Solomon watched from the tower window until Harke's widow disappeared into the hovels, flanked by his two guards. He had given them strict orders: Let the village know the new law. House Bligh protects its own.
He felt a strange clarity. The fever of his awakening had broken, replaced by a cold, sharp purpose.
He could not rot in this bed. In Westeros, a lord who could not hold a sword was meat for the dogs. And the world outside was full of hungry dogs.
He went down to the armory—a generous name for a damp closet where Old Nikken was counting spearheads. Solomon selected a longsword. It was a pitted, ugly thing, the leather grip rotting away, the crossguard loose.
A sword for a scavenger lord, he thought grimly. Probably belonged to the first Bligh who wiped a Deddings' backside.
He stepped out into the courtyard.
It was a pathetic training ground. No sand, no straw dummies, no walls. Just mud, weeds, and the grey sky.
First things first, Solomon thought, eyeing the open perimeter. I need a wall. A wooden palisade, at least. A stark naked keep is an invitation to every bandit in the Riverlands.
He gave the sword a few test swings. It was heavy, a bar of dead iron, but it moved through the air with surprising ease.
He closed his eyes and inhaled the swamp air. He remembered the old Solomon's memories. His father, Ser Bligh, had been a brute of a teacher.
"Hit it! Harder! Use your back, boy! Are you my son or a washerwoman? Hack at it!"
In his memory, he saw his brothers swinging like lumberjacks, grunting with exertion. He saw his mother watching from the window, a rare, fragile smile on her face.
Pain lanced through his chest. They are gone, he reminded himself. All of them.
He pushed the grief down and began to move.
He knew no forms. He knew no stances. He simply let his body dictate the rhythm. He slashed, thrust, and parried invisible foes.
But something was wrong. Or rather... something was right.
The heaviness of the blade vanished. His limbs felt light, unburdened by gravity. He spun, and the world seemed to slow down. He could hear the individual beat of a heron's wings in the marsh. He could smell the ozone of a coming storm mixed with the rot of the earth.
He stopped, staring at his hands.
What is this?
It felt like... integration. As if the two souls—the modern man and the medieval boy—had fused, and the friction between them sparked a supernatural current through his nervous system. His perception was dialed up; his reflexes were wire-tight.
He wasn't just swinging a sword. He was feeling the air part around it.
"My lord?"
Solomon spun around. Lushen and Lauchlan had returned. They stood at the edge of the mud, watching him with mouths slightly agape.
"You saw me," Solomon said. It wasn't a question.
The guards exchanged nervous glances. They looked like boys caught stealing apples.
"Tell me," Solomon commanded, resting the tip of the blade in the mud. "What did it look like?"
"M-my lord?" Lauchlan stammered. "We... we are dirt-diggers. We know nothing of swordplay."
"Speak the truth," Solomon said, his voice hard. "If you lie to flatter me, I will know."
Lushen swallowed audibly. He stepped forward, wringing his thick hands. "It was... queer, my lord."
"Queer?"
"Aye," Lushen struggled with the words. "It was... pretty. Like... like a dance."
Lauchlan nodded vigorously. "Aye! Like a mummer's dance at a fair! Or a maid spinning in a circle!"
Solomon raised an eyebrow. "A maid?"
"No offense meant!" Lushen cried, looking terrified. "It's just... there was no... thump to it. No anger. When your father fought, the ground shook. When you moved... it was like smoke. No power. Just... floating."
"It didn't look like it would hurt anyone," Lauchlan whispered. "Just... elegant."
Solomon hummed. Elegant. No power.
To a Westerosi peasant, strength was everything. A knight was a hammer. If you weren't smashing armor, you weren't fighting. But Solomon knew what he felt. He felt fast. Impossibly fast.
"Lushen," Solomon said. "Pick up that sword." He pointed to a rusted blade leaning against the wall.
"My lord?" Lushen paled. "I cannot raise steel against you! It is treason!"
"It is an order," Solomon snapped. "Come at me. Now."
Lushen looked at Lauchlan, then at the sword. With a trembling hand, he picked it up. He held it like a hoe, knuckles white.
"I... I will come, my lord! Forgive me!"
"Less talking, more killing!" Solomon shouted.
Lushen roared—a sound of pure panic—and charged. He swung the sword in a clumsy, haymaker arc that would have cleaved a man in two if it connected.
To Solomon, it looked like the man was moving through molasses.
He didn't think. He didn't plan. He simply... stepped.
He slid inside Lushen's guard, the rust-red blade passing inches from his nose. He spun, a fluid pivot on his heel, and found himself behind the big peasant.
With a flick of his wrist, Solomon tapped Lushen between the shoulder blades with his pommel.
It was a gentle touch, but Lushen was overcommitted. His momentum carried him forward, and the tap disrupted his balance completely. He went down face-first into the mud with a wet splat.
Lushen groaned, rolling over, his face a mask of brown filth and shock. "Seven Hells..."
Solomon stared at his own hand. I barely touched him.
"Get up," Solomon said. He pointed the sword at Lauchlan. "You too. Both of you. Come at me."
"My lord, no!" Lauchlan squeaked. "You are a demon!"
"I said come!"
Terrified, the two men scrambled into a formation that was more 'barroom brawl' than 'military shield wall' and rushed him.
Solomon began to laugh.
He danced. That was the only word for it. He weaved between their clumsy strikes like a needle through cloth. He ducked under a wild swing from Lauchlan, side-stepped a bull-rush from Lushen, and tapped them—shoulders, knees, ribs—with the flat of his blade.
Left. Right. Pivot. Duck.
It was intoxicating. It was effortless.
In thirty seconds, both guards were on the ground, gasping for air, their swords lost in the muck. Solomon stood above them, barely winded, his pulse a steady rhythm.
Lushen looked up at him with eyes wide as saucers. "By the Warrior... you are the Stranger come to walk among us."
"I have never seen such a thing," Lauchlan wheezed. "Not even the singers tell of such speed. You are the Sword of the Morning reborn!"
Solomon lowered his sword. He knew it was peasant hyperbole—they had likely never seen a true knight fight, let alone a master like Arthur Dayne. But they weren't entirely wrong.
He clenched his fist, feeling the power humming in his veins.
This wasn't just adrenaline. This was a gift. A cheat code in a world of steel.
Speed, Solomon thought, a grin spreading across his face. They have armor. They have castles. I have time.
"Get up," he told them, offering a hand to pull Lushen from the mire. "We have work to do. And if you swing like that when the Ironborn come, you'll be dead before you draw your steel. From tomorrow, I teach you how to dance."