Chapter 227 - 227: The Lord of My Lord

The relief force from Riverrun had spent nearly a week tracing the winding banks of the river, yet they had failed to find a single trace of the raiders.

Every time the scouts closed in, the ironborn left behind nothing but cold hearths and abandoned camps, a silent mockery of the heavy cavalry's slow pace. Frustrated and low on provisions, the Tully vanguard had been forced to fall back toward Deddington, setting up a massive encampment to watch the critical forks of the Trident.

Solomon stood on the high stone parapet of Deddington Castle, looking down at the sprawl of over four thousand men. Even from this distance, he could feel the invisible weight of the large host, a pressure that had nothing to do with the wind.

The sound of iron boots clinking against stone broke his thoughts. A household knight bearing a personal sigil stepped onto the walkway behind him.

"Lord Solomon," the man said, bowing his head slightly. "Lord Norbert Vance of Atranta has sent me. He requests your presence in his pavilion to discuss the disposition of the forces."

Solomon turned slowly, his dark eyes fixing on the silent knight. For a moment, he simply stared, letting the silence stretch until the knight shifted his weight uneasily, his expression making it clear the invitation was not a request. Solomon nodded once, his face an unreadable mask.

He gathered Ludo, Rosso Bren, and a small vanguard of his own men, mounting his destrier. They thundered out of the castle gates, crossing the narrow wooden bridge over the creek that separated the fortress from the sprawling new city of canvas below.

Above the central pavilions, the banners of House Vance of Atranta—the green dragons on white, quartered with the black towers—snapped in the damp river breeze. The tents were pitched with geometric precision, laid out as if drawn by a master mason's ruler.

Only a fraction of the men wore matching ringmail and carried proper castle-forged spears, moving through the lines with the stiff, humorless discipline of veteran household troops. The rest of the host looked no different from the common dirt farmers Solomon had seen in every other levy, their gambesons stained and their axes rusted.

It was a grand display, a deliberate attempt to project the ancient authority and unshakeable order of the old Riverlands nobility.

As Solomon rode through the thoroughfares, the common levies drifted out of their tents, staring at him with open curiosity. Word had traveled fast. Every man wanted a glimpse of the young second son who had risen from obscurity, the man who had supposedly stood his ground while veteran knights fled. The crowd pressed close until Ludo snarled a curse, his horse pushing through the front ranks to force a path through the sea of wool and boiled leather.

The commander's pavilion was the largest structure in the camp, its heavy canvas flanked by half a dozen knights in polished plate armor. Their breastplates bore the twin towers of the Vances alongside their own personal heraldry.

Solomon announced his name. One of the guards turned, lifting the heavy leather flap of the entrance. "My Lord, Lord Solomon of Willowdale has arrived."

"Send him in," a voice rasped from within, old and brittle but forced to carry the false booming strength of a man who refused to acknowledge his age.

Solomon stepped inside. The pavilion's interior was austere, containing only a simple folding cot, an iron-bound chest, and a heavy oak map table cluttered with pewter cups. An old man stood with his back to the entrance, his gaze locked onto the parchment map of the Riverlands pinned to the canvas wall.

When he turned, Solomon noted his sparse, ash-gray hair and a face carved deep with the lines of winter. Yet, his spine remained straight as a spear. The most striking detail was his eyes, they were gray and milky, the pupils almost entirely lost behind a thick, opaque film.

When the old man looked at him, he tilted his chin slightly to the side, using his ears to track the sound of boots on the turf. Solomon wondered if the man could see more than shapes and shadows.

House Vance of Atranta was a name Solomon knew well from his studies. They were an ancient lineage, possessing lands more vast and lances more numerous than their Tully overlords. They carried the blood of the old River Kings in their veins, and they had never entirely forgotten it.

Lord Norbert spoke, his voice louder than Solomon had anticipated. "So you are the boy from Willowdale?"

"I am, my Lord," Solomon said, offering a precise, measured bow that stopped just short of total submission.

Lord Norbert gestured toward a heavy wooden chair across from the table before lowering himself into his own seat with a faint creak of leather. "Sit."

"I have heard many tales of your doings along the forks."

"They tell me you suffered your first true defeat beneath the walls of this very castle."

"Yet you showed courage and loyalty, young man. Rare virtues in these times."

Solomon pulled out the chair, sitting down with deliberate slowness. "I did only what the law required of a vassal, my Lord."

A faint, sharp spark seemed to pass through Norbert's clouded eyes. "Vassalage?"

"In these dark days, knowing one's place and understanding the boundaries of one's oath is a rare form of wisdom."

"Lady Roslin was fortunate to have you at her back when the ironborn came. Her house owes its survival to that luck."

Solomon remained silent, his hands resting flat on the table. The old man's praise didn't feel like a compliment, it felt like a fisherman testing the weight of a line.

Norbert didn't seem to mind the lack of reply. He poured himself a cup of thick arbor red, then pushed a second, full cup toward Solomon.

The old lord spoke slowly, his blind eyes fixed on the center of the table. "Before I marched from the southern hills, Ser Brynden Tully sent a raven from the western front."

"The Blackfish does not waste ink on praise, least of all for the green boys of the small houses."

"Yet his letter claimed that the Riverlands had found a young man with a mind for logistics. He told me that when I reached Deddington, I would do well to listen to your counsel."

The corners of Norbert's mouth twitched into a dry, bloodless smile. "And now, it seems I have found a use for that counsel."

He lifted his cup but did not drink, his pale stare boring into Solomon's face.

"Tell me, boy. Are there truly three thousand axes under Rodrik Greyjoy's banner?"

The question hung in the quiet of the tent. Solomon could feel the air grow heavy, a familiar tension settling into his shoulders. It was a test, a legal trap wrapped in a simple inquiry.

He let the silence linger for a few heartbeats, selecting his words with the care of a merchant counting gold. "The ironborn host is a mixed thing, my Lord."

"They have swept up hundreds of common thralls, ruined farmers, and starving smallfolk along the banks to swell their ranks. From a distance, they look like a grand army."

"But those who truly hold iron and know how to use it? I would estimate their real strength at no more than twelve hundred."

Solomon deliberately gave a number slightly higher than his true calculation. In his estimation, the actual fighting core of the raiders was closer to seven hundred, but an inflated threat served his purposes better.

Lord Norbert listened without moving a muscle, his weathered face showing no sign of surprise. He nodded once, satisfied with the assessment. "Twelve hundred ironborn. Still enough to turn the entire valley into a graveyard if left unchecked."

The old man finally took a sip of his wine, setting the pewter cup down with a sharp, heavy thud.

"Lord Solomon, you and your spears have proven yourselves. You are true sons of the river."

His tone shifted, dropping the casual familiarity for the cold, ringing authority of a commander.

"Therefore, by the ancient authority of House Tully of Riverrun, I hereby command you and your host to join my vanguard immediately. We shall march before the moon turns to cleanse this filth from our fields."

A dead, heavy silence fell over the pavilion. Solomon's mind remained perfectly clear, the trap revealing itself exactly as he had foreseen. All the grand talk of honor and the Blackfish's letter had been nothing but a prelude to this. The Vances had barely a thousand true fighting men in their lines, the rest were raw fodder. They wanted the disciplined shields of Willowdale to take the brunt of the ironborn axes.

His thoughts raced through the nuances of feudal law. By every right of the realm, he had the legal standing to refuse. The vassal of my vassal is not my vassal. His oath was sworn to House Deddington, not to the Tullys, and certainly not to a secondary commander from Atranta. He owed the old man nothing.

But to refuse openly would be a tactical error.

If he denied the request here, the old man would simply stand up, ride into Deddington Castle, and present the same demand to Lady Roslin. He would use the grand language of the King's peace and the survival of the Riverlands to bend her to his will.

And Lady Roslin, terrified and eager to please her great overlords, would sign the order herself. By then, Solomon would have no room to maneuver. He would be forced onto the board as a common pawn, stripped of his independence.

There was a vast difference between being dragged into a slaughterhouse and walking into the arena on one's own terms.

Norbert did not press for an immediate answer. He merely traced the rim of his pewter cup with a gnarled finger, his pale, blind eyes resting on Solomon's face.

Just as Solomon opened his mouth to offer a calculated, diplomatic delay, the heavy leather curtains of the pavilion were ripped open.

A knight tumbled into the space, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his surcoat bearing the black raven of House Blackwood.

He was covered in gray dust and sweat, his hand clutching a crumpled parchment sealed with red wax. "Lord Norbert!"

The messenger caught sight of Solomon sitting at the table and froze, the remaining words catching in his throat.

Norbert did not even turn his head. He simply extended his gnarled hand, the gesture slow but absolute. The Blackwood knight did not dare hesitate, stepping forward to press the parchment into the old man's palm.

The lord of Atranta unfurled the letter. He read only the first few lines before his entire face hardened into stone. A small muscle in his jaw twitched violently, and the knuckles of his hand turned white against the parchment, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor shaking the paper.

The air in the tent grew cold as winter. Then, as quickly as it had come, the emotion vanished behind the old lord's mask.

He slowly, methodically refolded the letter and laid it flat on the oak table.

When he looked back up, his pale eyes found Solomon once more. "Go back to your keep, boy. Remember that true loyalty is always remembered by the high seats."

"Consider my offer. Give me your answer when the sun rises."

He paused, a long, ragged sigh escaping his lips, carrying the weight of a man who had suddenly grown twenty years older.

"There is little time left. For any of us."

Solomon stood and offered a formal bow, his mind already working through the implications. The seal, the panic, the old man's sudden collapse—it could only be news from the coast. Seagard had been struck. He turned and walked out into the bright afternoon light.

The moment he cleared the outer picket lines of the Vance camp, he spotted a rider bearing the Deddington colors galloping toward him from the castle gates.

The knight caught sight of Solomon's dark cloak and slammed his heels into his mount's flanks, pulling the lathered beast to a hard, sliding halt that sent mud flying.

"Lord Solomon!" the man shouted, his voice high with panic. "Lady Roslin requests your presence in the great hall immediately! A raven has just arrived from the west!"

30+ chapters are available now and daily updates!

@patreon.com/AgentTwilight