On the march, the three hundred levied soldiers moved in a loose, ragged mass, more like a crowd of tourists on a countryside outing than an army.
Some of them used the swords they had been given as walking sticks.
There was no formation, no marching cadence.
The column was stretched out so far that the men at the front were still ambling along while the ones at the back had already stopped to rest, adjust their packs, or wander off the road to relieve themselves or gawk at something interesting.
They talked loudly among themselves, full of confusion and fear about being dragged into this.
They looked less like soldiers heading to reinforce a castle and more like unwilling refugees being herded toward a destination they wanted no part of.
Solomon sat on the white horse Lord Raymond had given him, watching from the front of the column.
He was already starting to regret taking this command.
The future might be bright, but he was starting to worry he would meet the Seven before he ever got there.
This wasn’t an army marching to relieve Deepvale.
It felt like he was a kindergarten teacher trying to take a group of small children on a field trip.
Even so, their current state was still better than it had been yesterday.
His mind drifted back to the previous day.
Solomon had stood in the Deddings military camp, staring at the three hundred men who had just been hastily levied.
They wore rags.
Some held rusty sickles.
Others carried dull axes.
A few even clutched crude wooden clubs.
What the hell is this?
He had gone from burning ambition to ice-cold dread in the space of a single day.
Or more accurately, in the few minutes it took to see the state of his “army.” Lady Roslyn had stood beside him, looking exhausted.
Maester Walder stood at her side, his expression unreadable.
Solomon had kept his head lowered, shoulders trembling slightly.
Shit.
I need a way out of this.
When he finally raised his head again, his eyes were brimming with tears and his face was twisted in grief.
“My lady,” he said, voice shaking, “House Deddings is in grave danger.
Even though I am young, I am willing to give everything for the house — just as my father and brothers did.” “Even if it means dying, I will die serving you and House Deddings.” He dropped to his knees and clutched the hem of Lady Roslyn’s skirt.
“This is the only thing the last surviving member of House Stinkfort can do, my lady!” He paused, as if the words were being torn from him.
“Even if this is a suicide mission, I will still go.
But… but with a force like this, even if I die, it won’t matter — because I won’t be able to complete the task you gave me!” Lady Roslyn looked down at him.
A trace of pity and sorrow crossed her tired face.
Life is a play.
Everything depends on the performance.
“I told you to give them proper weapons and boiled leather,” Lady Roslyn said coldly.
She turned to Maester Walder.
“Where is their equipment?” “This boy has already been through enough.
We pulled him back from the edge of death once.
Are we really going to push him back into it with our own hands?” Maester Walder finally lost his calm expression.
He sighed.
“I will have everything ready before they depart.” The memory faded.
Solomon pulled his thoughts back to the present.
The cold wind stung his face.
He had to turn this rabble into something that could at least march in formation without falling apart before they even reached Deepvale.
He couldn’t watch this anymore.
“Luden!
Rosslyn!
Get over here!” Both men immediately spurred their horses forward and reined in front of him, dismounting to salute.
They looked like proper soldiers now — light armor, longswords at their hips, sitting tall on good horses.
The cowering farmer look was gone.
Solomon told them to remount, then turned to face the disorganized mass of men.
Using the height of his horse and the natural authority of his noble birth, he raised his voice so it carried clearly across the column.
“I am Ser Solomon Stinkfort!
Your commander!” A ripple of murmurs ran through the crowd.
Some looked curious.
Most just looked numb and confused.
He let the silence stretch for a moment, eyes sweeping over them.
“All of you — listen!
Form two companies of one hundred and fifty men each.
Twenty men across, six ranks deep.
Form square right now!” He pointed at the two men beside him.
“Luden!
Rosslyn!
Get them in line!
Anyone who refuses an order — kill them on the spot!” Luden and Rosslyn reacted instantly.
They spurred their horses into the crowd, shouting orders.
“Form up!
One hundred and fifty per company!
Twenty across, six deep!
Move!” Solomon sat tall on his white horse.
Even at sixteen, with his straight posture, resolute features, black noble robe and cloak, and the fine Myrish sword at his hip, he projected real authority.
Luden and Rosslyn, riding among the men with swords at their sides, no longer carried the hunched, wary look of farmers.
There was a new sharpness to them.
Faced with a noble lord giving direct orders, the men began pushing and shoving one another, trying to find their places.
It was still messy, but at least the beginnings of formation were appearing.
Solomon felt a small flicker of satisfaction as he watched Luden and Rosslyn work and the men slowly respond.
It was the first bit of relief he had felt in days.
The feeling lasted less than a minute.
A commotion broke out in the middle of the forming ranks.
A loud, rough voice shouted: “Piss off!
Who the fuck do you think you are, giving me orders?” The crowd quickly parted, creating an open space.
In the center stood Luden facing a big, heavily built soldier wearing a full set of boiled leather armor and holding a longsword.
Several other men in similar gear stood behind him, clearly his group.
Solomon recognized them.
They were the few actual Deddings soldiers Maester Walder had slipped into the levy — the dregs and troublemakers the castle was happy to be rid of.
That old bastard, Solomon thought coldly.
Giving me broken equipment was bad enough.
Now he’s dumping his garbage on me too.
These men had already been arrogant back in the Darry camp, acting like they were above the levied farmers.
Now they were openly refusing to be commanded by Solomon’s people.
The big soldier kept shouting at Luden, waving his sword for emphasis.
“I’m a real soldier of Deddings castle!
You understand?
I’ve fought under Lord Balon himself!” He sneered at Luden.
“And you?
You’re just some fucking farmer who used to dig in the dirt!” The watching men whispered among themselves, eyes moving between the confrontation and Solomon.
Everyone wanted to see how the young noble would handle this.
After all, he had just declared that anyone who disobeyed would be killed.
But Solomon hadn’t moved.
He wanted to see how Luden would handle it on his own.
The big soldier noticed Solomon staying back and assumed the young lord was afraid of punishing a “real” Deddings man.
His arrogance grew.
He laughed loudly and kept mocking Luden.
“You can’t even hold a sword properly, can you?
While I was killing men on the battlefield, you were still plowing fields!” “And now you think you can give me orders?
Get the fuck out of here!”