Solomon followed Brin and Lushen out of the Lion's Den to meet the knight who had come a long way to offer his services.
As they emerged from the valley, they found the plain outside the Lion's Den deep canyon already alive with activity. More than forty shirtless men were working in the morning sun — paired off, drilling with blunted training swords, each shield-block landing with a dull heavy crack, each sword strike coming down with unreserved full force. Sweat soaked them from head to foot, as if they had just been hauled from a river.
The high-intensity training regimen was already showing results on the cavalry retainers' bodies — muscle definition was beginning to emerge.
Solomon gave a quiet nod of satisfaction. He had given them land, freed them and their families from agricultural labor. In return, they owed him one thing: full commitment to training for war.
He stood at the edge of the drill ground, arms folded, taking in the scene. His gaze moved from man to man, evaluating technique, assessing progress. The more he watched — the relentless attacks, the sweat-sheened muscle, the full-force commitment — the more satisfied he became.
Then a steady rhythm of hoofbeats broke through the training noise. The men stopped and looked toward the sound.
A powerfully built knight rode slowly toward them. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties — an unremarkable face, a flattened nose, a square jaw. His chainmail was old and worth little, but it had been polished and maintained until it was spotless.
Solomon didn't recognize him. Westerosi knights were too numerous to track unless they were famous. He only knew the great names.
He tilted his chin at Lushen, who had moved to block the rider's path.
"Let him through."
He had some genuine interest in people who sought him out on their own initiative.
The knight rode forward until he was a few paces from Solomon, then drew the reins to a smooth stop — his calloused hands giving nothing away. He studied the young lord in front of him. Such a young face. A flash of surprise moved through his eyes.
Still five paces out, he swung off the horse with clean efficiency and moved to drop to one knee — the traditional posture of requesting investiture.
Solomon raised a hand.
"Sir knight — there's no need to kneel yet."
"I have no intention of investing you."
The knight froze mid-motion. He looked up.
Solomon met his gaze and went straight to the point.
"Why should I invest you?"
"Or more precisely — what have you done to earn investiture from me?"
The question was blunt. No noble pleasantries, no warm greeting — a drawn blade aimed directly at the question's heart.
The knight called Rosso Brun was quiet for a moment. He didn't feel insulted. If anything, the direct practicality of it settled something in him. If investiture were this easy to receive, Westeros wouldn't have this many hedge knights.
His hoarse voice came out clear and steady.
"My Lord. I am Rosso Brun. My family is a distant branch of House Brun of Brown Hollow on the Claw."
Solomon shook his head.
"Sir knight — attempting to demonstrate noble blood means nothing to me."
Rosso paused. Something briefly dimmed in his eyes, then was gone.
"Lord Solomon, I am not here to claim distinguished lineage."
"After my father died, I brought my mother to Brown Hollow to find shelter with them. They... refused to acknowledge the blood connection."
The pain on his face lasted a moment, then was replaced by something harder. He straightened his back and continued.
"These past years I have traveled widely. I have lived on tournament prize money and sellsword work. Survival required me to develop a certain set of skills."
Solomon listened without interrupting.
Rosso drew a breath.
"It was Ser Brynden Tully who suggested I try my luck here."
"He told me you were a lord unlike others in Westeros — that you valued a man's ability rather than his lineage."
"So, My Lord — I am requesting your investiture on the basis of my ability."
The corner of Solomon's mouth moved.
"Which means you are quite confident in your ability, Ser Rosso?"
Rosso Brun's gaze swept across the forty-odd shirtless, sword-carrying men who had gathered around them with varying degrees of curiosity and unfriendliness.
His eyes didn't waver.
"Yes, Lord Solomon."
Solomon's interest sharpened. He had once valued complete loyalty above everything. Now he valued genuine ability — provided it was real.
He gestured.
"Then let me see it, Ser Rosso."
"By your command, Lord Solomon."
Rosso reached up to his saddle without hesitation and took down his longsword.
Solomon's gaze moved to the figure standing beside him — the man who looked like a bear and stood like an iron tower. That figure understood immediately and stepped forward.
Brin's footsteps crossed the ground with a weight that seemed to make the earth shift slightly under each one.
Rosso Brun looked at Brin's frame — the arms that were nearly the width of Rosso's thighs — and his brow moved in the smallest possible frown.
He turned to Solomon.
"My Lord—"
Solomon looked back at him evenly.
"Are you afraid, ser?"
Rosso shook his head. His eyes stayed cold and level.
"No, My Lord."
"I only wish to say — when two tigers fight savagely, blood must be shed. When this is over, whether it is I or this warrior of yours who takes the wound, blood will be spilled on this ground. This man is your trusted right hand. That is a loss you should not take."
Solomon listened to this unexpected argument and felt something close to genuine surprise.
Interesting.
He raised an eyebrow.
"You are very confident."
"You believe you could actually wound him?"
Rosso's eyes moved to the soldiers watching.
"I am simply naming a possibility."
"To demonstrate my value, I would prefer to face three opponents at once."
The soldiers around the ground all went still. Then came looks of incredulous anticipation. Had they just heard that? Someone was proposing to fight three of them simultaneously to prove his worth?
Solomon shook his head.
"There are no such rules here. To prove ability, you start one on one."
His gaze moved past Brin and Rosso to a powerfully built man watching from the edge of the crowd.
"Colin. You're up."
The man named stepped out immediately. Colin — one of the original ten brothers who had followed Brin from the beginning. His build was not as extreme as Brin's, but every part of him was functional, dense muscle.
The order given, Colin said nothing. He took the live steel sword someone passed him, walked to the center of the ground, and Rosso Brun raised his longsword.
Solomon gave the signal.
The fight detonated.
Colin charged forward immediately — full power, no preamble, his sword coming down in a savage overhead split.
The two blades met.
Rosso Brun felt the impact travel up through the steel and into his hands like a hammer blow. His palms went numb to the bone.
Colin's assault came in waves — no pauses, no gaps, no breathing room. Rosso was driven backward, step by step, barely managing to redirect each blow with the body mechanics of a man who had spent years learning to survive fights against stronger opponents.
Solomon watched without the background of any formal sword study, but he could read what was happening. Colin's style was battlefield killing — big actions, everything committed, no holding back. Effective against people who fought the same way. Against someone with real technical training, that full commitment was a liability waiting to be used.
The soldiers on the sideline were vocally behind their man, calling out as each exchange of blows landed. Someone had the nerve to claim he could take three of them — looking down on all of them like that.
Rosso Brun was genuinely alarmed. He had expected Solomon's soldier to be manageable. The power, speed, and fighting instinct this man was bringing exceeded all of his estimates.
In the narrow gaps between deflections, he caught a glimpse of Solomon's calm face watching from the side.
If I can't get past this first test, I'll have to leave with nothing. And worse — this story will follow me across the Seven Kingdoms.
He took a slow breath. Set his jaw. Stopped conserving himself.
He deliberately showed an opening — a manufactured gap in his defense — and waited.
Colin took it, exactly as expected, bringing his full weight behind a crushing downstroke aimed at Rosso's body.
At the last possible moment, Rosso moved sideways.
The blade edge caught his chest, sliding across the chainmail. Blood flew.
And Colin — committed entirely to that strike, carrying all his momentum forward — had nothing left to stop himself.
Rosso's boot came up and drove hard into the center of Colin's back.
The fight was over. Colin hit the ground and stayed there.
Rosso Brun won — but the proof of it was the blood seeping through the gaps in his chainmail from the gash across his chest.
He stood catching his breath. His face showed nothing that looked like victory. What was on it was something much closer to genuine shock.
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