Solomon put the lingering shadows of his bizarre visions and dragon dreams aside. He had enough to contend with; his mind was already a labyrinth of riddles. He ignored the eager expressions of Lushen and Lauchlan and the paralyzed, bug-eyed stare of Bolin.
He turned toward Val and the other women. "Everyone, come inside."
The lord's hall had been transformed by Evelyn. With its heavy tapestries and stark decorations, it radiated a cold, oppressive majesty. Two rows of high-hanging banners—the blood-red lion on a black field—lent the space a jarring, almost predatory atmosphere.
The women shuffled into the center of the hall, their shoulders hunched, eyes fixed strictly on the floor.
"From this day forth, you are the maidservants of the Lion's Den," Solomon's voice echoed against the stone. "Your duty is to serve me personally."
He gestured to the vast floor, the heavy oak chairs, and the distant walls.
"You are responsible for cleaning every chamber in the inner keep, laundering the linens, and managing the chores of the kitchens."
"Val."
Val snapped to attention instantly. "Yes, Lord Solomon."
Solomon studied them for a moment before continuing. "You will be their head of house. You are responsible for organizing everyone's labor, and you will report directly to Evelyn."
"You will receive a monthly wage. Good work will be rewarded; laziness and neglect will be punished."
"Do you all understand?"
The women froze, glancing at one another with wide, disbelieving eyes. They had expected to be given the most backbreaking, filthy labor imaginable—they knew well enough what they looked like.
They had never expected this: a paid, dignified position as the personal servants of a lord. It was a role they could speak of with genuine pride.
"We... we understand!" Val was the first to find her voice, her tone trembling with a sudden, fierce emotion.
The others nodded fervently, and for the first time, genuine, heart-deep smiles broke across their weathered faces.
Solomon waved a hand, signaling for Val to lead them to their work. Though none of these women were beautiful—and some possessed truly peculiar features—they threw themselves into their tasks with a desperate sort of hunger. The hall instantly hummed with a new, vigorous life as they began scrubbing every inch of the stone floor with an intensity that made the muscles in their thick arms bulge.
Bolin slipped through the crack of the heavy doors, his boots nearly silent on the polished stone. He had come to report a vital matter, but the sight before him stopped him dead. He forgot who he was and why he had come.
He stared at the sturdy silhouettes, at the brows slick with sweat, and at the "unique" faces of the women as they worked with a manic energy.
Gulp.
Bolin's Adam's apple bobbed. Lord Solomon... is truly as unfathomable as the deep sea.
As he stood there dazed, one of the maidservants—who had been bent double scrubbing the base of a pillar—straightened up and turned around.
She spotted the blacksmith standing in the doorway: a towering, barrel-chested man roped with muscle, staring "directly" at her.
A faint, dark flush crept into her cheeks. She clearly misunderstood the nature of his gaze. She made a valiant effort to offer Bolin what she considered her most demure, charming smile.
The smile, missing two front teeth, was wide, breezy, and utterly terrifying.
Bolin felt a violent jolt, as if he had been shoved into a frozen river in the dead of winter. The chill went straight to his marrow.
He snapped his head away, fixing his eyes on Solomon sitting high on the dais, and broke into a near-sprint toward the lord's seat, his voice booming to cover his sheer panic.
"My... my... my lord!"
Solomon had been watching Bolin since he slipped in, tracking the spectacular play of emotions across the big man's face. A sliver of a smile touched his lips. He decided to give the bear-like man a little shove.
"Did one of the beautiful ladies in the hall catch your eye, Bolin?" Solomon asked, his tone slow and conversational. "I can certainly make the arrangements."
"No... no! Absolutely not!" Bolin's face instantly turned the color of a ripe beet. He waved his massive hands in front of his chest like the sails of a windmill.
In his panic, the long, oilcloth-wrapped object he had been carrying struck the floor with a heavy, metallic thud.
"My lord! It's finished! The item you and Lady Evelyn... the item you requested!" he stammered, his voice pitching higher in his nervousness. He scrambled to retrieve the object.
Solomon's amusement vanished, replaced by a sharp, electric anticipation.
Bolin took a deep breath, like a man preparing to unveil his masterpiece. He knelt, untied the heavy cord, and whipped away the oilcloth with a flourish.
A jagged, lethal engine of war lay revealed.
It was forged from dark, reinforced hardwood and steel that caught the torchlight in cold, sharp glints. It was significantly larger and heavier than any standard military crossbow found in Westeros.
The limbs were not made of wood or composite horn, but of pure, tempered spring steel—thick, solid, and radiating a biting, lethal intent.
Fixed to the stock was an intricate metal windlass, its gears and crank handle fitted together with the precise, clockwork power of a modern machine.
Solomon's pupils contracted. He stood up abruptly. He had provided the sketches and the conceptual framework, but he had not expected Bolin to translate them into reality with such perfection.
These medieval smiths... in their chosen field, they are practically superhuman.
Bolin's hands were scarred with burns and callouses, but he touched the cold steel of the crossbow with a creator's tenderness. His eyes burned with a fierce, specialized pride.
"My lord... this is it," Bolin said, his voice thick with excitement. "Lady Evelyn helped me refine the sketches you provided. We adjusted the gear ratios and the length of the crank arm."
He pointed to the compact windlass.
"Never mind me—even if my two strongest brothers pulled together, they couldn't cock this thing by hand! You must use the windlass. You draw it back, tooth by tooth, turn by turn."
"And because of that!" Bolin's breathing grew shallow, his eyes flashing with a near-maniacal fervor. If I'd had this weapon back then, my revenge would have been finished long ago. "The power! The special heavy bolts it fires... the power is terrifying!"
"I tested it against two layers of chainmail doubled over. At twenty paces, it punched through them like a needle through soft cheese."
"I'll stake my life on it! At twenty paces, there isn't a single suit of knightly plate armor in all of Westeros that can stop this bolt!"
"And anyone—even a woman—can use it with just a few minutes of instruction!"
Bolin paused, his honesty getting the better of his pride.
"But, my lord, its flaws are as great as its strengths."
"Even for the most skilled marksman, drawing the string with the windlass takes a significant amount of time."
"The rate of fire is far too slow. On an open battlefield, once you fire your first bolt, you'll likely never get the chance to fire a second."
"It's hard to imagine using such a weapon effectively in close-quarters combat, especially against knights. It's built for defending walls. In a field battle, it cannot compete with a longbow."
Solomon didn't respond immediately. He descended the steps of the dais and came to Bolin's side. He reached out and gripped the cold metal of the crank handle.
He gave it a tentative turn. He felt the immense resistance vibrating through the gears. He could sense the terrifying, compressed energy being stored within that rigid steel bow.
Solomon didn't need Bolin to explain the drawbacks. The original concept had come from his own memory. He knew exactly what this weapon was—and what it was meant to do.
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