Solomon's gaze passed over Ser Curt entirely and settled on the men-at-arms shivering behind him.
"You. Tell me what happened."
That single gesture made every knight and officer in the crowd tense up.
The way Solomon looked at people left no room for argument. It did not feel like he was going to take the graceful way out that had been offered to him.
A few of the men-at-arms summoned their courage. One, slightly older than the rest, began to speak in a stumbling voice.
"It was... it was Ser Curt... he saw the Ironborn charging and turned his horse first and ran... we... we just followed after him..."
The others started shouting at the same time.
"That's right! He ran first!"
"It's true!"
Ser Curt's face drained to white in an instant.
Solomon gave a small nod, as though confirming something trivial.
He looked back at Ser Curt.
"When soldiers flee, it reflects the failure of the officer commanding them. So I will not punish them."
He paused.
His voice dropped cold.
"But you, as their commander, did not stop the flight. You led it. You broke the army's will. So I am going to have you killed."
Wait, killed? Just like that?
Ser Curt completely lost his composure.
He struggled to rise, screaming with far more bluster than conviction.
"No!"
"You have no right to punish me! I am a knight of House Payle! My lord is Lord Mott! Only he can judge me! You cannot kill me! You do not have that authority!"
Solomon ignored the screaming entirely.
He slowly turned his horse and let his gaze sweep across the twenty-odd knights from various houses gathered around him, and the unit leaders from the other dozen-odd families. His eyes moved from face to face like the edge of a cold blade.
Every man those eyes touched felt a chill climb up his spine.
The young man's fearsome reputation was not built on nothing. He had sentenced a man to death at Willowdale's trial by combat without hesitation. Behind him stood a thousand-strong army as silent and immovable as a mountain. And those eyes of his right now left no room for doubt about anything.
Solomon spoke in a tone of almost casual ease.
"Gentlemen."
"On the battlefield, a commander leads his men in flight and breaks the army's will. What offense is that?"
No one dared answer. No one dared meet his eyes. Complete silence.
After a short pause, the young man Patrick Morrison raised his hand first.
His voice carried a hint of excitement.
"Lord Solomon! A knight who flees from battle should be put to death!"
His answer dropped into the silence like a stone into water.
An older knight quickly raised his hand as well. At least afterward he could say the Morrison boy spoke first. Then another knight. Then another. Until in the end every hand was up.
Each of them was thinking the same thing. Thank the gods I didn't run. I came this close.
They began to speak, one after another, all saying the same thing.
"Fleeing from battle is a grave offense."
"Death is the appropriate punishment. Military discipline must be maintained."
"The lord's judgment is entirely just."
Ser Curt stared at these men, who had clearly only not run because they had been too slow, now falling over themselves to condemn him. He broke completely.
"No! You can't do this! You bastards!"
He stopped invoking his noble rank and the house he represented. He screamed openly and wept, begging Solomon for his life, scrambling forward on his knees and trying to kiss his boots.
Everyone expected Solomon to order his head struck off on the spot.
Instead Solomon turned to Brin beside him and gave a strange order.
"Go and find me a wooden crate. Solid enough to hold a man."
The soldiers moved quickly.
A sturdy armor crate was hauled over from one of the supply wagons before long.
While Ser Curt screamed in terror and struggled uselessly, several large soldiers forced him into the crate. It was too narrow. He could only curl inside it in a position of complete humiliation.
There were no air holes.
Heavy iron chains locked the lid shut.
He would start running short of air before long.
Ser Curt's wailing, cursing, and begging seeped out in a muffled drone from inside.
Solomon pointed at the crate as it rocked and juddered.
He addressed the Deddington knights and all the other lords' representatives gathered around him.
"No water. No food."
"This is what it means to betray your liege and run from battle. Put him on the last wagon. Let every one of his fellow soldiers see him and hear him. Let his wailing inspire courage in us all."
The combined force set out again.
All along the column, rising and falling from the wagon at the rear, came the muffled sound of wailing and cursing from inside the crate.
It was a hundred times crueler than simply killing him.
It stripped away the last shred of a nobleman's dignity and turned him into a howling animal on display, a warning on wheels for anyone whose loyalty was in doubt.
That sound worked like a lash across the back of every scheming unit leader in the column.
Everyone went quiet.
The marching formation became tighter than it had ever been.
No one dared whisper to a neighbor.
Men arranged themselves into proper ranks without being told.
As the sound from inside the crate gradually faded and finally went silent, the looks cast at Solomon's back had become something carved deep, a fear that sat in the bone.
In that strange and strangely efficient atmosphere, the Ironborn did not dare to harass them.
Solomon's combined force reached Deddington Castle without incident.
The city gates of Deddington slowly swung open. The heavy chains groaned against the windlass.
Lady Roslin stood behind the gate in a dark long dress. Her face was drawn with exhaustion, but her bearing remained composed. Behind her stood the few knights and attendants who had stayed to hold the city, and an overjoyed Ludo.
When Solomon's figure came into view, Lady Roslin's eyes went wet at once.
She lifted her skirts and came forward quickly, heedless of everyone watching, and pulled him into a firm embrace.
Her voice was thick with feeling. She took his arm and drew him through the gate.
This young man had given everything his domain had.
"Thank you, little Solomon."
"Deddington will never forget your loyalty."
"I will tell my husband personally to give you the reward you deserve."
Solomon let her pull him for a moment, then gently steadied her.
His voice was calm and polite, as though he had done nothing more than complete a routine obligation.
"This was my duty, my lady. Only what I was meant to do."
Lady Roslin wiped her eyes and spoke quickly.
"The weapons and provisions I promised you are all prepared. Ready for handover at any time."
She turned then to Patrick Morrison at Solomon's side and walked toward him, managing a warm and genuine smile.
"Young Morrison. Please pass my thanks to your father for standing with us in our hour of need."
For the representatives of the other lords trailing at the back of the column, she allowed herself only a brief and cool glance. She had opinions, but this was not the moment to voice them. A small nod. The contrast with the warmth she had shown the others could not have been sharper.
Solomon did not miss the detail.
A fool would let this moment go without making the most of it.
The greater the contrast, the more sharply it would stay in people's memories.
He turned to the lady and gave his report, voice measured but clear enough that everyone nearby could hear.
"My lady, please be at ease. I have brought five hundred elite soldiers this time, the full strength of my domain."
He paused and let his gaze pass over the lords' representatives, who were standing in varying degrees of discomfort.
"Combined with the four hundred men Ludo has been holding inside the city on my behalf, and the four hundred sent by Lady Rona as reinforcement, we have more than enough strength to defend Lord Balon's castle."
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