"Look, brothers!"
A wildling warrior with a jagged totem painted on his forehead pointed a gnarled finger at the hill.
The wind carried the scent of weakness from the Lowlanders.
Their eyes fixed on the wooden fort. The palisade of sharpened stakes looked dangerous to a lone man, but to four hundred angry warriors, it was just a collection of sticks.
A good shove, and it would tumble.
The clansmen roared, beating their chests and weapons.
"For the fallen! For the Howler Chief!"
"Kill the Lowlanders! Find the food! Find the water!"
"Blood for blood!"
They had chased for too long. Hunger gnawed at their bellies; thirst burned their throats. Frustration boiled in their veins.
But the fire of vengeance burned hotter, driving away the fatigue.
These Lowlanders had scurried like rats, hunting the Free Folk from the shadows. Now, the rats were trapped.
Especially that shameless sneaker who killed a respected chief with a throwing axe.
"Save that one for me!" the Chief of the Milk Snakes shouted, stepping forward. "I will chop him into pieces!"
"I will turn his skull into a wine cup! He will never know peace!"
"Get wood!" he commanded. "Make ladders! We storm the hill!"
The warriors surged forward like a dark tide, scattering to tear down trees while the main body formed up at the base of the hill.
Inside the Fort.
From the ramparts, Solomon watched the enemy assemble.
They looked like a swarm of angry bears. Their eyes burned with hate and desperation. Solomon's scorched earth tactics had pushed them to the brink—they were fighting for survival now as much as revenge.
Solomon raised his blood-stained sword.
He looked at his soldiers. Their faces were pale, eyes wide with the realization of the odds.
His voice boomed, calm but resonating with terrifying certainty.
"Brothers!"
"We have no retreat!"
"Our homes are far behind us!"
"If we lose—we die!"
"If we win—we are rich!"
"We share the glory! We share the gold!"
The panic in their eyes steadied, replaced by the grim ferocity of trapped animals.
"Kill!" someone screamed.
"Kill! Kill!"
Even the Lord wasn't afraid to die! What excuse did they have?
Bronn watched, shaking his head. This kid is a true operator.
Solomon pointed his sword at the two dead horses lying in the dirt.
"Those two horses are our dinner."
"Eat your fill! Drink!"
"Tonight, the Seven are watching!"
"Tonight—we bathe in blood!"
Solomon walked down from the ramparts. He didn't fear death. He had already died once in another world.
Bronn intercepted him, face stiff.
"What is your plan? Do you really trust your peasant builder?"
Bronn was a survivor. Trusting your life to someone else was a rookie mistake.
Solomon didn't stop walking. He found the question stupid.
What choice do I have? Doubt him now, and I'm dead anyway.
"Who knows?" Solomon replied flatly.
He started down the ladder, then paused.
"I trust him."
He didn't look back.
Lauchlan approached, looking grim. He had checked the weapons.
"Lord Solomon! We are ready!"
Solomon nodded. "Save the arrows and spears. Target the climbers. Target the chiefs if you can spot them."
"Yes, my Lord!"
Solomon turned to Bronn. "Survive, and I'll make you rich."
Bronn grinned, a humorless baring of teeth.
The atmosphere in the camp was electric. Fear, yes. But also a strange, manic energy. The sight of their lord killing his own horse was burned into their minds.
There was no "Lord" and "Peasant" tonight. Just men in a hole.
"Lord Solomon!" a young voice called out.
It was Tommen. The rider who had convinced the others to return.
His eyes were red. "Will... will we hold?"
Solomon smiled. He walked over and put a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"I don't know, Tommen."
"But I promise you this: I will fall right beside you."
Tommen burst into tears.
Solomon patted his shoulder and walked on.
Tommen wasn't crying from fear. He was crying because a noble knew his name.
He had almost deserted. He had almost ridden away to safety. But in that moment of weakness, a surge of hot blood had made him turn back. He had regretted it instantly when he saw the enemy army.
But now? Hearing his name? Knowing his lord stood with him?
The regret vanished.
From the shadows, Bronn watched with glowing, wolf-like eyes.
He was fascinated. He knew the reputation of House Mirekeep—the "Shit Lords," the joke of the Vale. Knights mocked them; peasants laughed at them.
But if cleaning shit could produce a leader like this...
Bronn thought he might be willing to clean all of King's Landing.
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