Lymond Lychester stood rooted to the earth, staring blankly at the straight, dark shape of the young second son on his mount. The gray morning light framed Solomon's shoulders in a dull, mist-like silver, yet it could not soften the freezing, metallic severity that seemed to emanate from his leather doublet.
The old madman felt a sudden, sharp thrill run behind his ears. He looked upon the boy and recognized something completely terrifying, a mind far more dangerous, far more unyielding than his own madness, calculating a way to rewrite the laws of the soil.
The combined column of Lychester and Deddington shields began its slow, rhythmic advance down the parched track. At the very apex of the line, Solomon pulled his horse to the side of the ruts, offering his adopted father a final, unblinking look.
A quiet smile touched the corners of Solomon's mouth, an expression full of dangerous, dark charm that acted as both a test and an invitation, carrying an absolute confidence that brooked no denial.
Like a merchant offering a high-stakes trade to a desperate man, he dropped his final phrase into the quiet. "The stakes are on the timber, Lord Lymond, my new father. Are you prepared to stay at the table until the board breaks?"
Lymond went perfectly still. The damp river wind tossed his sparse white hair, snapping his creased wool cloak against his boots. The memories rose through the fog of his thoughts, the blunt humiliation he had received at Atranta from the Vances, the cold, forgotten graves of his sons, the slow, bleeding rot of his lineage beneath his own hands, and the long, gray decades of his insignificance.
Now, a second son of a minor hold, an outcast who sat further from the gate than himself, had laid out a strategy of absolute ruin and total conquest. Something flared deep within the old man's milky stare, an ancient fire that had been buried in the ash since the rebellion ended, burning clean through the fog.
Lymond lifted his chin, meeting Solomon's dark eyes with an expression of wild, unvarnished resolution. I am the one the septons call mad, the old man thought, yet this boy has a mind that makes my ghosts look like children. He broke into a sharp, desperate laugh that carried the full weight of his years.
"The bones are yours, my son!" the old lord rasped, his voice wild with a sudden, dark glee. "Let us tear the circle apart!"
Solomon watched the column of nearly two thousand and five hundred shields press into the open flats, the heavy thud of their boots kicking up a thick, yellow dust that rose to meet the clouds. He considered his original departure from the gates of Willowdale, when his entire command consisted of two common plowmen and a handful of rusty iron, and noted how the long ledger of his calculations had finally begun to yield its real returns.
At the very head of the line, the two hundred elite infantrymen provided by Lord Norbert Vance moved with the stiff, synchronized stride of true household guards. Though their count was modest, the lord of Atranta had kept his word regarding their iron, they carried heavy, castle-forged shields and clean ringmail, their edge sharp enough to take the first brunt of the western tracks.
The core of the host belonged entirely to Solomon's direct command. His nine hundred Willowdale squads marched in perfect lockstep, their lines straight as a mason's rule, moving with a bizarre, unvoiced focus that carried an undercurrent of intense excitement. They flanked the five hundred Deddington levies, forming a solid block of fourteen hundred spears in the center.
Along the wings rode Solomon's personal scout-riders and a loose collection of some one hundred landless hedge knights and household lances from the Lychester and Deddington manors.
Bringing up the absolute rear was Lord Lymond himself, guiding his seven hundred remaining smallfolk foot. This temporary, raw assembly of over twenty-three hundred lances formed the first primitive structure of his Eastern Coalition, the singular lever Solomon intended to spend on the western front.
As for Lady Rona's four hundred recruits, they remained behind the thick mortar of Deddington Castle, a sufficient shield to guard the frantic lady and her children while the tracks were hot.
While Solomon's mind traced the columns, the sudden, rhythmic drum of galloping hooves rose from the rear of the baggage wagons. Through the rolling dust, a lone banner bearing the dark bull's horn of House Morrison cut into the lane.
"The Morrison horse!" a scout shouted from the wing.
Solomon pulled up on his reins, turning his torso in the saddle. Young Patrick Morrison had kept his word to the letter, leading a hundred fresh lances down the track, their mounts slick with white sweat and blowing hard after a long, frantic chase to close the gap with the vanguard.
Patrick leaped from his saddle before his mount had fully stopped, nearly running through the ruts to reach the center of the host. His face was bright with the fanatic, religious devotion of a boy looking upon his idol, his voice clear as he offered his salute.
"Lord Solomon!"
But the light left the boy's features in the next breath, his chin dropping toward his gorget as his tone lost its ringing strength.
"The ravens from the coast offer no mark of my father or my brothers, my Lord. Their lines were broken beneath the Booming Tower."
"The household stewards and the old septons at the keep claim they are left for the crows. I prepared to ride north to search the beaches myself, but the castle gates were barred against my horse."
"They told me that if my father's line is broken, the seat belongs to my hand."
He lifted his face, forcing a thin, bloodless smile that looked worse than a sob, carrying the stubborn, defensive pride of a boy who refused to show his tears to the road.
"My mother died when my cord was cut. There is no other man left in the hall to hold the seal. The moment the scouts confirmed your cloak was moving west, I gathered every lance that could clear the gate."
Solomon tightened his grip on his reins, staring blankly at the boy. The world is small, he thought. The layout of this kid's house matches my own start too closely for comfort.
He studied the young noble, noting the gray dust of a three-day gallop caked into the rivets of his plate. He was a simple, honest creature.
After a long silence, Solomon reached out with his leather-clad hand, pressing it firmly onto Patrick's shoulder casing. The force of the grip caused the boy to sink half an inch into the ruts, Solomon's tone dropping into the warm, protective regular register of an elder brother.
"Patrick Morrison, your vow is clean, and your courage does honor to your banner."
"But the stewards have measured the risk correctly. Your house requires your hand on the seal today. Turn your horse back to your keep. Leave the hundred lances with my column, and secure your own walls."
Patrick shook his head violently, his wide eyes fixed on Solomon with absolute certainty. "No! Lord Solomon!"
"To sit alone in an empty hall while the ravens circle is a death I cannot endure! My road stays with your vanguard! Let me look for my kin with my own steel! Permit me to follow your cloak!"
Solomon searched the boy's stare, a rare touch of genuine surprise passing through his calculations. If the Morrison men had truly been put to the sword beneath Seagard, this stubborn kid was the absolute end of their name, yet he chose to look for an axe on the western front.
He let out a short, quiet breath. When he had ordered this boy to take the dangerous front lines during the ironborn skirmish on the march, he had cared nothing for his skin, deploying him as a human shield to protect his own Willowdale infantry. The boy had perceived nothing of the trade, viewing the slaughter as a great mark of chivalric honor.
Finally, Solomon offered a single nod. "The hundred shields will be integrated into the central line. As for your person, you shall remain at my stirrup. You carry no knight's vows yet, so you shall serve as my personal shield-bearer."
The boy's face instantly flared with a brilliant, sudden color. He nodded hard, his posture turning rigid as if he had just received a grand decree from the Iron Throne itself.
Lymond Lychester stepped his horse closer as Patrick hurried back down the ruts to order his lances. The old lord watched the boy's stride with a touch of quiet envy. "The seed is good, Solomon. Brave, loyal, and looks upon your word as if it were holy text. A lance like that can be turned into a fine weapon."
Solomon offered no reply, his dark eyes returning to the road ahead. The ledger is expanding quickly, he thought scathingly. I have gained a mad father and a fanatical brother before noon. I require only a phantom mother to complete the court.
Before the line could clear the next valley, three scout-riders broke from the southern ridge, their mounts throwing sheets of dry turf into the air as they galloped toward the中军. The lead horseman pulled hard on his bits, shouting his report before his boots could clear the stirrups.
"Lord Solomon!"
"The couriers you dispatched to the secondary keeps have returned! The representatives from the remaining Deddington vassals have reached the picket lines!"
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