The walls of Deddings Town loomed ahead—grey stone rising five meters high, solid and reassuring.
Compared to the sinking mud-pile of Mirekeep, this was civilization.
Finally, a real castle, Solomon thought, eyeing the Deddings banners snapping in the wind. Mirekeep is a glorified shed. Even my dog wouldn't live there if he had a choice.
The town was on high alert. Lord Baron Deddings was away at Seagard fighting the Ironborn, leaving the garrison tense. Armored soldiers patrolled the battlements, their eyes scanning the road for trouble.
"Halt!" A guard shouted from the wall, nocking an arrow. "Identify yourselves!"
Solomon pulled up his white courser. Behind him, Lushen and Lauchlan stiffened, eyeing the archers nervously. One slip of a finger, and they would be porcupines.
Solomon rode forward, producing the signet ring.
"Solomon of House Bligh! Here to pay homage to Lady Roslin!"
The guard captain squinted down. "Bligh? The Dung Knights? I heard they were wiped out. And broke."
He looked at Solomon's fine clothes, the velvet cloak, the Myrish blade. Then he looked at Lushen and Lauchlan, who were sitting straight in their saddles, trying their best to look like hardened veterans instead of farmers in new armor.
"You don't look broke," the captain muttered to his men. "And didn't they say the youngest son got his head cracked open by an Ironborn axe?"
Still, a signet was a signet. A basket was lowered, and Solomon placed his credentials inside. Moments later, the heavy gates groaned open.
A dozen household knights rode out to escort them. They were polite but guarded, surrounding the trio as they rode through the paved streets of Deddings Town.
Lushen and Lauchlan gawked at the stone houses, the clean streets, the bustling market.
"My lord," Lushen whispered, rubbing his sore thigh. "This saddle... it bites. Walking was easier."
"My ass is numb," Lauchlan agreed miserably. "Is this what being a noble feels like?"
"Get used to it," Solomon said, hiding a smile. "There will be plenty more riding where we're going."
They were led to a small waiting room in the keep. It was simple but clean. Solomon sat, closing his eyes to rest, while his guards fidgeted.
Moments later, Lady Roslin Deddings entered.
She was a woman of forty summers, her brown hair streaked with grey. Her face was kind but worn thin by worry. When she walked, she carried the weight of the castle on her shoulders.
Solomon stood immediately.
"My Lady," he said, bowing low.
"Little Solomon," she said softly, her voice raspy with fatigue. "Please, sit. I heard of your return. A miracle from the Seven."
She looked him over, noting the finery but seeing the boy beneath.
"You are here to claim your father's seat?"
Solomon took a deep breath.
Showtime.
He didn't sit. Instead, he threw himself at her feet, dropping to his knees and clutching the hem of her gown like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.
"My Lady!" Solomon wailed, tears springing to his eyes on command. "My Lady, they are gone! Father! Lorent! Beren! All dead!"
"My mother... oh, gods, my mother jumped from the tower! I am alone! I am an orphan in a cold world!"
He buried his face in her skirts, sobbing theatrically.
Lushen and Lauchlan stared at each other in shock.
Is he... is he crying? The man who hamstrung a knight and laughed?
He holds it in so well, Lushen thought, his heart breaking for his lord. He is so strong.
Lady Roslin's expression softened into maternal pity. She reached down, stroking Solomon's hair.
"There, there, child. I know. House Deddings knows your loss. Your father was a loyal servant."
Solomon looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and tragic.
"I spent everything, My Lady! Father took every copper to buy armor for the war! Mirekeep is empty! The rats have packed their bags! We are starving!"
"Please!" he begged, tightening his grip. "For the sake of the blood we shed... help me! Save my people!"
Lady Roslin sighed, a sound of infinite weariness.
"I know of your plight, Solomon," she said gently. "But I also know of your... charity."
Solomon froze.
"I have heard," she continued, eyeing him shrewdly, "that upon your return, you gave what little grain you had to the widows of the fallen. You emptied your own larder to feed your smallfolk."
Damn spies, Solomon thought, panic flaring. She knows I'm an idiot.
He quickly pivoted.
"They died for us, My Lady!" he sobbed louder. "How could I let their children starve? I am foolish, yes! I was not trained for rule! I only followed my heart!"
It was the perfect answer.
Lady Roslin's eyes misted over. She saw a boy, thrust into power too young, making noble mistakes out of kindness.
"You have a good heart, Solomon," she said, pulling him to his feet. "A rare thing in these times. You will make a fine lord."
She turned to her steward. "See that Lord Solomon is given quarters. And prepare a wagon of grain for Mirekeep. We cannot let loyal vassals starve."
Solomon felt a surge of triumph. Hook, line, and sinker.
"Thank you, My Lady! You are a saint!"
Suddenly, the door burst open. A messenger stumbled in, breathless and pale.
"My Lady! Urgent news from the front!"
He handed her a sealed scroll.
Lady Roslin broke the wax. As she read, the color drained from her face. Her hands began to tremble.
She looked up at Solomon, the warmth gone from her eyes, replaced by a frantic, distracted fear.
"Solomon... the grain... I must wait. There has been a development."
She crushed the letter in her hand.
"Wait in your quarters. I will summon you when I can."
With that, she swept out of the room, her knights trailing behind her, leaving Solomon standing in the silence.
So close, he thought, frustration gnawing at him.
He looked at the closed door.
What was in that letter?
Whatever it was, it was bad news. And in the Riverlands, bad news traveled faster than a plague.