The dirt track outside Deddington was a storm of rolling gray dust, shrouding the long, staggered line of the returning vanguard. Solomon sat his horse atop a small clay rise, his gaze piercing the haze to lock precisely onto the banner of House Vance of Atranta, the green dragons on white quartered with the black towers.
The cloth hung limp against the wood, the soldiers beneath the standard dragging their boots with heads bowed in absolute exhaustion. Their mail was slick with black mud and grease, the columns so thoroughly broken and scattered that nothing remained of the pristine order they had displayed when marching north.
Solomon turned his neck to look at the old man beside his stirrup. Lord Lymond Lychester was muttering rapidly into his gray beard, his fingers tracking patterns in the air as he continued his silent parley with dead sons.
Unsure if the old mind could clear enough to receive a tactical shift, Solomon spoke anyway, keeping his tone level. "Lord Lymond."
"Lord Norbert Vance has returned to the ditch."
The old lord offered no sign of understanding, his lips continuing their frantic dance. Solomon let out a brief, silent breath, turning his attention back to the line of march to count the shields. The column that had departed Atranta with over four thousand spears had returned with fewer than two thousand lances beneath the banners.
The remaining regional lords—the Blackwoods, the Brackens, the Freys—had clearly learned of Seagard's fall and the slaughter beneath the walls, fleeing back to their own keeps to bar their gates before the longships arrived.
Solomon turned his destrier, dropping his heels into the beast's flanks as he swept down the rise. "Lord Lymond, the track is moving."
"We shall greet the commander of the vanguard."
Lymond ceased his muttering, his vacant stare shifting to Solomon's dark cloak before he quietly urged his mount forward. They rode together without a trace of hesitation, stepping their horses directly into the chaotic, shouting maze of the Vance encampment.
Inside the central pavilion, Lord Norbert Vance stood before the oak map table, his pale, milky eyes fixed blindly upon the parchment. His ash-gray hair was tangled from the road, his fine velvet doublet stained with the grease of the tracks.
The moment his ears caught the sound of boots and his shapes confirmed Lymond and Solomon had entered the canvas, the weariness on his weathered face turned instantly into a profound, sharp embarrassment.
Only a turn of the moon ago, he had flatly denied the old man's plea to spend the army's lances against the Lychester stone. Now, the scouts had informed him that this young second son had reduced that very keep in three days without losing a single shield to the ironborn axes.
But Norbert was an old wolf who had spent forty years navigating the blood feuds of the Trident. He wiped the discomfort from his features, forcing a wide, bright smile onto his face as he stepped forward with arms extended to receive his fellow lord.
Had a stranger stood within the canvas, the old man's voice would have sounded like the purest coin of northern chivalry. "Lymond, my ancient friend! The ravens have flown! The tales of your valor at the walls have reached my ears!"
"My heart is full to see the white banner flying over your hearth once more!"
Lymond merely tilted his chin, his gray stare fixed on the upper rings of the pavilion pole as his lips resumed their silent debate with the wind, completely ignoring the extended hands of the lord of Atranta.
Norbert's arms hung frozen in the air for a fraction of a second before he pulled his leather gloves back to his belt, shifting his gaze toward the master of Willowdale.
The embarrassment left his features, replaced by a raw, unvarnished astonishment. "Lord Solomon? Why does your host remain outside the castle gates?"
"Have your squads no desire to secure their own valley?"
By every rule of warfare he understood, with Seagard down and the iron fleet moving through the deep channels of the Trident, a rational commander would have already split the lanes to fortify his home hold against the coming storm.
Did this young second son truly intend to leave his own lands bare to guard the empty seats of a missing liege?
Westeros, or at least the river valleys, had not seen a vassal of this measure since the Andal kings were crowned.
Solomon did not miss the brief flash of wonder in the old lord's milky stare. The performance had reached its cue. He offered a precise, slow bow, his tone shifting into a solemn, heavy resonance that carried the tragic weight of an old ballad.
"Lord Norbert, the master of my oath remains missing in the western thickets. Lady Roslin and her children remain behind the stone of Deddington, counting the hours until the banners appear."
"To abandon the seed of my liege while the fields are hot, simply to burrow in my own valley for a season of safety, is not a path my vow allows."
The tent went perfectly still. Norbert Vance stared into Solomon's face, his pale eyes searching the smooth skin for any trace of a merchant's ruse or the false piety of a courtier. He found nothing.
The boy's dark stare was as clear and steady as glass, the loyalty in his phrasing sounding as though it had been carved into his bones before he ever held a shield. Whether the young lord was a magnificent fool or a master of the theater mattered little to the ledger. In his words and his movements, he had seized a moral high ground that left the high seats paralyzed.
"A heavy matter," Norbert sighed, turning his back to look upon the map once more, his shoulders slouching with the weight of his years.
He pointed a gnarled finger toward the ink mark that represented the fallen stronghold of Seagard. "The accounts from the coast have likely reached your pickets."
"But I did not anticipate that when the longships breached the harbor, any captain among the columns would have the stomach to turn his horse back into the jaws of the fleet."
"The reports claim a dozen lords broke for the southern tracks the moment the bells stopped."
"Only Lord Tytos Blackwood, your own Lord Balon Deddington, and a few secondary lances gathered three thousand shields between them to charge the beach. They threw themselves against the entire weight of the iron fleet."
He shook his head, his tone thick with a lord's disappointment as he reviewed the collapse of his command.
"The vanguard has dissolved. The great houses... the moment the ravens confirmed the sea was open, they rode their horses until the steel ruined."
Solomon remained motionless by the table. When the old lord's breath caught, he spoke into the quiet. "What is your line of march now, my Lord?"
The inquiry was direct, striking the center of the board, but it aligned perfectly with the old man's internal calculations.
Norbert answered without a second thought. "The mandate from Riverrun was to clear the lanes of the small columns, but the tide has broken our boundaries."
"The main strength of the iron fleet is already within the branches of the Trident, their sails unmarked. To hunt for a few stray scouts in the brush is a useless expenditure of my house's steel. I shall turn my columns back to Atranta immediately to secure my own walls."
He shifted his tone, offering the protective counsel of an elder as he looked at Solomon.
"Turn your horses back to Willowdale, boy. The longships move faster than a destrier can gallop. Within a turn of the moon, there will not be a creek or a mill-pond in the river valleys that does not see an iron oar."
His meaning required no translation. The war along the coast was finished, the defense of the region had broken, and there was no profit left in the open fields. He was returning to his stone, and the small houses were expected to do the same.
Yet, Solomon offered a slow, deliberate shake of his head. His voice was quiet, but it fell across the map table with the hard, heavy certainty of an iron hammer.
"No."
Norbert Vance blinked, his pale eyes widening as the air within the pavilion went entirely cold.
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