At the Greenfork crossing, thirty or forty banners of all different colors snapped in the wind. These were the relief forces who had answered Lady Roslin's summons. Each banner had only a few dozen men beneath it, like a pack of guard dogs their master had tossed out without a second thought.
Soldiers sat around in clusters of three and five, clothes disheveled, eyes blank and lost. Their spears were barely better than pitchforks. The camp was a chaotic mess. The mingled stench of mud and horse dung hung over everything.
Then, from somewhere in the distance, a low and steady rhythm of footsteps began to carry across the river flats. It grew steadily closer, and everyone in the camp stopped what they were doing to stare toward the sound.
On the horizon, a dark tide was rolling in slowly.
A black lion banner snapped at the column's head.
Beneath it, soldiers marched in clean, orderly ranks, arms and armor proper, steps uniform, moving in silence.
The contrast between this army and the scattered rabble already at the river was almost painful to look at.
The killing chill that nearly a thousand soldiers gave off brought instant silence to the noisy, panicked riverbank.
"That's Solomon's army!" Someone recognized the banner, and his voice shook.
"Gods, how many men did he bring? That has to be close to a thousand!"
"What kind of fool actually does this..."
The few dozen farmers each of them had brought looked like children playing house next to this army. Envy, mockery, awe, and fear tangled together on the faces of the knights and officers watching. Not one of them could understand why anyone would pour out the full strength of their domain for a war that offered no profit in return.
Solomon rode at the front, sweeping the camp with a cold, unhurried gaze. He did not linger on anyone. Every man his eyes touched dropped his head and shrank.
What a sorry lot.
He dismounted, walked straight to an open patch of ground, and his squire riders set up a command tent with brisk efficiency, far larger and cleaner than anything else in the camp. He gave no one time to gossip or speculate about his intentions.
He turned to Rosso Bren and spoke, not loudly, but clearly enough.
"Rosso."
"Go and bring me the commanding officer of every unit in this camp."
Rosso hesitated a moment and lowered his voice.
"Lord Solomon, what if... someone refuses to come?"
Solomon's gaze dropped to the sword at Rosso's hip. He turned and walked away, leaving a single line behind him.
"Is that a wooden stick hanging at your waist?"
Rosso felt a chill run through him, and understood at once what lay behind that word "bring." He bowed and took his leave immediately, then rode hard toward the scattered camps with a dozen fully armed squires at his back.
The meeting had not yet started when a young man came rushing excitedly to the entrance of Solomon's tent. His armor was brand new and gleaming. His face wore an enthusiasm and admiration he made no attempt to hide.
He dropped to one knee.
"Lord Solomon!"
"My name is Patrick Morrison! I am the second son of Lord Yokes Morrison! I have always looked up to you as my model! Just like you, I am a second son of my family! And our fathers are good friends!"
He was the only commander in this whole rabble whose family had genuinely chosen to contribute real strength to their liege lord, having sent over a hundred men.
Solomon looked at the eager young man before him. His expression was still.
He thought of that kind old man outside Willowdale who had meant him no harm, and in the end gave Patrick a brief nod, offering his welcome. He could not be bothered with pleasantries.
Before long, under Rosso's enthusiastic invitation, the representatives of all thirty-odd family banners and landed knights had been gathered inside Solomon's tent. The space was not large. Packed with people, with everyone knowing this young man was not someone to take lightly, the atmosphere sat heavy.
Before Solomon had even opened his mouth, something happened that surprised him.
Over twenty of the landed and unlanded knights who owed loyalty to House Deddington rose to their feet all at once.
Led by an older knight, they gave Solomon a formal salute in unison, voices ringing together inside the tent.
"We are willing to serve under Lord Solomon's command!"
The sudden declaration caught every other representative completely off guard.
The older knight spoke on, his voice loud and steady.
"My lord defeated the wildlings for House Deddington and saved the Riverlands! Then you defeated House Legge, defended Lord Balon's dignity and interests, and wiped away House Deddington's shame!"
A younger knight added at once.
"You won your trial by combat in the Vale! You reclaimed your lands by honorable means! There is no one here more capable than you! There is no one more fitting to command us!"
The other bannermen's representatives looked at one another.
Knight bannermen generally had a stronger bond with their liege than lord bannermen did. Everyone understood what these knights, whose fortunes were tied tightly to House Deddington's, had just chosen.
Solomon understood too.
Their interests were deeply bound to House Deddington's, and right now he was House Deddington's largest and most reliable source of reinforcement. Their choice was natural. From every angle, they really had no one else to back.
Seeing the knights step forward, the remaining representatives of the various noble families began rising to their feet as well, preparing to express their own willingness to follow his command. Solomon's strength and reputation were plain for all to see. He was the only one capable of leading this combined force.
But just as one of them cleared his throat, getting ready to stand up first and offer up a stream of flattery, Solomon raised his hand and stopped him.
His gaze moved slowly around the room, passing over every person present.
That look was not the look of someone examining allies. It was the look of someone examining prisoners.
No one understood. The awkwardness was thick. The temperature inside the tent seemed to drop.
When he finally spoke, his voice was cold enough to cut.
"Before anyone answers whether they will follow my command."
"I want to know."
"Why did your lords send you knights to lead their forces, rather than coming themselves or sending their own family members?"
The question hit the room like a bucket of ice water.
The atmosphere froze.
After a short silence, a knight officer from House Payle steeled himself and stepped forward.
"Lord Solomon, my master is following Lord Balon at Seagard, defending against the Ironborn. His lands are left nearly undefended. Sending me here with troops is already fulfilling his duty as a bannerman. He should not be blamed."
Before his voice had even faded, another representative from a noble house jumped in.
"My lord, our lands border the Greenfork. We face the Ironborn threat at every moment. Sending this many men at all has already stretched us to breaking point."
Seeing that someone had gone first, the rest opened their mouths one by one and began reciting the lines they had clearly been sent to deliver.
"My lord is ill."
"My master is at Seagard. He believes his son is still too young for the battlefield."
The tent became a contest of excuses. A remarkable variety of reasons followed, each one sounding perfectly reasonable, as though every single one of them was the most blameless and dedicated bannerman who had ever served a liege.
Solomon listened in silence.
His face showed nothing.
He was well aware these men were only going through the motions, husbanding their strength. He simply reflected inwardly that these men were fortunate their lord was not him. Because if he were their lord, he would not bother fighting the Ironborn first. He would march straight into their masters' castles and bury their entire families in the foundations.
When every prepared speech had been delivered and the tent went quiet again, the mood was peculiar. By rights this young man had no power to judge any of them. Yet it felt exactly as though they were waiting for his verdict, as though he, not their actual liege, were the one who held authority over them.
Every eye in the tent was fixed on Solomon, tense and waiting.
Rosso stepped forward and presented the tallied strength report.
"Lord Solomon, combined total strength across all units: one thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven men."
Solomon took the parchment, glanced at it once, and dropped it aside.
Of those fourteen hundred-odd men, roughly a third were elderly, young, sick, or obviously there just to make up numbers. The men who could actually fight were probably just over a thousand, and those were his own.
His original plan had been to gather several thousand soldiers and go out to find the Ironborn's main force and destroy it in open battle, making his name ring out across all Seven Kingdoms.
That plan was finished.
Counting on this scheming rabble to fight a hard battle was no different from driving sheep to besiege a hungry wolf. In the end, his own army would do the only real fighting, and he had no intention of wasting the foundation he had spent so much effort building up on this war.
Solomon rose to his feet.
Every person in the tent held their breath. Someone actually flinched.
He did not waste another word.
"Everyone! Break camp immediately!"
The words came down like a blade.
"We march to Deddington Castle first!"
The army began to move.
On the march, Solomon reorganized his forces.
The twenty-odd Deddington knights and the hundred-odd soldiers they had brought were folded into his own army under his direct command.
As for the forces sent by the other lords, he discarded them to the flanks and rear of the column as though disposing of rubbish.
He gave them no orders. He assigned them no tasks. He did not even bother sending a messenger their way.
He simply let them drift along loosely behind him, as though they were not allies but a crowd of hangers-on who could stay or leave as they pleased.
His private intention was simple.
If the Ironborn struck from the flank or the rear, he would abandon those men on the spot.
They would serve perfectly well as fodder to draw the enemy's attention.
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