The River Valley.
The water was bone-chillingly cold.
Even through his roughspun trousers, Lushen felt the icy grip of the river seeping into his marrow.
He gritted his teeth, shivering violently, and drove a sharpened wooden stake into the muddy riverbed.
Around him, two hundred soldiers were doing the same. They stood neck-deep in the freezing current, tied together with ropes anchored to trees on the bank to prevent being swept away.
"Sir! The current is too strong! The stakes won't hold!" a soldier cried out, choking on water.
The stake he had just hammered was ripped away by the torrent. He lunged for it, but the rope jerked him back.
Lushen didn't look back. He grunted, using his shoulder to pin his own stake against the current while his other hand hammered it down.
Thud. Thud.
"Keep going!" his voice rasped, leaving no room for argument.
The soldiers looked at each other. Fatigue and despair were etched on every face. They had been working for a day and a night without rest.
Lushen stopped. The water lapped at his shoulders. He turned slowly, his bloodshot eyes meeting theirs.
He was exhausted too. He wanted to collapse.
His lips moved, but he said nothing. Instead, he waded to the bank, heaved a heavy sack of rocks onto his shoulder, and marched back into the water.
Splash.
He dropped the sack at the base of the dam. Then he went back for another.
Silent. Relentless.
The soldiers watched him. They saw his skin turning white from the cold. They saw a peasant like them carrying the weight of the world.
They stopped complaining. They grit their teeth and went back to work.
The Plains.
"Lord Bronn, where are we going?"
Bronn froze. He turned slowly in his saddle.
The five "Goat Riders"—Solomon's men—were looking at him. They called him "Lord Bronn" now, out of respect for the man who killed a chieftain and lived.
"We have other orders," Bronn lied smoothly.
"We must support Lord Solomon!" one rider said, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
Bronn's face darkened. Idiots.
"Our mission is done! Understand?!" Bronn hissed, leaning in close. "We lured the savages. Now it's Solomon's problem! We are clear!"
"If he wins, we go back. If he dies, we go home. Simple."
The riders fell silent. They knew he was right. They had done their part.
"No!"
Tommen pulled his pony to a halt. His eyes blazed with defiance.
"We cannot leave Lord Solomon!"
Bronn glared at him, hand drifting to his sword. "Don't test me, boy."
"You don't scare me, Lord Bronn!" Tommen shouted.
"You can't leave either! Lord Solomon gave your name and face to the refugees!"
"He told them: If you run, your face goes on every wall in the Seven Kingdoms! A bounty of one thousand silver stags!"
Bronn blinked.
"One... thousand?"
Tommen saw the hesitation and pressed his advantage. It was a bluff—a brilliant lie born of desperation—but Bronn didn't know that.
"And you!" Tommen turned to his comrades. "Can you run? If Lord Solomon dies and Deepden falls, where will you go? You'll be hunted as deserters! Your families will hang!"
The other four riders looked terrified. The threat to their families was the ultimate checkmate.
Bronn took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly.
One thousand stags? Fuck me, am I really worth that much?
"Damn it!" Bronn cursed.
He yanked his reins, turning his pony around.
"Damn you all!"
The Fort.
Solomon stood on the wooden ramparts of his makeshift fort atop the hill.
He could hear them. The war cries of the Mountain Clans, rolling like thunder across the valley.
"Lord Solomon! They're here!" a soldier yelled, running up the slope, panic in his eyes.
They had barely a hundred men left in the fort. The enemy had nearly five hundred.
This wasn't a skirmish. This was an annihilation.
Gold meant nothing now. You can't spend silver when you're dead. The morale in the camp was collapsing.
Solomon drew his Myrish blade. He looked at his men. They were terrified. They expected him—the noble—to abandon them.
He walked over to his white destrier. The horse was trembling from exhaustion.
Solomon stroked its neck gently. It had been a good horse.
The horse nuzzled him.
Solomon grabbed its mane tight. He sighed.
Then, he stepped back, raised his sword, and swung.
Shhhk!
Blood sprayed across Solomon's armor. The white horse collapsed with a mournful cry, dead before it hit the ground.
Solomon stabbed his bloody sword into the earth. He wiped the blood from his face, looking like a demon of war.
"I live or die with you!"
His voice was calm, but it struck the men harder than any speech.
Lauchlan silently drew his sword and walked to his own horse.
The soldiers watched, stunned. Their lord had just destroyed his only means of escape. There was no retreat.
Bronn, riding up the hill just in time to see this, stared with his mouth open.
Madman, Bronn thought. He's a complete bloody madman.
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