seething that Lord Raymond kept delaying the march.
Seeing these two commoners loudly praising the ironborn’s strength—and remembering how that upstart Stinkfort knight had somehow become the lord’s new favorite—only made his temper worse.
Ser Jocelyn strode forward.
His cold gaze fixed on Luden and Rosslyn.
“I hear your master told Lord Raymond that Darry men aren’t a match for those pirates?” Luden and Rosslyn were honest farmers at heart.
Since arriving in camp they had walked carefully, terrified of bringing trouble down on Lord Solomon.
Faced with a sworn knight’s rank and authority, they instinctively wanted to back away.
“A snot-nosed brat survives one battle by luck and thinks he can lecture real warriors?
Who the hell does he think he is?” Ser Jocelyn saw them shrinking and laughed, loud and mocking.
“The truth is dogs take after their master.
Your little knight’s house only got its title by wiping shit for the lords.
They don’t know the first thing about honor.
About noble spirit.
About courage.” The moment they heard their lord insulted, the blood drained from Luden and Rosslyn’s faces.
They could swallow insults to themselves.
They would not swallow insults to Solomon.
Rosslyn and Luden roared together, “How dare you insult our lord!” “Ha!” Ser Jocelyn’s voice rose to a shrill, delighted screech, as if he had just witnessed something outrageous.
“You dare talk back to a knight?” “Malwyn!
Tobiah!” he shouted at his two squires.
“Go!
Teach these two battlefield heroes some manners!” “Show them their place!” “Show them what real fighting looks like!” The two squires wore full armor.
They grinned and moved in.
Luden and Rosslyn went pale, but the bone-deep loyalty they felt for Solomon kept them from running.
They didn’t back down.
They swung fists and elbows, fighting back with everything they had.
Every punch that landed on the squires’ plate sounded like a hammer on stone.
Their attacks did nothing.
The armor turned every blow.
The only damage was to their own hands—knuckles splitting, blood running down their fingers.
Their strength faded fast.
Soon they had nothing left.
Even when they stopped trying to attack and just tried to cover their heads and bodies, the squires didn’t ease up.
Cruel smiles stayed on the squires’ faces.
This wasn’t about teaching a lesson anymore.
Every kick and punch was aimed to break bones.
They hammered Luden and Rosslyn’s heads without mercy, over and over.
The noise and the screams drew soldiers from every part of camp.
Men came running to watch, but none stepped forward to stop it.
Ser Jocelyn was one of Lord Raymond’s own sworn knights.
No one wanted that kind of trouble.
Still, a few soldiers who had taken a liking to Solomon and his guards turned and ran to find him.
Solomon had been training alone with his sword in a quiet corner of the camp.
When the messenger reached him his face went cold.
He came at a dead run.
When the two squires saw their real target arrive, they stepped back with cold little smiles, fists still raised.
“Stop!” Ser Ronald’s voice cracked across the clearing like a whip.
His face was tight with anger at what Ser Jocelyn had done.
The moment they saw Ser Ronald, the squires retreated behind their knight.
Ser Ronald turned to Solomon, voice thick with apology and frustration.
“Ser Solomon, I am truly sorry.
Ser Jocelyn acted rashly.” “House Darry offers its apologies.
We will make this right.
Compensation—” Solomon didn’t even glance at him.
His calm, flat gaze stayed on Ser Jocelyn.
He walked straight to Luden and Rosslyn, dropped to one knee, and checked them over.
Their faces were bloody and already swelling, but they were tough men.
Nothing looked broken.
This was the first time since waking up in this world that Solomon had felt real, burning rage.
Luden and Rosslyn saw him through swollen eyes.
Even hurt and half-conscious they tried to speak.
“We didn’t disgrace you, Lord Solomon,” Rosslyn whispered.
Solomon didn’t answer.
He just rested a hand on each man’s shoulder for a moment, then stood.
His eyes swept the ring of watching soldiers, then locked on Ser Jocelyn.
He drew a slow breath and raised his voice so every man could hear.
“I am Solomon Stinkfort, a hereditary knight of the Seven Kingdoms!” “And you are nothing but a knight whose title dies with him.” “You sent armed men to beat my guards without cause.
You insulted my house and my blood.” “This is an affront to noble honor.
A contempt for the laws of the Seven Kingdoms.” Ser Jocelyn’s face tightened.
He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“Given that,” Solomon continued, voice cold and steady, “this matter cannot be settled peacefully between nobles.” “By the law of the Seven Kingdoms, disputes between nobles may be resolved by trial by combat.” “Since you sent your men in full armor against my unarmored guards, we will make this fair.” He pointed at Ser Jocelyn and the two squires.
“You and your two turtle-shelled dogs—take off the shells.” He pointed at himself, Luden, and Rosslyn.
“I, and my guards Luden and Rosslyn—tomorrow at this same hour, right here on this ground—” His voice dropped, quiet and final.
“Six men.
A three-on-three trial by combat.” Solomon’s gaze never wavered.
“I will sentence you to death.” “By the Seven.” The soldiers around the fire went completely silent.
Ser Ronald stared at him, stunned.
Things had gone this far—and Solomon, a sixteen-year-old knight, had forced it with such hard, decisive words.
Three against three.
The boy was too young.
Why be so reckless?
Ser Jocelyn might be fat and loud, but even without armor his skill was real.
He had placed in the top thousand at kingdom-wide tourneys.
His squires were trained fighters.
Ser Jocelyn could find a new lord tomorrow if he wanted; he wasn’t afraid of offending House Darry.
But Solomon?
A boy of sixteen and two farmers who had only ever held swords in one desperate battle.
Ser Ronald could not see a single path to victory for them.
Ser Jocelyn threw back his head and laughed.
He had been braced for Solomon to use noble rank and lordly pressure to crush him.
Instead the boy had chosen the one arena where Ser Jocelyn was strongest.
Ser Jocelyn pointed at Solomon and his men, still laughing.
“Good!
Very good, Ser Solomon Stinkfort!” He lifted his chin, arrogant and proud, and answered loud enough for the whole camp to hear.
“I, Ser Jocelyn Buck of Darry, known as the White Boar Knight, accept your challenge!” “Tomorrow at this time, right here!
Let everyone watch how you and your two farmers sentence me to death in a trial by combat!”