"Those two... those spineless curs who brought the news! It is my fault, My Lord! I failed to watch Her Ladyship... it is all my sin!"
"Where are they?" Solomon asked, his voice cutting through the steward's wailing.
Old Nikken looked up, his eyes rimmed with red, swimming in tears. "Still in the yard, My Lord. They have been on their knees in the mud since the moment they heard you drew breath. They have not dared to rise."
Solomon felt a bitter taste in his mouth.
The peasants had not lied with malice. And truthfully, they hadn't even been wrong—the Solomon they knew had died on that beach.
Moreover, these were not just messengers. They were two of the last able-bodied men left in his fiefdom. To kill them now would be to cut off his own fingers to spite his hand.
"Bring them in," Solomon commanded.
Nikken hesitated, blinking, but the habit of obedience was strong. He bowed low and shuffled out of the chamber.
Moments later, the heavy oak door creaked open. Two men stumbled in, reeking of sweat and river muck. Their tunics were little more than rags. They did not walk so much as collapse forward, dragging themselves onto the stone floor.
As soon as they saw Solomon sitting upright in the bed, they slammed their foreheads against the flagstones.
"Lord Solomon! Lord Solomon! We deserve death! Mercy, mercy!" one cried, his voice cracking with terror.
The other joined the chorus, trembling so violently his teeth chattered. "We thought—we swore you were gone, My Lord! It was not a lie! We saw the hammer fall! Please, spare us! Spare us!"
Solomon looked down at them. They were shaking like leaves in a gale. The terror in the room was palpable, a heavy, sour scent.
In his past life, Solomon had been nobody. His highest authority had been collecting homework in primary school. He had no experience with power, no training in command. But now, the memories of films and history books flickered in his mind—images of kings and judges, cold and distant.
He inhaled deeply, forcing the tremors from his own voice.
"Rise."
The peasants did not move. They only knocked their heads against the stone harder, weeping.
"I said RISE!" Solomon's voice cracked like a whip.
The two men flinched as if struck, scrambling to their feet, though they kept their heads bowed low, staring at their mud-caked boots.
"Your foolishness cost my mother her life," Solomon said softly. "You brought a poison to this house that can never be drawn out."
The men whimpered, shrinking in on themselves.
"By all rights of gods and men," Solomon continued, his tone devoid of warmth, "I should take your heads."
He watched the color drain from their faces until they looked like corpses standing upright.
"But," Solomon said, letting the word hang in the dank air, "you also survived the slaughter. You stood on the sands of Seagard for House Bligh."
"You saw the iron and the blood. You saw how my father died. You saw how Lorent and Beren fell. You saw thirteen of your kin butchered."
He paused, letting the weight of the memory settle on them.
"My mother is gone. Killing you will not bring her back. It would only mean two more mothers lose their sons, two more wives lose their husbands, and this broken land loses the last of its strength."
The peasants looked up then, their eyes wide with shock. They had expected the sword. They had expected the noose.
"From this day forth," Solomon declared, "you are no longer field hands."
Terror flashed in their eyes again. They dropped back to their knees in a splash of panic.
"My Lord! We are of the land! Please, do not banish us! We cannot survive the roads! Do not cast us out!"
Solomon stood up. His legs were weak, but he forced them to hold his weight. He loomed over the kneeling men.
"Listen to me!"
His voice filled the small, damp chamber.
"You survived the hell of the Ironborn. You did not die in the mud like the others. Perhaps the Seven have a purpose for you yet."
He took a step forward, his bare feet cold on the stone.
"My house is withered. My halls are empty. The wolves are circling outside these walls. I do not need hoe-hands. I need steel."
Solomon looked from one face to the other.
"Your duty has changed. You will not till the earth. You will guard this keep. You will guard me. Until I release you, or until the Stranger comes for you."
The two men were stunned into silence.
To be raised from a peasant to a man-at-arms was a dream few dared to dream. To receive it after causing the death of the Lady... it was a mercy beyond comprehension.
"The Seven bless you... the Seven bless you, Lord Solomon!" they wept, pressing their faces to the floor in gratitude deeper than their fear. "We will die for you! We will hold the gate!"
Solomon watched them. He didn't know if this was wisdom or weakness. But in this harsh world, he needed loyalty more than he needed justice.
He turned to the steward. "Nikken. Take them. Find them boiled leather and spears. Rusty steel is better than no steel."
"At once, My Lord," Nikken said. The old man's voice trembled with a strange new pride. His boy lord, untaught and untested, had spoken with the voice of a ruler.
When the heavy door clicked shut, leaving Solomon alone in the silence, the facade crumbled.
He sank back onto the mattress, exhausted. Outside the arrow slit, the marsh was coming alive. Frogs croaked in the reeds, and the wind whispered through the high grass. It was a lonely, desolate sound.
His mind drifted forward.
This was 289 AC. The Greyjoy Rebellion was ending. But Solomon knew what lay ahead.
Ten years.
In ten years, the King would die. The Starks would fall. And the Riverlands... the Riverlands would burn.
This region was the doormat of Westeros. The Lannisters, the Starks, the Tullys—their armies would march back and forth across these fields, burning every village, raping every woman, stealing every crop.
And Mirekeep, sitting here on the Green Fork, would be nothing but kindling.
In a decade, this land will be a graveyard, Solomon thought, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. If I stay as I am, I am dead. My people are dead.
Escape? Impossible. He had no coin for a ship to Essos, and a penniless exile would only end up in a slaver's chains.
Join Daenerys? She was a child on the run, half a world away.
Join the Starks? They were honorable, but honor would not stop the Mountain from cleaving Solomon in two when Tywin Lannister unleashed his dogs.
Join the Lannisters? They would use a minor lord like him as fodder for the vanguard.
He looked out at the darkening sky. The anxiety was a physical weight, pressing on his chest. He was just a man. He couldn't invent gunpowder. He couldn't forge Valyrian steel. He was just a student who knew how the story ended.
"What do I do?" he whispered to the empty room.
The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters.
But as the fear washed over him, something else rose to meet it. He was alive. He had a name. He had a castle, however smelly. And he knew the future.
That had to be enough.
In the gloom of the tower, Solomon's eyes hardened. The confusion of the awakening was gone. In its place burned a desperate, quiet ambition.
He would not just survive. He would endure.