Dont forget to Vote and comment, its makes me happy …
CaveLeather Three fine horses galloped along the Kingsroad.
Solomon rode in the lead, Luden and Rosslyn flanking him.
Clothes make the man, they say, and a good saddle makes the horse.
Before they left, Lord Raymond Darry had gifted all three of them proper clothes, light armor, good swords, and strong mounts.
Solomon wore a new, well-cut black noble’s robe with a short black cloak that trailed behind him in the wind.
At his hip hung the beautiful Myrish longsword Lord Raymond had given him—slender and fine, nothing like the heavy, broad blades common in Westeros.
The steel had a light, deadly grace that spoke of craftsmanship from across the Narrow Sea.
Delicate silver wire wrapped the hilt.
He sat tall on a white horse.
His face was still the plain, ordinary face of a Riverlands man, but his posture was straight and his eyes held a quiet, resolute strength.
With the fine horse, the black robe and cloak, and the sharp sword at his side, he looked every inch a young noble knight—imposing, with a hard-edged handsomeness that had not been there before.
Lord Raymond Darry and Ser Ronald had stared when they saw him.
This was not the same young man who had arrived in camp days earlier wearing a faded, threadbare robe and looking more like a Riverlands farmer’s son than a noble.
The difference was night and day.
Damn… I actually look good, Solomon thought, secretly pleased with himself.
He glanced back at Luden and Rosslyn and smiled.
They had changed just as much.
Both men now wore the light soldier’s armor Lord Raymond had provided—properly fitted, nothing like the cracked, mismatched pieces they had worn before.
Good longswords hung at their hips instead of the rusty junk they had carried from Stinkfort.
They sat their horses with straight backs and lifted chins, no longer hunched and wary.
They looked like real soldiers now—still a little rough around the edges, but no longer like simple farmers who had wandered into the wrong place.
Three days ago they had said their goodbyes to Lord Raymond and left the column.
It wasn’t that Solomon had wanted to stop eating the Darry bread and drinking the Darry wine.
His reputation in the camp had simply turned too sour to stay.
He could still hear his own voice echoing across that blood-soaked field.
Sword raised toward the sky, cloak snapping in the wind, eyes sweeping the gathered nobles of House Darry as he spoke loud and clear: “This is what happens when you insult me.” “When you insult House Stinkfort.” “There will be no mercy.
No clean end.” “Only endless pain and torment from this day forward.” The entire camp had gone deathly silent.
The old septon who had presided over the trial stood frozen, his aged face twisted with shock and fury.
Solomon’s actions had been brutally cruel, completely without tradition or mercy.
In the septon’s eyes it was blasphemy against the Seven, an offense that would surely bring divine punishment.
His whole body had trembled so hard he looked ready to collapse on the spot.
The Darry nobles and knights had stared at Solomon with open rage.
He had broken every rule of noble combat.
He had shown no knightly mercy.
He had maimed a man who could no longer fight back—blinded him, cut the tendons in his legs, and denied him even the dignity of a clean death.
He had left Ser Jocelyn to bleed out slowly or live the rest of his life as a crippled, tormented wreck.
They felt he had not only insulted Ser Jocelyn, but had spat on the honor of House Darry, the nobility of the Riverlands, and the nobility of the entire realm.
Their anger was not born of sympathy for Ser Jocelyn.
They all knew the fat knight had started it by insulting a hereditary noble house.
The insulted party had chosen the proper, traditional way to answer—trial by combat—rather than using rank to crush his enemy.
That was the correct noble response, even if the other man had been a lord paramount or the king himself.
What enraged them was that Solomon had shattered the unwritten rules they all lived by.
His actions were cruel.
Unacceptable.
Dangerous.
This should have been a story singers would tell for generations—a sixteen-year-old noble defending his family’s honor by challenging and slaying a famous knight in open combat.
Instead it had become something ugly and frightening.
Ser Ronald’s face had been gray as iron.
He had stepped forward and spoken in a tight voice.
“Ser Solomon, you have defended your house’s honor with the sword.
Now show mercy.
Give your opponent a clean death so his soul may go to the Stranger.
Ending his suffering is the noble thing—the mercy expected of a knight and the respect owed to the Seven who watched this trial.” Every noble and knight had looked at Solomon with hope in their eyes.
They wanted him to show at least a shred of traditional grace at the end.
Solomon had stood calmly beside the writhing, screaming Ser Jocelyn and met Ser Ronald’s gaze.
His voice had been quiet, but it carried clearly across the silent field.
“Ser Ronald.” “My house has always been spoken of with mockery and ridicule in other nobles’ mouths—even though my father and both my brothers died fighting for the Iron Throne.” “Tell me—did any of them show my house the slightest respect?” “Did they show the slightest respect for noble tradition?” He had paused, letting his cold gaze sweep the watching crowd.
Ever since he had arrived in the Darry column he had heard the jokes and sneers behind his back.
Solomon had calmly wiped the blood from his sword and sheathed it.
“His fate was decided by my sword,” he said.
“So it will also be decided by my words.” “Either he bleeds out in torment, or he lives with his crimes and his pain as a living warning to every man who dares insult me or House Stinkfort.” His words had ended the argument completely.
Ser Ronald had fallen silent.
He had opened his mouth, then closed it again.
There was nothing left to say.
He could only stand there and watch Ser Jocelyn wail on the bloody ground, hoping the man would bleed out quickly rather than survive maimed and in far worse torment.
But he had no right to interfere with the victor’s judgment.
Solomon had given Ser Ronald one last look—quiet, almost apologetic.
Ser Ronald had treated him decently from the beginning, like an older man looking out for a reckless boy.
Then he had turned, motioned to Luden and Rosslyn, and walked away from the field without another word.
He left Ser Jocelyn screaming behind him and a camp thick with silence, fear, and simmering anger.
Solomon rode on, the memory still fresh.
He still felt a measure of guilt toward Lord Raymond and Ser Ronald.
Later he had heard that Ser Jocelyn was carried off the field and given a chance to live.
But both eyes were gone, both hands severed, both legs crippled.
He had become a helpless wreck who did nothing but beg anyone who came near to kill him and end his suffering.
No one had dared.
It was the trial victor’s sentence, and by then every man in the column was afraid of Solomon.
In the end it had been Lord Raymond himself who walked up, pulled a sword from a nearby soldier’s belt, and drove it through Ser Jocelyn’s skull.
After that, the mood in the column had turned completely against them.
Soldiers who had once nodded or shared a word now stepped aside when they saw the three of them coming.
They wouldn’t meet their eyes.
The nobles stared at Solomon with open hatred.
If looks could kill, he would have died a hundred times over.
The old septon had followed him everywhere, preaching furiously, determined to save his soul and turn him into a proper believer of the Seven.
In the end Solomon had gone to Lord Raymond to take his leave and offer an apology for the trouble he had caused.
Lord Raymond had looked genuinely surprised.
“Why are you apologizing?” he had asked.
“You only defended your house’s honor.
There is nothing to regret.
If you had not been strong enough, Ser Jocelyn’s fate would have been yours—he intended to do the same to you.” Lord Raymond had studied him for a moment.
“In this world,” he said quietly, “sometimes a bad name protects a man better than a good one.
You did well.” Before they left, he had given all three of them fresh clothes and armor, good swords, and strong horses.
And he had told Solomon one last thing.
“If one day you have nowhere else to go,” Lord Raymond said, “House Darry’s doors will always be open to you.”
CaveLeather