Guest Chamber, Deepden Castle.
Solomon leaned against the window, tapping the sill.
Every step had been a gamble. He had turned a suicide mission into a power grab.
Lady Roslin sent him here to die. Now, she wouldn't be able to sleep because he was alive—and dangerous.
"Hey! Solomon! Look what I got you!"
Bronn burst in without knocking, digging into his tunic.
He tossed a wooden shield onto the table.
"What is this..." Solomon picked it up, frowning.
It was a coat of arms. On a field of dark, blood red, a pitch-black lion head roared. Its mane was jagged like thorns, and its mouth was impossibly wide, revealing four massive fangs.
It was terrifying.
"Darker than a Lannister, right?" Bronn grinned. "Cost me a fortune. Best materials."
Actually, I just held a knife to the local artisan's throat for half a day, but who's counting?
Solomon held it up. "I didn't ask for this. In my hometown, symbols like this... you need the fate to carry them. Otherwise, they curse you."
It was too aggressive. Too evil. It didn't match his "humble protector" persona.
"Are you joking?" Bronn stared at him. "You just built a mountain of four hundred heads outside the gate! That's way scarier than a painted lion!"
"If you can't carry this symbol, no one can."
"I swear, the Boltons would love you. I should lock you two in a room."
Solomon: "..."
He looked at the blood-mouthed lion. The lion looked back.
Knock. Knock.
Lushen entered, still in his blood-stained armor. He bowed respectfully.
"Lord Solomon. It is done. Four hundred wildling heads have been piled by the road, as you ordered."
Solomon nodded. A warning to the Vale. A warning to everyone.
"Why did you reject the widow?" Bronn leaned in, lowering his voice. "It's a perfect chance. Take her, take the land, take the gold."
Lady Rona—Harold's widow (or perhaps Lord Lover's young second wife, the text implies she's the inheritor). In Westeros, if a house is wiped out, the widow can inherit or carry the claim.
She had begged Solomon to marry her.
"Marry her," Bronn whispered, thumbing his dagger. "Then she has an... accident."
"Falling off a horse. Choking on a bone. Falling out a window."
"Just pay me. I have a menu of deaths."
Solomon didn't look at him. "It's not about that."
He now commanded nearly seven hundred men—his own three hundred, plus the leaderless Deepden garrison and the refugees. That was an army.
If he took Deepden officially, Lady Roslin and House Deddings would see him as a usurper immediately. He needed to be smarter.
"Fine," Bronn shrugged. "If you don't want her... introduce me?"
"I love her! I crave her body! I'll give her lots of babies!"
"Don't worry, once I'm Lord of Deepden, I'll follow you."
Solomon laughed. "You don't crave her body, you scum. You crave her castle. You're despicable."
He turned to Lushen. "Bring Lady Rona. I will see her."
Moments later, a young woman entered.
She was tall, with red rimmed eyes and a simple mourning dress. She was beautiful in a fragile way.
"Sir Solomon." Lady Rona curtsied deeply, her voice trembling.
"Lady Rona, please." Solomon stepped forward to steady her.
She bowed again. "Without you, we would be dead or slaves to the wildlings."
She didn't know the truth—that Solomon had executed her husband and father-in-law. She believed the lie: they died heroes fighting the wildlings.
"I... I beg you, Sir Solomon," she stammered, looking up at him with desperate eyes. "Marry me. I will give you heirs. I will give you my lands."
She was terrified. A woman alone with a castle was meat for wolves. She needed a protector. This young warlord was handsome, powerful, and seemingly honorable.
"I cannot, My Lady," Solomon said gently but firmly.
The light in Rona's eyes died. She covered her face and wept.
She curtsied again, broken, and fled the room.
Bronn watched her go, whistling. "What a waste. A castle and a warm bed, just walking away."
"Solomon," Solomon said, staring at the closed door. "Do something for me, Bronn."
"I want to control her. Completely."
He wasn't going to marry her. That was thinking small. He was going to use her.
If he settled for being a small lord here, he would die obscurely.
He had died once already. In this life, he wouldn't settle for anything less than everything.