Before the dust could settle along the ruts, a scout-rider galloped back to the center of the column. A relatively intact company of some three hundred shields had been spotted at the next crossroads, marching under the red salmon of House Mooton of Maidenpool.
Solomon gave a quiet wave of his hand, seamlessly absorbing the loose remnants of the Blackwood foot soldiers into his own marching rows without a single pause.
A few minutes later, the two hosts met where the paths split.
Lord William Mooton, the master of Maidenpool, was a soft, remarkably round noble whose pale face was slick with heavy sweat. His fine, highly polished plate armor was caked with mud, leaving him looking less like a high lord and more like a panicked bird caught in a hedge.
When his eyes took in the mass of Solomon's three thousand shields, and he noted their highly regular, dangerous march heading straight toward the front lines, his eyes went wide as platters.
Regardless of the boy's destination, a large force meant immediate safety for his own retreat. The fat lord spurred his horse forward, using a silk handkerchief to repeatedly wipe his brow, his tone a mix of profound relief and utter disbelief.
"Lord Lymond? Is that truly your banner?"
Lymond Lychester offered a slow nod, his features fixed in that same mysterious, unmoving smile that suggested his thoughts were still adrift in the dark fog of his mind.
William Mooton's voice rose to a sharp, high-pitched pitch. "By the Mother, my friend! Where are you taking these lances? The west is finished!"
"The ironborn have split their main fleet into two massive columns! One is moving down the Greenfork, and the other is tracking the Blue Fork!"
"Fairmarket has been reduced to a pile of black ash! I saw the smoke with my own eyes! Their next target will be Raventree Hall, and then they will drop their anchors to encircle Riverrun!"
He gasped for air, his heavy chest heaving as if the mere delivery of the news were a day of hard labor. He lifted a thick, gloved finger to point toward the western ridge, as if a great beast were waiting in the thickets.
"It is over! The lines are gone! We must retreat to the east immediately and wait for the King's host!"
He stared at Lymond and Solomon as if they had both lost their wits, his round face tightening in confusion as he remembered their march was pushing straight into the teeth of the enemy.
"My own seat at Maidenpool sits far down the bay, close to the borders of the Crownlands! The squids will not dare to close with my walls for a turn of the moon!"
"But by my memory, the Lychester stone, the Deddington keep, and your own lands, Lord Solomon..."
"Your holdings sit flat along the banks of the Greenfork. The ravens claim the iron fleet is tracking straight for your gates. Why are you not barring your doors? What profit do you hope to find along these tracks?"
It was a rational inquiry, the exact query any lord who valued his skin would present to the column.
But he received no answer from Lymond. The old man's mind had slipped back into its private wilderness. He stared at William Mooton, muttering quietly into his beard. "Dead? No, a clean fire means no tax to the high seat. The dead pay no silver, boy."
Solomon offered a dry scowl internally.
He stepped his destrier forward, his dark eyes locking onto the fat lord. He kept his tone quiet, but his voice carried clearly to the captains behind them as he pointed his blade toward the Deddington levies. "We are tracking our liege, Lord Balon Deddington."
William Mooton went perfectly still. His mouth hung open as he searched Solomon's young, cold features. It took several long seconds for a phrase to clear his throat.
"You... you are risking three thousand shields in a war zone for the sake of a missing liege?"
The expression on the fat lord's face shifted from wonder to a complex mix of pity and quiet mockery. A magnificent fool, he concluded in his thoughts.
Balon Deddington was likely already left for the crows in some nameless ditch, yet this second son was throwing his entire strength into a furnace for the hollow honor of a vassal's vow.
Solomon offered no explanation. His gaze moved past William's slouched shoulders, marking the ragged look of the Maidenpool foot soldiers. Across the eastern valleys, the lesser houses—the Deddingtons, the Lychesters, the Legges, the Rootes, the Mootons, and the landed knights like the Coxes—were all secondary or tertiary commands.
Isolated, any one of these names would break like a dry twig against the true weight of the western lords or the iron fleet. But what if a single, strong line could be woven to bind them into a single machine?
At that moment, clarity returned to Lymond Lychester's face. He looked at the round noble, baring his teeth in a sudden smile as he offered an invitation.
"Mooton, your lances are fewer than three hundred today. Ride with our column. The mass is larger, and the road is safer for the shields."
William Mooton jerked his horse back as if he had stepped on an adder, his hands waving frantically. "Never! The law does not allow it!"
"My column is scattered, and the men have lost their stomach for the tracks! I must return to Maidenpool at once to secure my gates and gather the remainder! Yes, gather the lances and wait for the royal vanguard!"
The old man is entirely gone to rot, William thought in terror. If I follow these lunatics into the west, I shall find a grave before the moon turns. Fleeing alone is far safer than tracking with a madman.
Where the paths split, their destinies parted. William Mooton offered a hasty, frantic bow before turning his three hundred remnants down the eastern track, his company disappearing behind the sparse timber within minutes.
Solomon watched the dust clear, making no move to check their horses. The Mooton name was a vital piece for his long-term Eastern Coalition, but to expect these self-serving, traditional nobles to join a alliance before their own walls were burning was an idle calculation.
They were like fat sheep fleeing the scent of a wolf, scattering in every direction. Until the teeth were at their throats, their presence would only weaken the column.
Once the road was quiet, Lymond Lychester shook the fog from his gaze. He pointed a gnarled finger toward the western markers on the map, his tone remarkably rational and full of quiet concern.
"Solomon, we are well behind the enemy pickets now. What is the real strategy for the vanguard?"
The old man began to track the difficulties one by one. "The Blackwood lances are broken. They could be hiding in any thicket, barn, or collapsed smallholding across leagues of open country. Locating them now is like searching for a single silver coin in a muddy ditch."
"And even if our luck holds and we gather the remnants, how do we guide three thousand shields back through a valley swarming with ironborn axes without losing our own iron?"
Solomon studied the ink lines on the parchment, letting the silence settle. He understood the old lord had counted the risks accurately. If the ironborn marked the presence of a large, organized host moving behind their lines, they would deploy their longships to swarm the paths.
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