Rosso Bren pushed aside the tent flap and walked into Solomon's command tent, tired and dusty. The draft he brought made the candles gutter, bending the rivers and mountain ranges on the map into wavering shapes.
He bowed toward Solomon, the confusion on his exhausted face plain to see. "Lord Solomon."
Solomon's gaze lifted from the map and settled on him, his voice giving nothing away. "Any news?"
For the past several days Rosso had been riding back and forth between Deddington Castle and the camp on Solomon's orders, handling supplies and intelligence, but carrying two more important tasks alongside those. The first was spreading a carefully inflated account of the Ironborn numbers to both locations, painting the enemy outside as three thousand strong and terrifyingly fierce. The second was keeping a close watch for any word out of Seagard. Rosso could not quite work out why his lord cared so much about a city a thousand miles away, or what a storm there had to do with them, but he had learned not to ask.
He thought it through and answered honestly. "My lord, nothing particular has come out of Seagard yet."
He paused, then offered what he thought would be welcome news. "But there is good news. Because we've been pinning the Ironborn down, the Riverrun relief force is nearly here. They should reach us within two days."
Solomon did not look pleased. If anything his brow tightened slightly, and for a moment the air in the tent seemed to thicken.
No word from Seagard. How is there still no word. When are the Ironborn actually going to strike at Seagard? An unease he could not quite name stirred in him, the feeling of an invisible hand plucking at strings he thought he understood. Had the timeline shifted again?
He was not sure when it had started, but things seemed to be slipping further from the shape he had expected. He drew a slow breath and pushed the feeling back down. Whatever the case, Riverrun's forces were coming, and that was certain. That gave him a real problem. Seagard had to fall. These Ironborn in front of him could not be neutralized yet, at least not until they had finished their purpose. The fire needed more fuel.
His eyes returned to the map. His finger moved slowly across the ground between Deddington Castle and the Ironborn camp, and a plan took shape in his mind, bold to the point of being cold-blooded. These idiots had been sitting here burning time against him, which almost certainly meant they did not know about the approaching relief force. He would help them find out.
The commanders were summoned within minutes. Every knight and unit leader crowded into the main tent, which quickly filled with the smell of sweat and tension.
Solomon stood before the map and looked around the room. "Gentlemen. I have good news. The Riverrun relief force will reach us within two days at most."
The tent erupted. The pressure that had been building for days broke apart all at once, replaced by barely contained excitement.
"Finally! Once the Tully banners arrive, those Ironborn bastards are finished!"
"We can end this damned standoff!"
"The war ends, we go home!"
"About time! What took them so long!"
At the exact moment when the mood was highest and every guard was down, with relief and the scent of victory soft on every face, Solomon's voice cut through it all like something cold.
"So our waiting is over."
The tone shifted without warning, settling into something decisive and immovable.
"At dawn tomorrow, the entire force attacks. We strike the Ironborn camp."
The cheering stopped dead. The tent went silent and every eye fixed on Solomon with undisguised shock. There was a perfectly good alternative sitting right in front of them. Let someone else take the losses. Preserve your own strength. The relief force was two days away. Why would anyone burn their own resources playing the loyal servant when they did not have to?
A grey-bearded knight was the first to stand. "My lord, why? Why not wait for the relief force? Combined, our odds are far better. And coordinating with Riverrun's army would reduce our own losses."
The tent filled with voices all saying the same thing.
"My lord, we don't even have the numbers to be taking risks."
"Two more days and victory is handed to us. Why spend lives for nothing?"
"Let Riverrun's men fight the Ironborn. We go home."
Solomon let them run out of words. He waited until every voice had gone quiet and every face was turned toward him.
Then he answered with something that cut rather than argued.
"Wait?" His gaze moved across every man in the room like the edge of a blade. "Do you think the Ironborn are fools? They will find out the relief force is coming. What happens when they simply board their ships and sail away down the river?"
"Everything we have held this position for will have counted for nothing."
"Are we going to let them strip our liege's lands bare and then walk away clean?"
"Can your honor live with watching them keep raiding the Riverlands while we stand here doing nothing?"
The words hit like something heavy. Nobody could argue against them, because the scenario was entirely plausible. The Ironborn could very well disappear. And then the mission would be complete, the enemy gone, everyone could collect their reward and go home, which was exactly what they wanted. So why was this young man so determined to spend everyone's blood playing the loyal hero?
Solomon did not leave them time to follow that thought. He turned to the map and began moving his finger across it, laying out the attack.
He pointed to the center position. "My forces will hold the main line in the middle, anchor the formation, draw the Ironborn's main strength, and absorb the contact."
The veterans in the room exchanged a quiet look. That sounded like the most important position. It was also, as any of them could see, the safest one. Forward enough to look decisive, protected enough to wait and see, the last to feel the real weight of an enemy charge.
Then his finger slid to the front and both flanks, and his voice carried no feeling at all. "The forces of the lords present will serve as the advance units and cover both wings, striking the enemy from the front and encircling from the sides. You will be the decisive blow. The honor of this victory and the greatest share of its credit belong to those positions."
The faces of the unit leaders and knights went tight in an instant. Vanguard and flanking positions meant absorbing the hardest Ironborn charge. It meant the worst casualties.
They wanted to object and found that every exit had been quietly sealed.
From the standpoint of duty, Solomon's argument that the Ironborn must not be allowed to simply leave was airtight. It was the language of genuine loyalty to the Seven Kingdoms. Anyone who argued against it was openly admitting they put their own interests ahead of their obligations. No one could say that out loud.
From a tactical standpoint, a flanking encirclement was textbook. There was nothing to argue against on military grounds.
From the standpoint of honor, refusing meant cowardice, and that word would follow them home across the Riverlands and beyond, turning them into a joke from one end of the Seven Kingdoms to the other.
All they could do was curse in silence.
If you want to play the loyal servant so badly, why do you have to drag the rest of us along with you?
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