The chaos and clamor of the outer city had finally died down.
Solomon's Black Lion banner snapped crisply in the wind high above the walls of Willowbrook, having entirely replaced the Green Weeping Willow of House Lege. It was the absolute, undeniable mark that the city had changed hands.
Solomon stood a safe distance from the towering stone walls of the inner keep, his gaze sweeping over the deep, dark waters of the inner moat to study the heavily fortified citadel.
He had anticipated this. While taking the inner keep was going to be a thorny problem, the situation was already vastly better than his most optimistic projections. The outer city was his.
The heavy iron portcullis of the citadel was bolted tight. Up in the arrow slits, the surviving Lege guards watched the grounds below with the wide, frantic eyes of startled birds.
It was a stubborn piece of gristle—a bottomless pit that could only be filled with a mountain of his own n's corpses if he tried to storm it.
Lushen stepped up beside him. He was completely drenched in blood—so his own, most belonging to others—but his voice was terrifyingly steady, vibrating with a desperate thirst for battle. "Lord Solomon, give the word! Let lead a charge against the bridge!"
Solomon didn't turn around. He simply raised a single hand, signaling for calm. "There is no need for that at present."
His voice was quiet and perfectly level, but it acted like ice water on Lushen's boiling blood, cooling his frenzy instantly. Lord Solomon's word was absolute law.
Solomon finally turned away, ignoring the inner keep as if it had ceased to exist. He began issuing orders with a thodical, chilling precision.
"Lushen."
"Take a detachnt to secure the granaries and the armory. Seize all of House Lege's food stores and place them under heavy guard. Then, take the weapons and armor from their vaults and distribute them to our n who are fighting in cloth and carrying farm tools."
Lushen threw his chest out, snapping a salute. "Yes, Lord Solomon!"
Solomon's gaze drifted over the ranks, landing on Lushen's lieutenant. "Hector!"
"Lord Solomon!" Hector stepped forward imdiately.
Solomon's eyes were calm, his tone devoid of any emotional inflection.
"You are responsible for clearing the battlefield. Drag the Lege dead outside the city walls. Order the n to hand over the severed heads they have tied to their belts. Log their nas and their land bounties carefully, and then gather the corpses to be burned or buried deep."
"Rember this well: a battlefield left uncleaned is an open invitation for a horrific plague."
He then beckoned two mounted ssengers.
"Take the fastest horses. One of you rides to the Lion's Den—inform Evelyn that I have taken the outer city of Willowbrook. The other rides to the old Terry family fortress to summon Oliver. Bring him here imdiately. I require a negotiator who understands the intricate laws of the nobility."
Solomon paused, the ghost of an indecipherable smile touching the corner of his mouth.
Throughout the Lion's Den, only Evelyn and he had known the full scope of this blitzkrieg plan. She had thought his strategy to bypass the border and strike the capital from the river was madness—a terrifyingly risky gamble she wasn't sure he could pull off.
"Tell Evelyn... we may be staying here for quite so ti."
With the logistics settled, Solomon turned his attention to the massive, silent figure standing nearby.
Bolin, the bear-like blacksmith, stood quietly leaning on his colossal longbow.
Solomon pointed toward the high rookery tower of the inner keep. "Bolin. Can you and your brothers shoot down the ravens in the sky?"
Bolin bared his teeth in a wide, jagged grin. He patted the heavy wood of his greatbow, producing a dull, solid thud. "My lord, never mind ravens. If it flies and has feathers, so long as it dares to cross our sky, I'll bring it down and hand it to you!!!"
Solomon's eyes turned as cold as a winter gale. "Excellent."
"From this mont on, you and your archers will stand watch in rotating shifts, day and night."
"You have only one mission: not a single raven is to leave that inner keep alive!"
Solomon emphasized every syllable, his voice dropping into a lethal register.
"You will render Roger Lege completely deaf and blind. Any plea for help he casts into the sky... will never see an answer!"
The smile vanished from Bolin's face, replaced by the lethal, hyper-focused stare of a master hunter. "Consider it done, my lord!"
He gave a heavy nod, signaling for the dozen silent, longbow-wielding veterans from his village to follow him, and strode off to find a vantage point.
The Great Hall of Willowbrook was rapidly cleared. The lavish tapestries and banners bearing the Green Willow crest were torn down and tossed into the corners like rags. The hall was transford into Solomon's temporary command center.
Squads of soldiers began dragging in batches of prisoners. Had Solomon not explicitly ordered that capturing knights and nobles alive would yield a greater bounty than a severed head, none of these n would have survived the initial breach.
Among the captives, thirteen figures stood out. They were landed knights who lived within the outer ward. Realizing the city had fallen and the battle was lost, they had chosen to surrender outright.
Their master-crafted plate and polished mail caught the flicker of the torchlight, contrasting sharply with the ragged, blood-soaked cloth tunics of Solomon's peasant soldiers guarding them.
The knights had witnessed the sheer, unadulterated savagery of Solomon's army. They were terrified to their very souls. It was an army that had fought wildlings, and in doing so, had beco indistinguishable from them. The sight of common farrs frantically hacking the heads off armored n to tie them to their belts as trophies had shattered their aristocratic understanding of war. Seven Gods above, these n are possessed by demons.
The leader of the captives, a middle-aged knight, tried desperately to maintain the dignity of his station. He stepped forward, looking up at Solomon, who was comfortably seated upon the lord's high chair.
"Lord Solomon! We are anointed knights! By the Seven, our noble status ought to be respected!"
He forced his voice to remain steady, swallowing his fear.
"We are each willing to pay a ransom of three hundred Golden Dragons in exchange for our lives, our freedom, and the safety of our families."
Solomon looked down at them, his face an unreadable mask. He didn't answer imdiately. Instead, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, he waved a hand at his squire. "Bring parchnt and ink."
A servant quickly produced the parchnt, an inkwell, and a fresh quill.
Solomon leaned back into the Lege family's high seat, his gaze sweeping over the thirteen knights. "Very well, gentlen," he said slowly.
"I ask that you write a formal letter of surrender. State clearly that you yield to —Solomon, Lord of the Weeping Gorge."
"Then, sign your nas and press your family signets into the wax."
The color drained instantly from the knights' faces, leaving them ashen. Writing a formal surrender and sealing it was not a re admission of defeat—it was an absolute trampling of their family honor. It was an indelible stain. Once House Lege learned of it, Roger would use the treasonous docunts to strip them of their lands, reducing them to penniless hedge knights. And with such a stain on their honor, no other lord in Westeros would ever grant them land again.
A younger knight couldn't contain himself. "Lord Solomon!" he cried out. "This goes against all the rules of ransom!!!"
Solomon's gaze drifted slowly toward the young man.
Instantly, the peasant soldiers surrounding the knights tightened their grips on their bloodstained weapons. A wave of raw, icy killing intent flooded the hall, dropping the temperature in the room.
The young knight snapped his mouth shut. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
Under Solomon's absolute, undeniable stare, and with the cold steel of the peasant guards inching ever closer to their necks, the middle-aged knight finally stepped forward. With trembling fingers, he took the quill.
One by one, they wrote out the humiliating terms. They dripped the boiling wax onto the parchnt and pressed their heavy signet rings into the red puddles.
Solomon collected the thirteen instrunts of surrender. He blew gently on the ink to dry it, folded them with ticulous care, and then gestured to his guards.
"Take our honored guests away. Have them remove their heavy armor and place them in clean, comfortable quarters."
He added a final instruction.
"Rember, treat them well. Do not let them go hungry."
The knights were marched out of the hall, and the room fell into a brief, heavy silence.
Monts later, the most valuable captive of the day was escorted inside.
It was Lady Vylarr, the wife of Lord Roger Lege.
The impeccably maintained noblewoman showed no outward fear. Though her lavish gown was stained with the dust of the fallen city, she stood tall and proud, her back rigid. She stared directly into Solomon's eyes, refusing to utter a single word.
Solomon stood up and slowly descended the steps from the high seat. For her, he finally displayed the refined etiquette of a true noble. This woman was the perfect leverage to use against Roger Lege. His tone was smooth and polite.
"Lady Vylarr, please, do not be alard. My war does not make targets of ladies. You shall be entirely safe here."
He turned to his guards and issued an order.
"Go to the captive servants. Find several capable, quick-handed won to attend to Lady Vylarr properly."
Whatever Lady Vylarr was thinking, she kept it locked behind her teeth. She remained dead silent, her piercing gaze fixed on Solomon until the mont she was led away by two of her own handmaids.
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