“Lord Solomon!” A scout dropped to one knee in front of Solomon, breathing hard.
“The town ahead refused us entry, but they’re willing to send out grain and supplies.” With only three horses in the entire column — one each for Solomon, Luden, and Rosslyn — the two men had been forced to serve as centurions for their companies.
That left them no choice but to pull ten of the fastest infantry from the ranks to act as scouts.
Solomon frowned.
“Did you show them Lady Roslyn’s seal?” “We did, my lord,” the scout answered respectfully.
“But they said with wildlings raiding everywhere and bandits running loose, they couldn’t properly verify who we were.
They asked for your understanding.” Solomon knew it was nothing but a polite refusal.
Still, offering supplies at all was already more than most towns would have done.
This was the third town they’d approached.
Every settlement in the Riverlands was run by a town official appointed by the local lord.
These men knew exactly whose seal they were looking at.
They simply didn’t care.
As long as Deepvale hadn’t fallen, the fighting still felt far away.
They could stay neutral, keep their heads down, and wait for the storm to pass.
Solomon exhaled through his nose and turned to Rosslyn beside him.
“Set up camp here.
Dig proper defenses.
Push scouts out in every direction.” Rosslyn scratched the back of his neck.
“Lord Solomon, is all that really necessary?
We’re not even in the war zone yet.” Solomon’s eyes went flat.
“You don’t know shit.
Listen to me — before you do anything in this world, you make damn sure you’ve covered every angle.
Understood?” “Yes, my lord!” Rosslyn snapped upright, chest out.
Building something of his own was not going smoothly, and the frustration sat heavy in Solomon’s chest.
The only thing that felt even remotely right was the column itself.
He watched the two companies below begin carrying out the orders under Luden and Rosslyn’s shouts.
Both men still had serious problems as leaders, and Solomon saw every one of them.
Luden’s company stood ramrod straight, ranks tight and silent.
The air around them felt suffocating.
If any man lagged half a step, Luden’s wooden switch came down without mercy.
The soldiers obeyed instantly, terrified into perfect discipline.
Fear made them sharp, but it also made them brittle.
Rosslyn’s company was the opposite.
Lines were crooked, men muttered to each other, and Rosslyn himself cracked jokes like he was still drinking with them at a tavern.
The formation was loose, the mood almost casual.
Too casual.
Solomon said nothing.
Scolding them now would teach nothing.
They needed to feel the consequences of their own choices before they could learn.
Besides, he wasn’t exactly an expert at leading men himself.
Night fell over the temporary camp.
Fires crackled and popped.
The air stank of boiled grain, sweat, and wet leather.
Soldiers sat in small clusters, speaking in low voices or eating in silence.
The whole place felt heavy, like everyone was waiting for bad news.
Solomon sat by his own fire, slowly polishing the slender Myrish longsword Lord Raymond had given him.
The steel caught the flames and threw back cold, bright flashes.
Luden and Rosslyn came over and dropped down beside him.
“Lord Solomon,” Rosslyn said quietly, voice rough.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Solomon stopped the cloth and looked up.
“What is it?” “One of the men… might be planning to run,” Rosslyn said.
Solomon’s gaze sharpened.
“Who told you?” “Another soldier in his file.
The man was worried enough that he came to me.” “Where is he now?” “Still in the ranks.
Hasn’t made a move yet.” Rosslyn hesitated.
“Should we pull him out and make an example of him?
Public execution would stop anyone else from getting ideas.” Solomon was quiet for a long moment.
Then he asked, “Why does he want to desert?” Rosslyn let out a slow breath.
“His name’s Toman.
Twenty years old.
His father was levied years ago and marched with Lord Balon to Seagard.
At first there were letters.
Then nothing.
It’s been a long time now.
Everyone figures he’s dead.” “He’s got a mother and two little sisters at home.
No one else.
He’s terrified that if he dies too, there won’t be anyone left to keep them fed.
They’ll starve.” Solomon stood up.
“Rosslyn.
Assemble your company.
Luden, assemble yours.
Bring every last man here.
Now.” Both men rose without another word and moved.
Minutes later the two companies stood gathered in the open space at the center of camp.
The night was dark, the only light coming from scattered fires.
The men shifted and muttered, faces uneasy in the flickering glow.
They had no idea why they’d been dragged out of their bedrolls in the middle of the night.
Solomon stood before them, firelight painting one side of his face.
Luden and Rosslyn waited behind him, silent and grim.
He let the silence stretch until the murmuring died and every eye was on him.
Only then did he speak.
“I called you here because most of you didn’t choose this.
You were dragged out of your villages and told to march.
You don’t want to be here.
You want to go home.
You’re afraid that if you die, your families will have no one left and they’ll starve.” A low ripple of voices moved through the ranks.
Some men looked down.
One or two shoulders shook.
Solomon’s voice stayed steady.
“Bring out the chest.
Luden.
Rosslyn.” The two men carried a heavy wooden chest forward and set it on a low platform in front of the men.
“Open it.” They lifted the lid.
Inside, stacked neatly in rows, were silver stags.
Hundreds of them.
They gleamed like cold white fire in the torchlight.
This was the recruitment money Lady Roslyn had given him.
Silver he couldn’t even spend yet because every town had turned him away.
The soldiers stared.
Whispers ran through the ranks.
Solomon stepped up beside the open chest.
His face was calm, almost blank.
“Listen to me.
From the moment you were levied, there is no going back.
If you try to desert now, Lady Roslyn will take your land.
She will hang you.
And your families will be punished for it.
That is the truth.” Faces went pale in the firelight.
A few men who had been quietly nursing escape plans felt their stomachs drop.
“And I,” Solomon continued, a bitter edge in his voice, “am in exactly the same place as the rest of you.
No way back.
No safe home waiting if this goes wrong.” He let that sink in.
“There is only one road left in front of us.
We either finish what we were sent to do and return alive… or we die together out here.
Those are the only two endings.” He paused, making sure every man was looking at him.
“But I swear this to you, right now, in front of every man here.
In my own name — Solomon Stinkfort.
In the name of House Stinkfort.
If any of you follow me into battle and fall, I will take care of your families.
If Lady Roslyn seizes their land, I will give them the best ground I have on my own holdings and build them proper houses.
They will not starve because of me.” Solomon drew the Myrish blade in one smooth motion and lifted it high, pointing at the night sky.
“By the Seven I swear it.
If I break this oath, may dragonfire take me and my bloodline end with me.” The words rang out across the silent camp.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The only sound was the crackle of the fires and the soft, steady breathing of three hundred men who now understood they had nowhere left to run.