Roger Lege stood before his assembled court, announcing a self-evident truth with a booming voice.
"Did you hear that! There is your answer!"
He swept his gaze across the room, catching the looks of awe and obsequiousness on the faces of his retainers.
"Why hasn't he mobilized? Because he doesn't dare! He simply doesn't have the stomach for it!"
"He is trying to use the gossip of the nobility to pressure me into returning the land."
Roger extended a fleshy finger, as if counting invisible enemies in the air.
"Those few smallfolk of his! Plus the bandits he recruited later! The total number of men under his command who can actually hold a weapon? It doesn't exceed six hundred!"
He extended a second finger.
"And what kind of men are they? A rabble that has never seen a real battle! Scum who can't even hold a straight line!"
"Even House Deddings! If you don't count the soldiers on the front lines, the men they can mobilize right now wouldn't exceed a thousand!"
Roger stood up abruptly, throwing his arms wide as if to embrace the entire hall.
"And what of me? With a single command, Willowbrook and my lands—along with my vassals—can mobilize two thousand soldiers instantly! Two thousand farmers who are accustomed to following orders!"
He brought his palms together with a heavy smack.
"Six hundred against two thousand! Where does he find the courage to even touch his sword hilt?!"
The conclusion struck like a thunderclap. The courtiers instantly erupted into a mountain of echoing agreement.
"Hahahaha!"
"The boy is nothing but a bag of wind!"
"He must be shivering in his cave right now, terrified of your lordship's lightning retribution!"
His son, Jero Lege—a brown-haired, dark-eyed youth hungry for glory—could no longer contain himself. He stepped forward.
"Father! We should strike now! Before the enemy can even begin to gather! Let us crush them and show everyone the fate of those who challenge House Lege!"
Roger waved a hand, signaling his son to step back. He had intended to refuse, as the enemy had not yet struck, but after a moment of calculation, he spoke. "Of course, my son. I will give you fifty men to go and occupy that idiot's home fortress."
"What was it called? The Reekfort? Hahahaha!"
Jero was overjoyed. He stood tall, his excited gaze sweeping over the court as if his achievements were already secured.
Roger settled back into his lord's seat, a predatory, cat-and-mouse smile spreading across his face. He chuckled to himself.
He intended to display "mercy" and "composure" throughout this process. To him, showing such restraint would elevate his prestige far more than simple slaughter.
Roger turned toward the man standing to his side, a Maister much older than himself. The man wore grey robes, with several links of various metals hanging from his neck. "Maister Tyrell."
"My lord," the Maister said with a bow.
"Draft a reply for me," Roger said, his tone dripping with condescension. "Tell this mountain-dwelling Solomon that I have received his 'proclamation'."
He emphasized the word proclamation with a sneer, drawing a round of low laughter from the hall.
"As a reward for such bravery, I, Roger Lege, Lord of Willowbrook, mercifully grant him five days."
"Within those five days," his voice turned cold, "if he comes to Willowbrook in person, surrenders his sword, and kneels before me to beg for forgiveness... I might consider sparing his life."
The humiliating command brought the atmosphere in the hall to its peak.
Only his brother, Ser Gyles, watched with a face that grew increasingly troubled.
"Brother, perhaps we should not underestimate him so. What the scouts see might not be the whole truth. We should at least begin the mobilization of our smallfolk, just in case."
"Enough, Gyles." Roger's patience snapped.
He stared at his brother, his eyes full of disappointment.
"Gyles, your courage grows smaller by the year."
He turned away, refusing to look at him, though his tone softened slightly, as if he were tutoring a slow-witted child.
"Have you considered the waste of a mobilization? The Golden Dragons in the treasury, the grain in the silos... they are not meant to feed a mob of idle farmers."
"We only need to keep an eye on him and House Deddings. If they begin to mobilize, we will follow suit. There is time enough. It takes a week to gather six hundred men, and another week to organize them so they don't desert on the march. While we need a month for a full mobilization, we can gather six hundred from the nearby villages in a single week."
"Gold must be spent on the edge of the blade. Since the enemy doesn't even have the courage to gather his men, why should I waste my grain and gold? Why should I pull my farmers from the soil and ruin this year's harvest, just to play a part in a drama he's too afraid to start?"
The courtiers began a scattered, confident discussion. So long as House Deddings did not interfere directly, there was no possibility of an upset.
Roger waved his hand, dismissing the court.
The retainers bowed and retreated. The hall quickly returned to a vast, hollow silence, leaving Roger Lege alone on his high seat.
He picked up a goblet of wine from the table, gently swirling the deep red liquid.
Five days.
He would let that arrogant young man simmer in terror and despair for five whole days. He could already imagine the look on the boy's face when the reply reached his cave.
Then, the boy would crawl to Willowbrook like a dog with a broken back, begging for mercy.
That was true victory. A victory won without a drop of blood, yet one that would establish his absolute authority.
Outside the window, the howling wind seemed to grow quiet and obedient.
In the lord's hall of Deding Castle.
Lady Rosalyn was arguing with her steward over moldy wheat in the granaries, her voice betraying a weariness she could not hide.
The heavy sound of a guard opening the doors interrupted her. The man's armor made a dull, clanking sound with every stride.
Rosalyn frowned, cutting off her lecture to the steward.
She dismissed the man with a wave and fixed her eyes on the messenger entering the hall.
The man was covered in the dust of the road. Upon reaching her, he dropped to one knee and held up a roll of parchment tied with a black silk ribbon.
Lady Rosalyn didn't speak. She simply signaled for her handmaid to take the document.
She untied the ribbon and unfurled the sheet.
Her eyes scanned the opening pleasantries with a touch of lingering, distracted boredom.
But as her gaze moved downward, taking in the sharp, severe phrasing of the later paragraphs, her breath hitched.
...House Lege has committed treachery, seized my lands, and slaughtered my people...
Her fingers tightened instinctively, the edges of the parchment crumpling under her grip.
...Solomon, Lord of the Weeping Gorge and Vassal to House Deddings, shall have no choice but to take up arms...
The hall fell into a terrifying silence, broken only by the whistle of the wind against the windowpanes.
The color drained from Lady Rosalyn's face. She held the proclamation with hands that wouldn't stop trembling, as if the light parchment had turned into a branding iron.
She had never expected Solomon to actually do it. She certainly hadn't expected him to broadcast the matter to the entire Riverlands.
Rosalyn looked at the guard, her voice dry and shaking. "Fetch Maister Walder to the council room. Immediately."
Inside the council room of Deding Castle, the air was as heavy as the frozen tundra of the North. On the massive oak table lay only that single proclamation from the Lion's Den.
Lady Rosalyn paced the room with her hands behind her back, her skirts rustling against the rough stone floor with a frantic, dry sound.
Maister Walder sat at the table, his white hair combed with meticulous precision.
He had finished reading the document. Now, he sat with his eyes closed, fingers tapping a light rhythm against the tabletop, lost in thought.
Rosalyn finally stopped, her palm striking the table with a force that made the parchment jump. "Seven Gods above!!!"
"What kind of man have I helped?!"