"You finally told the truth, Bronn."
"Now we can talk."
Solomon's voice had a playful edge, but to Bronn, it sounded terrifyingly omniscient.
Bronn's mind was racing. This kid knows me. But how? I'm nobody.
"You killed a man when you were twelve," Solomon said casually.
Bronn froze. His brain short-circuited.
That was a secret. A deep, dark part of his history he never told anyone. He was just an anonymous sellsword drifting through the Riverlands and the Vale. How could a lord from Mirekeep know about a murder he committed as a child years ago?
"How... how do you know that?" Bronn rasped, his voice trembling.
His eyes were wide with genuine fear. Was this boy a warlock? A greenseer?
"I know everything about you," Solomon said, not elaborating. "So let's cut the crap."
Solomon smiled. He didn't need to dig deeper. That one fact—a detail Bronn would only tell Tyrion Lannister years in the future—was enough to shatter the sellsword's defenses.
Solomon sat down and leaned back.
"You are a talent, Bronn."
He gestured to the empty chair.
"I have a plan. A plan to make you rich. Truly rich."
"Are you interested?"
Truthfully, Solomon didn't like Bronn. The man had zero loyalty. He would sell his own mother for a castle. But right now, Solomon needed a scalpel, and Bronn was the sharpest blade available.
And for an unknown sellsword, no one could outbid Solomon's offer of opportunity.
"Lord Solomon? What do you mean?" Bronn licked his dry lips.
"I mean simple math," Solomon said, pointing at him. "I need men. Specifically, skilled killers like you."
He didn't hide his intent.
Bronn stared at him, calculating.
"What can you give me?" Bronn asked, his voice returning to its cynical baseline.
That was the only question that mattered. Honor, duty—bullshit. Show me the coin.
Solomon laughed. He found Bronn's attempt to haggle almost cute.
"You don't have a choice, Bronn."
"Option A: You accept."
"Option B: You take the Black and freeze your balls off at the Wall."
"Option C: I hang you for desertion right now."
Bronn went silent. The boy held all the cards.
"But," Solomon said, shifting tone. "I'm not unreasonable."
"You saw my soldiers outside, didn't you?"
"Did you notice? They are loaded."
Bronn looked up. He had noticed. Those peasants were carrying more silver than most knights.
"I have a deal with my men," Solomon explained. "Half the loot goes to me. Half goes to them. Divided by merit."
Solomon motioned for Bronn to stand.
"I am not hiring you for a wage."
"But with your skills... in my army... you will earn a lot. A lot."
He paused for effect.
"When the war is over, you walk away with your blood money. No strings."
"Most importantly," Solomon leaned in, "I am giving you a chance to make a name for yourself."
"Chaos is a ladder, Bronn. And I'm offering you a leg up."
Bronn felt a shiver. This lord knew what he wanted. He knew the hunger for status that gnawed at every sellsword's gut.
"Sounds tempting," Bronn grinned, his roguish charm returning. "But high risk, no?"
"War is risk," Solomon shrugged. "And again... you have no choice."
"Take your time to think. But my patience is short. When it runs out, you get the rope."
Bronn's smile froze.
He took a deep breath. "Ser Solomon of Mirekeep... I accept."
In truth, the profit-sharing deal was a mercenary's wet dream. A flat wage was safe, but a cut of the loot? For a man who could kill five soldiers in a minute? That was a path to fortune.
"Good choice," Solomon said lightly, as if he hadn't just threatened to hang him.
"You're a smart man, Bronn. I like smart men."
Solomon pulled the dinner knife out of the table.
"One question, my Lord," Bronn asked, feeling the tension ease. "Do you know me?"
"I know you," Solomon said blankly. "But I don't know you. We just met."
Bronn looked confused, but he knew better than to push it.
"You can go," Solomon gestured to the exit.
"Oh, and one more thing."
Bronn stopped at the flap.
"Apologize to my soldiers. The ones you beat up."
Bronn sighed. "I will, my Lord."
He slipped out into the night.
Solomon watched him go, then signaled Lushen and Lauchlan closer.
"Watch him," Solomon ordered quietly. "But learn from him. He is a master swordsman. Your technique is sloppy; you fight like farmers. Use this time to learn how to kill properly."
Lushen and Lauchlan nodded, though they looked confused.
"My Lord," Lushen asked. "Is he really a deserter?"
Solomon picked up the parchment from the table and waved it.
"This paper is blank."
Lauchlan's jaw dropped.
"My Lord... you... you knew?"
"He is a good sword, but not a good man," Solomon said, staring at the empty page. "Use the sword. Watch the man."