The words had scarcely left his lips when Solomon slammed his heels into his mount's flanks.
His destrier let out a sharp snort, its hooves digging hard into the clay before launching forward like an arrow from a bow string. The great beast plunged first into the freezing, swift channel, throwing up a massive wall of white spray as the cold river instantly rose past its belly.
Solomon sat steady in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the far bank as he pressed forward. The unexpected move left the rest of the host frozen in surprise for a brief moment.
Ludo was the first to find his voice. His massive frame shifted like a giant bear, and a booming shout cut through the roar of the water. "Follow the master!"
"Across the channel!" Rosso Bren shouted alongside him, drawing his longsword to point the way. The Willowdale infantry and horsemen moved as if pulled by a single, invisible thread. Without a second thought or a trace of hesitation, they stepped their boots into the freezing mud of the Greenfork.
Lord Lymond Lychester watched Solomon's dark cloak move through the spray, then glanced at the disciplined ranks surging forward. He let out a short, silent chuckle, shook his head, and cracked his whip to follow them into the channel.
Seeing their own lord move, the Lychester captains raised their voices to rally the rest of the column. "For the gold and the manors! Keep close to the seat! Across the river!"
The Lychester levies answered with a massive shout, crowding into the water in a frantic rush. Their movement left the secondary keeps and their untrustworthy banners isolated on the bank. The captains looked at one another, their faces full of confusion and sudden alarm.
The current had already formed, and no captain possessed the stomach to turn back now. To retreat meant open defiance, and an empty keep like the Payles was the certain return for that choice. They had no cards left to play.
One by one, their lances stepped into the mud, swallowed entirely by the force of the advance.
The moment their boots cleared the western bank, the warm air took on a tight, anxious weight. The dark waters of the Greenfork rolled behind them, washing away the last hopes of a quiet winter.
Solomon issued the command to turn the column inland, leaving the main thoroughfare to seek the cover of the narrow secondary tracks. The direction of their march ran completely counter to the flow of the panic, pushing west toward the teeth of the invasion while every other shield fled east.
Even on the hidden backroads, the ruts had been churned into a thick, black mire by countless wagons and fleeing boots. Broken carts and abandoned chests littered the ditches like ugly scars stretching across the landscape.
Along the roadside, a small group of smallfolk huddled beneath the sagging thatch of a ruined barn, staring at the silent, orderly host as if they were ghosts from the hills. Hunger, terror, and a profound astonishment marked their thin faces.
Solomon's scout-riders continued to sweep the brush ahead, returning with reports and a few stray survivors.
A scout pulled his horse alongside Solomon's stirrup, his voice tight. "My Lord, we discovered a handful of foot soldiers along the ditch. They bear the marsh-leopard of House Vypren."
Solomon checked his horse, studying the four men who were brought forward. Their leather gambesons were torn, their faces numb with the pale, shaking terror of men who had seen their world collapse.
Solomon kept his tone perfectly flat. "Where is the master of your keep?"
An elder soldier shifted his weight, his cracked lips trembling as he found his tongue. "My Lord... the stone of Stillfence... the longships surrounded the walls."
The text came in short, ragged pieces.
"The stores were bare... the lord ordered a sally to clear the lanes... the axes broke our line, and the woods took the rest."
Solomon looked down at them. House Vypren was short on grain, a result he knew well since his own steward had bought up their winter stores months ago and refused to return a single bushel.
His features remained entirely serene. "How many axes hold the ditch?"
A younger soldier blurted out his fear. "We know not... my Lord... thousands. The longships keep coming from the channel. The smoke is everywhere."
Solomon reviewed the account in silence. The levies were too shaken to offer clean numbers. Twelve thousand ironborn were moving through the Trident, and a commander would not spend thousands of axes against a poor, isolated keep like Stillfence when the rich southern valleys were open. Riverrun and Raventree Hall would require the true bulk of the shields.
His thoughts were cut short by Lymond Lychester. The old lord sat his horse with his chin tilted, listening to the soldiers with a strange amusement before breaking into the quiet.
"Burned?" the old man chuckled. "A clean fire means no taxes for the high seat this winter, boy! A grand return!"
The broken levies shrank back from the old noble's wild gaze, keeping their mouths shut. Solomon ignored his adopted father's erratic logic.
He waved his hand to his sergeant. "Give them bread and water skins. Place them at the rear of the baggage line."
It was only the first pattern. The further they pressed west, the more broken remnants they gathered from the tracks. They bore a dozen separate crests, but their faces carried the exact same despair.
From their disjointed, frantic stories, Solomon began to piece together a clear layout of the western front, a grand tapestry of total collapse.
Before noon, they encountered a sizeable company of Blackwood knights and foot soldiers. Their formation was ragged, but their spirits had not dissolved entirely, their features still tight with the lingering fury of a bloody field.
The lead captain recognized the Lychester crest and stepped his horse forward, looking for an anchor. "Lord Lymond! Are these true lances from the east?"
Solomon spoke before the old lord could slide back into his whispers. "Captain, report the layout beneath Seagard."
The Blackwood knight's face fell, his voice thick with an unvoiced sob. "The lines are broken... the host is gone."
"Lord Tytos... our brave Tytos Blackwood!"
"The moment the ravens confirmed the fleet was in the bay, he gathered Lord Balon Deddington, Lord Karyl Vance, and a few secondary banners to turn our columns back. We had three thousand shields between our houses."
"But the calculation was bad! A dozen lords refused the call and fled for their own gates! The squids landed more than ten thousand axes from the ships!"
The captain gestured wildly with his gauntlet, his words fast.
"We charged the beach before they could form their shield-wall, but the mass was too large. They came like a black tide, swallowing our front ranks in a single hour."
He stopped, his throat moving as the surrounding soldiers dropped their caps.
"Lord Tytos gathered a hundred of his personal knights, aiming his lances straight for the ironborn commander's banner. They cut deep into the center... and the black shields closed behind them. We never saw his crest again."
"The line dissolved after that... the ruts took the remnants."
Solomon listened to the end without a single muscle shifting on his face. The account confirmed his strategic assumptions. Aside from the Blackwood line which had overextended itself, the remaining lords had likely scattered through the brush rather than being put to the sword. The bulk of the regional strength was broken, but alive.
Yet, the tracks ahead were bound to grow far more dangerous.
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