Three riders galloped down the Kingsroad, hooves thundering against the packed earth.
Gone were the mules. Gone were the rags.
Solomon rode a white courser, a beast of muscle and spirit. He wore a tunic of black velvet, cut sharp and fitted, with a short cloak that snapped in the wind like a raven's wing.
At his hip hung the Myrish blade, its silver-wire grip glinting in the sun. It was a weapon of lethal grace, a stark contrast to the heavy, blunt iron of the Riverlands.
He looked, for the first time, like a Lord.
His face was still the same—common, rugged, unremarkable—but his posture had changed. He rode with a steel spine, his chin high, radiating a quiet, dangerous confidence.
Flanking him were Lushen and Lauchlan.
They were no longer hunched peasants. They wore boiled leather brigandines stamped with the Golden Hand of Bligh. They carried castle-forged longswords. They rode destriers. They looked like men-at-arms who had seen the elephant and killed it.
Damn, I look good, Solomon thought, catching his reflection in a roadside puddle. Finally. The protagonist era begins.
But the finery came at a price. They were alone.
Three days ago, Solomon had left the Darry host. Not because he wanted to stop leeching their food, but because the air in the camp had turned poisonous.
He remembered the aftermath of the duel.
The clearing had been silent, save for the wet, gurgling screams of the maimed Ser Joseth.
The Septon had stood there, his face purple with apoplexy, shaking like a leaf in a gale. "Sacrilege!" the old man had wheezed. "No mercy! No peace! You are a beast, ser! A beast in human skin!"
The knights of House Darry had glared at Solomon with eyes full of hate. They didn't care about Joseth—everyone knew he was a swine. But they cared about the Code.
In their eyes, a Trial by Combat was supposed to be a noble tragedy. A clean death. A final prayer.
Solomon had turned it into a butcher shop. He had blinded, crippled, and hamstrung a knight, then refused to grant him the mercy of death. He had left him writhing in the mud like a worm.
"Finish him, Solomon!" Ser Ronald had pleaded, his face pale. "In the name of the Seven, show him mercy! This is not how we do things!"
Solomon had wiped his blade, staring Ronald down.
"My father died for the Iron Throne," Solomon had said, his voice cold enough to freeze the blood. "My brothers died for duty. And yet, you mock us. You call us 'Dung Lords.' You spit on our name."
"Where was your mercy then?"
"Where was your 'Code' when Joseth beat my men for sport?"
He had sheathed his sword with a snap.
"His fate is mine to decide. Let him live. Let him crawl. Let him be a warning to every man who thinks House Bligh is a joke."
It was a declaration of war against the status quo.
The camp had turned against him. Soldiers who had once shared their bread now crossed the street to avoid him. Knights spat on the ground when he passed. The Septon had followed him around for two days, screeching scripture about damnation.
Finally, Solomon had gone to Raymun Darry to say goodbye.
He expected to be banished. He expected scorn.
Instead, the young Lord of Darry had looked at him with a strange, sad smile.
"Why apologize?" Raymun had asked, pouring two cups of wine. "You defended your House. You won."
"I broke the rules," Solomon admitted. "I was cruel."
"Cruelty is a tool," Raymun said, looking at the dragon tapestries hidden in the shadows of his tent. "Sometimes, a bad name is a better shield than a castle wall. If they fear you, they won't touch you."
Raymun had stood then, offering his hand.
"If the world ever turns its back on you, Solomon... if you have nowhere to go... Darry will open its gates. You are a wolf, my friend. And wolves should run together."
And then, the gifts. The horses. The armor. The sword.
Solomon touched the pommel of the Myrish blade. He felt a pang of guilt for leaving Raymun to deal with the mess, but he knew he had made the right choice.
Joseth had lived for another hour, begging for death, until Raymun himself had walked into the medical tent and put a sword through the fat knight's eye. A mercy kill.
Solomon looked at the road ahead.
They were nearing Deddings Town. The seat of his liege lord. The place where he would claim his birthright.
He wasn't the beggar boy anymore. He was the Butcher of the Camp. The Mad Lord of Mirekeep.
"Lushen," Solomon called out over the wind. "How do you feel?"
The big guard grinned, patting his new sword. "Like a king, my lord! Like a bloody king!"
Solomon laughed.
"Good. Because where we are going... we're going to need every inch of steel we have."