Ser Ronald’s face was like iron.
After the incident in camp, Lord Raymond and Ser Ronald had summoned Solomon to the lord’s tent.
“Ser Solomon!
Have you lost your mind?” The words came out almost as a roar.
“Do you have any idea who Ser Jocelyn is?” “He’s a knight who can place in the middle ranks at kingdom tourneys!” “You and your two farmer guards?
This isn’t bravery.
This is stupidity.
This is walking straight to your own death!” Solomon met his eyes calmly.
There wasn’t a flicker of doubt in them.
“Ser Ronald, I appreciate your concern.” Ser Ronald dragged in a deep breath, trying to force himself to stay calm.
“Listen to me, Solomon.” “House Darry will give you compensation that satisfies your family’s honor.
Full satisfaction.” He glanced toward Lord Raymond.
The young lord gave a small nod, clearly backing the offer.
“Ser Solomon, there’s no need to let this go so far that it can’t be taken back.” Ser Ronald was certain the young Stinkfort knight was simply blinded by anger and humiliation.
He had no idea what he had said or what he had done.
How could a boy who had survived one battle by luck possibly stand against an experienced, highly skilled knight?
The corner of Solomon’s mouth curved in the faintest smile.
“Ser Ronald, I understand the kindness you’re offering.” His voice stayed quiet, but there was steel underneath it that left no room for argument.
“Some things can’t be fixed by backing down.
My guards were insulted because of me.
My house was shamed because of me.” “I will not retreat now.
If I do, what face would I—or my house—have left in this world?” “This isn’t recklessness, Ser.
The outcome isn’t decided yet.” Solomon turned to face him fully.
“And this is necessary.
Some beasts only understand the language that beasts understand.” Ser Ronald looked into those young eyes—calm in a way that didn’t belong on a boy of sixteen—and felt his anger slowly give way to something closer to helplessness.
He couldn’t understand why this youth was so stubborn, so ungrateful, so foolish.
It reminded him of the story he’d heard about Solomon’s father taking three noble blood relatives into battle.
Maybe this Riverlands house was secretly Northern after all.
Maybe their heads really were full of ice.
“Foolish!
Too young.
Too stupid.” Ser Ronald shook his head, spat the words like they tasted foul, and stalked out of the tent in open disappointment and anger.
He had nothing left to say that wouldn’t be a waste of breath.
Lord Raymond had stayed silent the whole time, simply watching.
Now he walked slowly toward Solomon.
His voice was low.
“You’ve made up your mind?” Solomon nodded.
“Yes, my lord.” Lord Raymond was quiet for a moment.
Then he reached down and unbuckled the sword at his hip.
It was a beautiful blade, nothing like the heavy, straight swords common in Westeros.
The steel was slender and fine, the hilt wrapped in delicate silver wire.
Even at a glance it was clearly worth a fortune.
“This sword is from Myr,” Raymond said.
He held it out.
“I’m giving it to you.” “Your own sword is too old and rusted.” Solomon blinked, surprised.
He looked at the fine Myrish blade, then at the battered, pitted iron sword hanging at his own hip—the one he had brought from Stinkfort.
He didn’t make a show of refusing.
He simply took the sword with both hands, feeling its balance and weight.
“Thank you for your generosity, Lord Raymond.
I’ll remember this.” Raymond nodded.
“Your guards will need proper weapons too.
I’ll have them sent over.” He paused, meeting Solomon’s eyes directly.
“Before the trial by combat begins, you can still withdraw.
I’ll stand with you if you do.” Solomon closed his fingers around the Myrish hilt.
The cool metal steadied him, pulled him back into the moment.
He lifted his head and gave Lord Raymond a small, confident smile—the kind of smile that clearly surprised the older man.
“I’ll remember the gift, my lord.” He bowed slightly, said nothing more, and turned to leave.
Lord Raymond watched him go, expression complicated and unreadable.
The young knight seemed very sure of himself.
Solomon made his way to the medical tent.
Luden and Rosslyn were there, leaning on each other.
Their faces and arms were marked with dried blood and dark bruises, but their eyes were bright.
Tough hides had their advantages—they healed fast.
“Lord Solomon.” Luden tried to grin when he saw him, then winced as the movement pulled at the split in his lip.
He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
“Lord Solomon, we’re sorry,” Rosslyn said, head down, voice thick with guilt.
“We caused you trouble.” Solomon stepped closer and checked them over.
Most of the damage was superficial—cuts, heavy bruising, swelling—but nothing looked broken.
He had expected fear.
These two were farmers.
Tomorrow they would face a sworn knight and two trained squires in a fight to the death.
He thought they would be terrified.
“Are you afraid?” he asked quietly.
“No!” Both men answered at once, voices firm and loud.
Luden touched his swollen cheek, eyes suddenly wet.
“Lord Solomon… it’s just… we’re useless.
They insulted you.
They insulted your house.
And we couldn’t even put them down.
We let you down.” His voice cracked.
His eyes were red at the corners.
Rosslyn nodded hard.
“That’s right, Lord Solomon!
We’re not afraid of dying.
We’re only afraid of disappointing you!” Something warm and tight moved in Solomon’s chest.
He rested a hand on each man’s shoulder.
“Listen to me.
This isn’t your fault.” His voice was calm but carried weight.
“Sometimes the world works like this.
Trouble comes looking for you not because you did anything wrong, but because other people think you’re easy to push around.” He stood up slowly, eyes drifting toward the distant part of camp where Ser Jocelyn’s tent stood.
His gaze grew cold.
He thought of the life he had lived before waking up in this tower.
No family.
No relatives.
No one to lean on.
He had stepped into the world young and learned its lessons the hard way.
“Everyone used to tell me that taking a loss is a blessing,” he said quietly.
“But I’ve never once seen anyone actually enjoy that blessing.” Luden and Rosslyn listened in silence.
“I used to believe that if you treated people with kindness and honesty, they’d treat you the same way.” “Later I learned that with some people, if you’re good to them they think it’s only what they deserve.
If you give ground they decide you’re weak and can be bullied.” “If you’re gentle and kind to everyone, then in certain eyes you become someone they can take from without consequence.” “Remember this.
We won’t use our swords to hurt others.
But we also won’t let others use their swords to hurt us.” Solomon turned back to them, eyes steady and hard.
“Today Ser Jocelyn and his squires felt free to beat you and insult my house because they decided we were soft persimmons they could squeeze whenever they wanted.” “If we swallow it now, tomorrow more people will come to do the same.
They’ll take our food.
They’ll seize our land.
They might even take our lives.” “So when someone comes knocking with violence, the only answer is to hit back harder.” “Hit them until it hurts.
Hit them until they’re afraid.
Make them fear the sight of us.
Make them tremble when they see us coming.
Make them go out of their way to avoid us next time.” Luden and Rosslyn stared at him.
They had never heard words like these.
Their parents had taught them never to resist nobles, because they were only livestock grazing on the lord’s land.
The nobles themselves said that lowborn people must obey.
The septons said their souls were born dirty and that suffering in this life was the price they paid to atone.
But Solomon’s words felt… right.
They felt like air after being underwater too long.
Why should they be the ones who always had to endure?
Why should they always have to stay silent?
Luden rubbed his swollen head, then the back of his neck.
A slow, almost foolish smile spread across his battered face.
“Lord… I think… I think I understand a little.” Rosslyn grinned too, wide and honest despite the bruises.
“I think the lord is right!
We’ve lived twenty years longer than you, but it feels like we’ve been wasting all that time.” Solomon looked at their relieved, grateful smiles and felt his own mouth curve.
“So tomorrow,” he said, voice strong and clear, “we’re not going there to die.” “We’re going there to show everyone that the people of House Stinkfort are not to be fucked with.”