Solomon stayed in bed for several more days.
His body was still weak, but he could finally stand and walk without the room spinning.
He needed to understand exactly what he was dealing with.
So he sent for Old Niken and the two new guards.
The former farmers had taken their new duties seriously.
Old Niken had found them two sets of cracked boiled leather and a pair of rusted longswords—the best armor and weapons left in the tower.
They wore them like holy relics.
Every day they stood on either side of the main door, hands resting on their sword hilts, eyes constantly scanning the yard.
Whenever any smallfolk walked past, the two men glared at them with what they clearly believed were terrifying looks.
As a result, most people now gave the tower a wide berth.
Solomon had learned their names.
The jumpy, nervous one was Rosslyn.
The quieter, heavier-built one was Luden.
Both were in their early thirties, but they already had the lined, exhausted faces of men twenty years older.
Years of hard labor had worn them down.
Old Niken came in carrying a wooden bowl of steaming fish soup.
The smell hit Solomon before the bowl did—thin, fishy, and faintly sour.
“Drink this while it’s hot, my lord.
It’ll warm you up.” Solomon took the bowl.
Chunks of pale root and grayish fish floated in the cloudy broth.
He could see fish scales still clinging to some of the pieces.
He forced his face to stay neutral, but inside he was already making plans.
He needed a cook.
Immediately.
If Old Niken kept preparing his meals, Solomon was genuinely afraid he would meet the Seven before he ever had the chance to fix anything else.
The warmth spread through his chest anyway.
He set the bowl aside.
“Niken, how many people are left in the holdings now?” Old Niken’s shoulders sagged.
“About thirty, my lord.
Mostly old folk, women, and children.
All the strong men went with your father to Seagard.
None of them came back.” Solomon was quiet for a moment.
“What about the war?” “Still going, my lord.
The ironmen keep raiding up and down the coast—hit a weak spot, take what they can, and pull back before our forces can pin them down.” Old Niken watched Solomon’s face carefully, clearly worried the talk of war would drag up memories of his father and brothers.
When Solomon didn’t break, the old man continued.
“But people are saying King Robert is gathering a huge army in the crownlands.
He’ll be coming to help the Riverlands and the Westerlands soon.
The ironborn won’t last long after that.” Old Niken hesitated, then added the part he clearly didn’t want to say.
“Truth is, my lord… the ironmen are still far from the Green Fork.
Our more immediate problem is the granary.
Last year’s harvest was poor.
Your father spent almost every coin we had left buying weapons and armor for the men who went with him.
We don’t have much silver left.
And the fishing’s been getting worse too.
The river doesn’t give us what it used to.” Solomon stared at the half-eaten bowl of soup.
The land was marginal at best—thin soil, prone to flooding.
They had always lived hand to mouth.
Now they were one bad season away from real starvation.
He looked up.
“Niken… now that I’m awake, can I inherit the title?” Old Niken nodded, then shook his head.
“You’re the only heir, my lord.
The knighthood is yours by right.
But to be formally recognized as Ser Stinkfort, you’ll need to ride to Deddings castle and swear your oaths to Lord Balon Deddings in person.
He has to confirm you.” Solomon turned his gaze to the reeds outside the window.
“Once I’m strong enough, we’ll go.” A raw, broken scream tore through the tower.
It was the sound of pure despair—high, ragged, and endless.
It echoed off the stone walls like something wounded.
Old Niken stopped mid-sentence.
Solomon was already on his feet.
The chair legs scraped loudly across the floor.
“Outside.
Now.” Rosslyn and Luden snapped to attention and flanked him the moment he stepped through the door.
Old Niken hurried after them, hunched and anxious.
The yard in front of the tower was just bare mud.
At the far edge, beneath a scraggly tree, a woman was curled on the ground.
She wore a dress so patched and threadbare it was barely holding together.
Her face was buried in her arms, and her whole body shook with violent, gasping sobs.
Solomon walked toward her with the two guards and Old Niken trailing behind.
Rosslyn kept glancing around like he expected an ambush.
Luden’s hand never left his sword hilt.
When they reached her, Solomon spoke quietly.
“Lift your head.
Why are you crying out here?” The woman’s body went rigid.
The screaming cut off like someone had strangled it.
Slowly, she raised her face.
She was older than her years—skin sallow and lined, eyes swollen from crying, hair tangled and full of dirt.
When she saw Solomon’s clean clothes and the armed men with him, panic flashed across her face.
She tried to scramble up, hands and knees slipping in the mud.
“I—I’m going, m’lord!
I’m sorry—I’ll leave right now—” She only made it a few steps before her legs gave out.
She dropped hard back onto the ground.
This time she didn’t make a sound.
She just curled tighter, shoulders shaking with silent, wrenching sobs that were somehow worse than the screaming.
The yard went still.
Old Niken stared at the mud.
Rosslyn suddenly found the clouds very interesting.
Luden stood rigid, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
His big hands were shaking.
Then Luden stepped forward.
His voice came out low and rough, like the words were being dragged out of him.
“My lord… she’s Hake.
Her husband—Old Hake—was one of the farmers who went with your father.
He died at Seagard.” Luden swallowed hard.
He looked like he wanted to stop talking, but forced himself to continue.
“Old Hake is gone.
She’s got two little ones at home.
No man left.
They’ll starve without him.” He lowered his head again, breathing hard, as if speaking that much in front of his new lord had taken everything he had.
The only sounds left were the wind through the reeds and the small, broken sounds the woman was making into the dirt.
Solomon stood over her, unmoving.
He had spared two men because killing them would have left their families to starve.
Now he was looking at the wife of one of the men he hadn’t been able to save.
And she was already starving.
The weight of it settled over him like cold mud.