Chapter 228 - 228: Shifting Tides

Solomon stepped into the great hall of Deddington Castle, the thick atmosphere of collective panic striking him before he even reached the hearth.

Lady Roslin sat stiffly upon the high oak seat, her once brilliant countenance as pale as fresh parchment. Her eyes stared blankly into the empty air of the hall, her spirit seemingly severed from her flesh. Below the dais, old Maester Walde and the remaining household retainers hung their heads, looking like a garden withered by the autumn frost.

Maester Walde looked up at the sound of heavy boots, a flicker of professional alarm crossing his clouded eyes when he recognized Solomon.

With trembling fingers, the maester unrolled a freshly delivered parchment, clearing his throat to read. Every word fell into the dead silence of the hall like a heavy stone dropped into a stagnant pond.

The main strength of the ironborn fleet had breached the bay. Seagard was surrounded, its towers cut off by a wall of iron axes.

Before the last sentence could leave his lips, Lady Roslin let out a short, choked cry. Her body went entirely limp, collapsing from the high seat like a pale flower snapped by a gale.

The frantic shrieks of her handmaidens pierced the heavy quiet, and the great hall instantly degenerated into a sea of shouting men and weeping women.

"My Lady!"

"Bring water!"

"Quickly, revive her!"

Maester Walde abandoned the dispatch entirely, dropping the parchment to the stone floor as he scrambled toward the dais to assist the fallen lady.

Amid the swirling vortex of confusion, Solomon remained perfectly still. He stepped forward with measured pace, bending down to retrieve the abandoned sheepskin scroll from the cold flags.

His dark eyes scanned the ink rapidly, absorbing the jagged, frantic script of the final lines.

Under the gentle care and frantic calling of her servants, Lady Roslin's eyelids fluttered open. Her pale lips parted as her awareness slowly returned, but the raw instinct of fear had already taken a firm grip on her mind.

"Balon... my sweet lord," she murmured, her husband's name slipping from her throat with the weight of a sob.

But the moment her vision cleared, the horrific reality of Seagard's peril rushed back into her thoughts, and her frame shuddered violently, threatening to slip back into unconsciousness.

"Lord Balon is safe, my Lady," a voice said near her ear. It was entirely calm, possessing a steady, unshakeable weight that demanded attention. It was Solomon.

Lady Roslin turned her head sharply, her unfocused gaze locking onto him. A fragile, desperate spark of hope flared deep within her wide eyes.

Solomon knew he had to provide her with a firm anchor before her panic dismantled the court. He stepped up the stone stairs, holding the parchment before her and pointing directly to a specific passage near the center.

"The dispatch notes that before the main fleet even appeared in the bay, the fortress had already detached a force of four thousand lances to hunt the raiders in the interior."

"Lord Balon marches with that host. He is not within the walls."

The light returned to Lady Roslin's face, chasing away the shadow of despair. She lunged forward, snatching the parchment from Solomon's fingers and ignoring her handmaidens entirely as she devoured the ink word by word.

Once her eyes confirmed that her husband was indeed missing from the besieged fortress, her rigid posture dissolved. A long, shuddering breath escaped her lips, and she sank back into the furs of her chair, her voice a repetitive whisper.

"He is not in the castle. Praise the Smiths, he is not in the castle."

The remaining retainers in the hall let out a collective sigh, the initial wave of hysteria receding into a quiet murmur. Solomon watched the relieved lady, his own mind moving with cold, calculated precision.

One immediate disaster had been averted, but a far more dangerous, invisible snare was already taking shape. From everything he knew of Lord Balon Deddington, the man was a traditionalist who valued his oaths and his honor above his own skin.

When his own seat at Deddington was threatened, Balon had refused to abandon his post at Seagard. Now, upon learning that the Mallister stronghold was surrounded, his reaction was entirely predictable. He would immediately pull his personal lances from the four thousand men in the interior and ride directly into the teeth of the ironborn fleet to break the siege.

Where did that leave the forces of Willowdale? As the most loyal vassal in the region, the moment Balon's command arrived, Solomon would be legally required to follow. He would be expected to march north and throw his pristine, highly trained infantry against a swarm of entrenched ironborn veterans.

That was unacceptable. He would not trade the blood of his men for another house's walls. By every right of individual survival, he could simply ignore the call. He had done more than enough for House Deddington. Even if it was a calculated performance, his ledger was clean.

Yet, a blunt refusal would shatter the meticulously crafted reputation of the selfless defender he had built over the past months. In Westeros, a man's reputation was his currency, and a public stain of cowardice would ruin his long-term prospects.

A solution presented itself like a sudden flash of steel. He looked at the shaken Lady Roslin, waiting until her questioning gaze found him before he spoke of Lord Norbert Vance's initiative to press the local forces into the regional defense.

Lady Roslin sat bolt upright in her high seat, the color returning to her cheeks in a sudden flush of noble indignation. "What?!"

"By what right does Atranta command the sword-bound men of my house? They possess no such authority!"

She spoke with the sharp, defensive fury of a lioness protecting her borders.

"Our own lands are still bleeding from the raids! Guards, ride to the Vance camp at once. Inform Lord Norbert that Deddington explicitly refuses this absurd demand."

Solomon allowed a perfectly measured look of hesitation to settle over his features, lowering his head with an expression of profound regret. "The difficulty, my Lady, lies in the name he uses."

"Lord Vance does not command in his own right. He speaks with the voice of Riverrun. I am a minor lord of small standing, and it would go poorly for my house if I were to openly defy the explicit summons of House Tully."

The anger died in Lady Roslin's throat. House Vance alone could be safely ignored, as they had no feudal right to command her bannermen. But Riverrun was another matter entirely. Even if the legality was gray, defying the Lord Paramount during an active invasion was a dangerous game.

She looked at Solomon, her eyes narrowed with a sudden, silent plea. She wanted him to manage the refusal himself, to preserve the pride of House Deddington without involving her name.

Solomon kept his gaze cast down, his silence conveying the quiet helplessness of a low-born vassal who required his liege's shield to avoid a legal trap. Their silence clashed in the empty air of the hall, each trying to pass the burning coal of political defiance to the other.

By the following dawn, the camp of House Vance was a hive of activity. Knights were testing the cinches on their destriers, and the common levies were striking the canvas pavilions, preparing for an immediate march.

Lord Norbert intended to locate the raiders moving through the interior, but he was also waiting for the final word from the master of Willowdale. Through his own observations, he had realized that Solomon's small host was far more formidable than the standard peasant levies. Though Solomon controlled a combined force of nearly a thousand men, his core professional infantry was what mattered, and half of them were elite guards.

Facing a host of twelve hundred ironborn, Norbert had no desire to test his own household lances against the sea-axes without proper shields to take the initial blow. The more bodies he could place between his men and the enemy, the better.

A scout approached the command tent, pointing toward the southern road. "My Lord, the Willowdale rider approaches."

Norbert turned his blind, milky gaze toward the sound of hooves. Solomon rode forward at a slow, deliberate pace, dismounting with the smooth grace of a trained soldier.

He walked directly to the old lord, and beneath the man's heavy scrutiny, he drew his longsword and drove the tip firmly into the turf between them.

"I, Solomon of Willowdale, answer the call of Riverrun," his voice rang out, clear and steady, carrying across the rows of packing soldiers. "I shall lead my spears alongside your lances to hunt these sea-rats from our fields."

"My personal safety and the security of my own borders are nothing compared to the peace of the realm."

"Everything for the Riverlands!"

The statement was loud, respectful, and completely unshakeable, drawing the eyes of every captain within earshot. It was precisely the performance Solomon had intended.

Lord Norbert Vance looked down at the young man who showed such proper deference, a satisfied, thin smile touching his lips. It was exactly what he required.

He stepped forward, using both hands to lift Solomon by the shoulders. "Well said, boy. Riverrun does not forget those who stand when the current turns."

He patted Solomon's arm with artificial warmth, but his tone shifted instantly as he looked toward the northern horizon, his face hardening.

"You know the news from the coast by now, I take it."

"We must find this wandering band of ironborn and crush them before the panic spreads. We cannot allow the squids to dictate the terms of this war."

He turned, gesturing toward the opposite side of the thoroughfare where the banners of House Bracken and House Lychester fluttered against the gray sky.

"Therefore, I have a specific trust to place in your hands."

"I require you to divide our strength. You shall take command of a secondary column, operating in conjunction with the lances of House Bracken and the Lychester levies, to sweep the western valleys while I move down the main fork. What say you?"

In the dark recesses of Norbert's mind, the strategy had little to do with the ironborn. The Brackens and the Blackwoods in his host were already drawing steel over old boundary disputes in the latrine lines, their ancient hatred threatening to break the army apart before they even found the enemy. He needed a valid reason to separate the volatile factions.

He spoke with the grand authority of a commander granting a great honor. "Your charge will be to ensure the keeps of the local lords remain secure. You have the right of defense."

"As for what happens outside the walls... you need not overextend your lances."

A faint, unreadable smile touched the corners of Solomon's mouth. The words were couched as a military order, but in truth, they granted him absolute operational freedom. He had successfully avoided the meat-grinder at Seagard, secured an independent command, and could now watch the realm tear itself apart from a position of perfect safety.

He would wait for the world to change.

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