Timett son of Timett paced by the fire, agitation radiating off him like heat.
The campfire threw dancing shadows across his scarred face.
Scouts returned one by one from the direction of Deepden, and each report was the same bitter pill.
"Timett son of Timett," a wildling reported cautiously, terrified of the Red Hand's foul mood.
Timett stopped abruptly. "Three hundred. Are there really only three hundred?"
The wildling swallowed. "Yes, Red Hand. Only a few hundred. And… they look tired. Listless."
"They are guarding the loot we left behind," another scout added.
An older chieftain shook his head, stepping closer. "Is this another trick? How could three hundred men hunt us like dogs? We lost half our warriors!"
"Some tribes were wiped out completely," Timett growled, teeth grinding. He stared toward Deepden, eyes burning. "I cannot go back to the mountains like a beaten dog. The clans will laugh. The Burned Men will lose faith."
He clenched his fists.
"That lowlander… Solomon. He destroyed everything. I want his head. I will take his head back to the mountains, along with everything we left at that stone wall!"
"Only then will our shame be washed away."
He looked around at the surviving chiefs and warriors. Most looked broken. But at the mention of revenge—and reclaiming their lost plunder—a spark returned to their eyes.
"Gather every warrior who can still hold a weapon!" Timett commanded. "We go back to Deepden. We take Solomon's head!"
"They will never expect us to return!"
His voice echoed in the cold wind, carrying the desperate madness of a gambler doubling down on his last coin.
Inside the Great Hall of Deepden.
"What?! You want to borrow my soldiers to pursue the wildlings?!"
Lord Lover of Deepden stared, mouth agape, at the young man sitting opposite him. This boy was two years younger than his own son.
"Yes, Lord Lover," Solomon replied, ignoring the shock. "My men have fought seventeen skirmishes since this campaign began. We have won every single one. Morale is high."
"The wildlings will not expect an attack. We can crush them."
Solomon already knew from Bronn's messengers that the wilding force had crumbled to three hundred. If he could get reinforcements, he could end the threat permanently.
This victory would cement his name in the Riverlands. He would go from being a pawn on the chessboard to a piece that moved.
Lord Lover stared at him, trying to find hesitation. He found none. Just a terrifying, quiet confidence.
"I will not send my men," Lord Lover said stiffly. "They need rest. Deepden needs defense."
"Solomon!" Ser Harrold, Lord Lover's son, exploded. "You ask my father for soldiers?!"
"You destroyed our lands! You moved all our peasants to your territory! You burned everything! Flooded everything!"
"And you say nothing of the loot the wildlings took from us! You kept it all!"
The air in the room froze.
It was the elephant in the room. Solomon had saved them, yes. But he had also systematically stripped their lands of people and resources in the process.
Lord Lover stayed silent. He felt it beneath his dignity to haggle with the "Shit Lord," but his son was right. This upstart had looted them under the guise of rescue.
Solomon sat calmly. He frowned slightly at Harrold's rudeness but addressed the father.
"Lord Lover. I burned the villages to starve the enemy. I flooded the valley to save your castle."
"As for the loot… my soldiers won it with their blood. It belongs to them."
"If my soldiers were not here," Solomon's voice dropped an octave, "you would be having this conversation with Timett son of Timett. Perhaps you could explain your property rights to him."
Lord Lover choked on his words. It was true. Without Solomon, they were dead.
But the humiliation of losing his wealth and people to a neighbor was bitter.
"Solomon!" Harrold shouted again, losing control. "That is no excuse for robbery! You must return everything!"
"Your family is nothing but—"
CRASH!
Solomon kicked the table over.
In a blur of motion, he crossed the distance and punched Harrold in the face.
Harrold hit the floor. Before he could scramble up, Solomon grabbed him by the hair and hauled him to his feet.
Deepden's guards moved to intervene, but Solomon's soldiers stepped forward. They didn't draw weapons. They just stared.
The sheer, murderous intent radiating from the veterans of the flood was enough. The house guards backed down, eyes lowered.
Solomon drew his dagger with his free hand.
He pressed the cold steel against Harrold's flushed, terrified cheek. He dragged it slowly toward his mouth.
He pried Harrold's teeth open with the blade and slid it inside.
"What should you call me?" Solomon whispered.
The blade vibrated against Harrold's teeth as the young heir trembled. Cold sweat blinded him.
He wanted to scream insults. He wanted to call him a peasant.
But with steel in his mouth, all he could find was fear.
"Sir... Sir... Sir Solomon..." Harrold sobbed. "I... I am sorry..."
"Please... forgive me."
Solomon didn't withdraw the blade. He looked past Harrold, locking eyes with Lord Lover.
"Say it again."
Harrold wept openly. "Lord... Lord Solomon... I am sorry... please forgive me."
Lord Lover stood up, trembling with rage and shame.
"Sir Solomon!"
"Deepden does not welcome you!"
"Take your men and leave!!!"
Solomon pulled the dagger out.
He stared at Lord Lover for three heartbeats.
He stepped back three paces.
He sheathed his blade.
He turned and walked away.
His soldiers glared at the Deepden men one last time, then followed their lord out into the night.
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