Solomon stepped into the command tent, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Just admit it, he told himself. Confess to the bread theft. Cry if you have to. Say you have a tapeworm.
Lord Raymun Darry sat in a camp chair, looking every inch the high lord. His brown hair was swept back, his tunic was fine velvet, and his eyes—dark and piercing—were locked onto Solomon.
Beside him stood Ser Ronald of Fruitwood, the Master-at-Arms, looking like a bulldog in plate armor.
The silence stretched. It was heavy, judgmental, and terrifying. Solomon felt sweat trickling down his back.
He knows. He definitely knows about the cheese.
Solomon opened his mouth to offer a tearful apology involving starving orphans and a misunderstanding of buffet etiquette, when Ser Ronald spoke.
"Lord Solomon," the knight rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Do not look so pale. Lord Raymun merely wishes to ask you of the Ironborn. We hear you faced them at Seagard."
Solomon blinked.
The Ironborn?
Not the bread?
Oh, thank the Seven.
"Of course," Solomon breathed, the tension draining out of him so fast he almost collapsed. "Ask whatever you wish, my lords. I am at your service."
Lord Raymun leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Is it true your father and brothers fell on the beach?"
Solomon nodded solemnly. "It is, my lord."
"And you?" Raymun asked softly. "You are sixteen. Yet you stood in the shield wall?"
Ser Ronald interjected, shaking his head. "It is madness. I have never heard of a house sending every male heir to the slaughter. To risk ending the line... it is foolishness."
Solomon straightened his spine. He might be a beggar in stolen clothes, but he wore the name of Bligh.
"My lord," Solomon said, his voice steady. "When my ancestor swore fealty to House Deddings, he swore an oath."
He recited the words he had found in his memories, words carved into the lintel of Mirekeep's door.
"If the Lord calls, all who can hold a blade must answer. The blood of the servant is the shield of the master."
Solomon looked Ser Ronald in the eye. "We are a small house. We have no gold. We have no influence. We have only our word. If we break that, we are nothing."
Raymun Darry stared at the boy.
He thought of his own brothers—Damon, Desmond, Willem—who had ridden to the Trident to die for Rhaegar Targaryen. They had answered the call. They had kept their word.
And Raymun? He had stayed behind.
"Your father and brothers..." Raymun whispered. "What manner of men were they?"
"Good men," Solomon said simply. "Better than me."
He didn't want to talk about ghosts. He wanted to talk about the living.
Ser Ronald cleared his throat, sensing the Lord's melancholy. "Lord Solomon, you have traveled with us for a week. You have eaten with our men. Tell me... how do the soldiers of House Darry compare to the Ironborn you fought?"
It was a trap.
If Solomon praised them, he was a sycophant. If he insulted them, he was ungrateful trash.
Solomon looked at Raymun. "Do you want the song, my lord? Or the truth?"
Raymun's lips quirked. "The truth."
Solomon smiled, a sharp, cold expression.
"The song says that one man of the Trident is worth ten Ironborn. It says your knights will scatter them like leaves."
Ser Ronald nodded, looking pleased.
"The truth," Solomon continued, his voice dropping an octave, "is that one Ironborn is worth ten of your men. And when you meet them, they will butcher you like sheep."
"How dare you!" Ser Ronald roared, slamming his fist onto the map table. "You insolent little—!"
"Let him speak," Raymun cut in, his voice quiet but absolute. He looked at Solomon with new respect. "Why?"
Solomon didn't flinch.
"My lord," Solomon asked. "How many men do you have?"
"Four hundred foot," Ser Ronald spat, his face red. "One hundred heavy infantry. Thirty knights. We are a hammer of the Riverlands!"
"Impressive numbers," Solomon agreed. "But tell me, Ser Ronald... of those five hundred men, how many know why they are fighting?"
Ser Ronald scoffed. "They fight for House Darry! They fight for their Lord! They are loyal men!"
"Are they?" Solomon asked softly.
He thought of the soldiers he had eaten with. The way they grumbled about the march. The way they joked about raping Ironborn women. The way they cared more about their next meal than the banner they followed.
"Ser Ronald," Solomon said, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Are you truly so certain? Or are you just hoping that the fear of your whip is stronger than the fear of an axe?"
He stepped closer to the table.
"Because the Ironborn? They don't fight because they were conscripted. They don't fight for a lord. They fight because they are hungry. They fight because they believe that what you have belongs to them by right of conquest. They are wolves, my lord. And your men... your men are just well-fed cattle waiting for the slaughter."
The silence in the tent was absolute.
"You ask me why I say they will lose?" Solomon finished. "Because a wolf will always kill a cow. No matter how big the cow is."