Inside the shadowed tunnel of the gatehouse, the defending guards thrust their spears rcilessly, driving back the panicked commoners to create space for the heavy iron portcullis to drop.
They showed no hesitation, hacking and stabbing at the terrified flock of their own people. They knew with absolute certainty that if the gate did not close, they were all dead n.
The harsh, grinding screech of the windlass gears turning echoed above the screams.
The battle on the shore had devolved into a bloody stalemate.
Standing atop the command raft, Solomon saw the movent within the gatehouse. For the first ti since the assault began, his iron expression cracked.
He knew that victory or total defeat hung on the next few seconds. He also knew that unimaginable rewards breed unimaginable courage.
He drew a massive breath, pulling the freezing river air deep into his lungs, and unleashed a roar that thundered across the blood-soaked shallows.
"WHOEVER TAKES THE GATE!!!! A BOUNTY OF FIFTY ACRES OF SOLOMON FIELD!!!"
"WHOEVER TAKES THE GATE!!!! A BOUNTY OF FIFTY ACRES OF SOLOMON FIELD!!!"
"WHOEVER TAKES THE GATE!!!! A BOUNTY OF FIFTY ACRES OF SOLOMON FIELD!!!"
Fifty acres!
The number struck every man on the battlefield like a bolt of lightning.
The charging farrs stumbled, halting in the surf. They looked back toward Solomon, their eyes wide with a manic, disbelief-fueled shock.
Is it true?! Fifty acres of private land!
The soldiers knew the asure of Lord Solomon's land. A single acre was vast. Fifty acres ant an estate of fifty thousand square yards!
In Westeros, a common farr who worked five acres could feed a family of three and survive the winter.
Fifty acres was the equivalent of an entire holding belonging to a landed knight.
To possess fifty acres of Solomon Field—even if it could not be sold and ca with no bound serfs—ant it could be rented out to tenant farrs. The yearly rent alone would allow a man and his descendants to live the opulent life of the nobility.
In a fraction of a second, the breathing of every soldier in the river grew ragged and heavy.
The fear of death was scoured from their eyes. Only a primal, rabid lust for land remained.
Lushen was the first to react. He heard the urgent edge in Lord Solomon's roar. He knew his master was anxious.
If not now, when do I prove my worth?!
His bloodshot eyes locked onto the heavy iron grate slowly descending in the gatehouse. He let out a feral, inhuman howl.
He ignored the Willowbrook guards swinging swords on the shore ahead. Instead, he spun around and stomped heavily on the edge of the timber raft.
The massive logs dipped half a foot into the water under his weight.
Using the sudden upward surge of buoyancy, Lushen launched himself forward like a predatory cat. He sailed over several yards of open water, crashing heavily onto a raft closer to the bank.
The timber pitched violently, nearly throwing the soldiers on it into the rushing river.
Lushen didn't pause for breath. He coiled his legs and fired himself forward again, clearing the final stretch of bloody shallows and hitting the shore in a dead sprint!
"COVER LUSHEN!!!"
On the rear rafts, Bolin had been calmly observing the chaotic battlefield. He issued the order with cold, rapid precision.
He and the ten veteran brothers from his village raised their heavy longbows in terrifying unison.
The bowstrings snapped.
A dozen black-fletched arrows tore through the air with a high-pitched shriek, flying with lethal accuracy toward the guards rushing to intercept Lushen.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The sickening sound of iron piercing at rang out.
A guard raised his sword to hack at Lushen's exposed back, only for a heavy bodkin arrow to punch through his eye socket and exit the back of his skull. The twisted snarl on his face froze as his body tipped backward like a felled tree.
The path before Lushen was instantly cleared.
"FOR FIFTY ACRES!!!!" an unknown soldier scread from the water.
"KILL!!!!!"
Driven to absolute madness by the bounty, the peasant soldiers surged forward like a collapsed dam. They bypassed Ser Gyles's thin, professional line, throwing themselves heedlessly toward the gate.
Lushen led the charge. He wasn't the largest man, but he moved with the unstoppable montum of a wild boar, physically ramming and hacking his way through the jamd, shrieking crowd of civilians. He was the first to breach the darkness of the gatehouse.
"FASTER!!! DROP THE GRATE!!!" the guard captain inside scread, his voice cracking with terror.
Lushen bared his teeth in a savage, bloody grin.
He spotted the thick, coiled hemp rope suspending the massive iron portcullis. Gripping his sword with both hands, he channeled every ounce of strength in his body and vaulted into the air.
The steel blade flashed in the dim light of the tunnel, biting brutally into the taut rope.
SNAP!
The thick hemp severed with a sound like a cracking whip.
The colossal iron portcullis unleashed a deafening, tallic roar as it plumted from the ceiling.
CRASH!!!
The impact made the earth shudder.
But the grate did not close. It slamd down onto a pile of corpses that hadn't been cleared and the reinforced axle of a shattered rchant's cart. The massive iron teeth bit deep into wood and bone, wedging the portcullis violently in place, a few feet off the ground.
It could no longer be raised. And it could never fully close.
It was enough.
Lushen and the two dozen soldiers who had followed him into the tunnel pushed the remaining civilians aside and fell upon the panicked gate guards in a frenzy of hacking blades.
"THE GATE IS OURS!!!"
"LONG LIVE THE LORD!!!"
"LONG LIVE SOLOMON!!!"
"LONG LIVE THE BLACK LION!!!!"
Outside the walls, Solomon's army erupted into a mountain-shattering cheer.
They surged forward like a dark, relentless tide, pouring through the jamd, open gate and flooding into the completely undefended streets of Willowbrook.
Standing on the shore, Ser Gyles Lege bit down on his lip so hard it bled. He watched the enemy army pour past him, swarming into his city.
A cold, suffocating despair gripped his heart.
It's over.
Deep within the inner keep of Willowbrook, a sealed chamber kept the chaos of the outside world firmly at bay.
The thick stone walls smothered every sound, leaving only the heady scent of won's powder mingling with the rich aroma of spiced wine.
Roger Lege lay naked and sluggish on a bed draped in crushed velvet.
Nestled against his fleshy side was a young, pale-skinned mistress with a full figure—the widow of a minor knight.
They had just finished their vigorous exertions, the sll of sweat and wine combining into an atmosphere of heavy, lazy decadence.
A silver platter on the bedside table held chilled fruits beside a flagon of cold Arbor wine.
Roger picked up a plump purple grape and popped it into his mistress's mouth, letting his fingers trail lazily across her damp lips.
A thought crossed his mind, and a sneer of pure contempt twisted his features.
"That so-called 'Black Lion'... the five days have long since passed," he mocked to the empty room. "He doesn't even have the courage to muster an army. What a pathetic coward."
Roger actually felt a twinge of regret. If Solomon had been foolish enough to launch an attack, Roger could have crushed him against the walls and displayed the absolute might of House Lege.
He had intended to use the conflict to unite his vassals and project his authority. It was a pity the boy turned out to be nothing but empty rumors and hot air.
The woman writhed against his chest, her voice dripping with practiced, syrupy flattery. "You are the true lion, my lord. The true Black Lion... especially in this bed."
Roger laughed, deeply pleased by the flattery. His heavy chest shook with his amusent.
He grabbed his goblet and took a long, greedy pull of the chilled wine, continuing his mockery.
"A Black Lion? Bah! Even that black hunting hound in my kennels has the spine to bite when provoked!!!"
"He has truly disappointed !"
Just then, a faint, muffled vibration bled into the room, as if filtering through the heavy stone from very far away.
Roger's brow furrowed. The indistinct noise interrupted his mood, bringing a sudden, unexplainable prickle of irritation.
A strange unease settled over his chest, though he had no idea where it ca from. It ruins the atmosphere!
The woman leaned up to kiss his neck, but he pushed her away with an impatient grunt.
"These bloody fools!! Barking and shouting all day long without end!!!"
He held the warm, soft body of his mistress, trying to force down his temper and rekindle his desires, but the annoyance won out.
"When Gyles returns, I am issuing a new decree!! I will ban all loud noises in the city during daylight hours!!!"
"The next peasant who dares to make a racket... I'll have his tongue cut out!!!"
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