For three days, Lushen and Lauchlan sat by the campfires, minor celebrities.
They told the Darry soldiers of the Ironborn—the screaming, the biting, the drowning. The Darry men, who had dreamed of glory, listened in horrified silence. The romance of war was stripped away, replaced by the image of a reaver gnawing on a severed throat.
Then, the shadow fell.
"You speak of war, filth?"
The soldiers scrambled to their feet as Ser Joseth, the White Pig, waddled into the firelight. His face was flushed with wine and malice. He hated that the "Dung Lord" was advising Lord Raymun. He hated that these peasants were being treated like veterans.
"I hear your master claims we cannot beat pirates," Joseth sneered, spitting into the fire. "He says my sword arm is weak compared to a savage."
Lushen and Lauchlan shrank back. They were peasants; fear of knights was bred into their bones.
"A boy of sixteen," Joseth laughed, his chins wobbling. "A boy who inherited a castle built on shit. What does he know of honor? What does he know of steel?"
He turned to the crowd, his voice booming. "The Blighs are not knights. They are latrine cleaners who got lucky. Dogs, imitating men."
Lushen's face went white. He could take a beating. He could take hunger. But insults to the man who saved his family?
"Watch your tongue!" Lushen roared, surprising even himself. "Lord Solomon is worth ten of you!"
The camp went silent. A peasant had just yelled at a knight.
Joseth's face turned a dangerous shade of purple. "You dare? You mud-born rat, you dare bark at me?"
He snapped his fingers. "Marwyn. Toby. Teach these dogs their place."
Two armored squires stepped forward, grinning beneath their visors. They were clad in mail and plate, carrying heavy gauntlets.
"No!" Lauchlan cried, raising his hands.
But the squires advanced.
It wasn't a fight. It was an execution.
Lushen threw a punch, his fist connecting with a steel breastplate. Crack. His knuckles shattered. The squire didn't even flinch.
Then the beating began.
Gauntleted fists rained down like hammers. Lushen and Lauchlan were knocked into the dirt, curled into balls, trying to protect their heads. The squires kicked them with steel-toed sabatons—ribs cracked, noses broke, blood sprayed into the dust.
The Darry soldiers watched in horror, but none dared intervene. To strike a knight's squire was mutiny.
"That's enough!"
The voice cut through the violence like a whip crack.
Solomon sprinted into the circle. His face was a mask of cold fury. He saw his men—his loyal, stupid, brave men—bleeding in the dirt.
The squires stepped back, sneering, wiping blood from their gauntlets.
"Stop this!" Ser Ronald arrived moments later, pushing through the crowd, looking appalled. "Joseth, are you mad? This is a friendly camp!"
"They insulted me," Joseth shrugged, picking his teeth. "I taught them manners."
Solomon ignored them. He knelt by Lushen. The big peasant's face was a ruin, one eye swollen shut.
"My lord..." Lushen wheezed, spitting a tooth. "We... we didn't shame you..."
Solomon felt a cold fire ignite in his chest. It burned away the fear. It burned away the caution.
He stood up.
He walked past Ser Ronald. He walked up to Ser Joseth, staring up into the fat knight's piggish eyes.
"I am Solomon of House Bligh," he said, his voice quiet but carrying to every ear in the camp. "A hereditary knight of the Seven Kingdoms. And you... you are a landed knight without a castle. A bully in plate."
"You assaulted my sworn swords. You insulted my House."
Solomon pointed a finger at Joseth's chest.
"This is not a brawl. This is a dispute of honor."
"I demand Trial by Combat."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Ser Ronald's jaw dropped. "Solomon, no! You cannot—"
"I invoke the law!" Solomon shouted, drowning him out. "Three against three. Tomorrow. Here."
He pointed at the armored squires. "But we do this fairly. My men have no armor. So you will strip off your shells. You want to prove you are better? Prove it with skin and steel. No plate. No mail."
He looked at Joseth with dead eyes.
"I, Solomon Bligh, accuse you of cowardice. And tomorrow, I sentence you to death."
Ser Ronald looked at the boy. It was suicide. Joseth was a brute, yes, but he was a killer. He was one of the best swords in the host. Solomon was sixteen. His "champions" were broken peasants.
Joseth threw back his head and laughed.
"You want to die, boy? Fine! I accept! No armor! Just blades!"
He grinned, a predator looking at a rabbit.
"Tomorrow at noon, I will gut you like a fish, Lord of Reekfort. And then I will piss on your corpse."