GoT: From Mud To Iron

The blood drained entirely from Gyles's face, leaving his skin the color of parchment.

It was as if his bones had been suddenly removed. He staggered backward, his legs giving out, and crashed heavily into the high-backed chair behind him.

Pointing a trembling finger at Solomon, he summoned every last ounce of strength in his body to unleash a torrential curse. "You... you are a viper! A vile, poisonous snake crawling out from the shadows!"

"The Seven will punish you!! Your soul will roast in the Seven Hells for ten thousand years!!"

"I curse you in the name of the Seven!! May the Warrior strike you down upon the steel!! May the Father judge you to a gruesome end!! May the Mother curse your seed so your line withers and dies!!..."

He shrieked the words, his voice tearing into a desperate, ragged vibrato as he invoked the gods.

"You will burn in the deepest hell!!"

"You will be flayed by a thousand blades!!!"

"Your name will be spat upon until the end of time!!!"

"You are no lion! You are a snake!! The Viper of the Riverlands!!!"

Solomon slowly stood up. He walked around the heavy oak table and approached the broken knight. Leaning down, he brought his face close to Gyles's, his voice dropping into a gentle, demonic whisper that slithered directly into the man's ear. "Ser. Your curses are entirely useless against me."

"And before you consider taking your own life to preserve your laughable sense of honor... I strongly advise against it."

Solomon shifted his gaze toward the tall windows, gesturing for Gyles to look. It was the exact direction of the chambers where Gyles's family was currently imprisoned under heavy guard.

"If you die."

"And if you die carrying the brand of a traitor."

"What will happen to them?"

Solomon let the question hang in the air, allowing the silent, suffocating threat to ferment in the knight's mind.

"Think carefully about your wife. Think about your two beautiful young daughters. Think about your toddler son, who can barely speak and desperately needs a father's protection."

"You don't need to consider suicide. You only need to consider how they will survive."

"As the family of an oathbreaker. A traitor. And a kinslayer."

"How are they supposed to survive in this cruel, tragic world, bearing the eternal, filthy stain of your name after you are gone?"

The words were a rusted ice pick, driven brutally through the very last line of Gyles's defenses.

Solomon straightened up and gently patted Gyles's trembling, armored shoulder.

"Become the master of Willowbrook. Become a great lord of the Riverlands. Shelter your family, preserve your honor, and ensure that the bloodline of House Lege continues through your branch."

"Or, let yourself and everything you love become nothing more than a footnote in a fabricated truth of my design. Let your wife, your daughters, and your infant son bear the agonizing consequences of your foolish pride."

"Ser Gyles. Accepting my offer is the only choice you have."

Gyles shattered completely.

All of his towering rage, his rigid honor, and his fierce defiance were ground into dust beneath the crushing weight of Solomon's logic. Faced with the utter destruction of his family's future, even the release of suicide was denied to him. His honor was useless.

The impenetrable fortress of his knightly vows collapsed into ruin.

He slumped forward in the chair, burying his face in his hands. His broad shoulders heaved violently.

Suppressed, desperate whimpers leaked through his fingers, sounding like a wounded beast licking its injuries in the dark.

Solomon looked down at him. He knew he had won.

He turned and walked toward the heavy double doors, his boots clicking sharply against the silent stone of the Great Hall.

At the threshold, he paused. Without looking back, he delivered his parting words. "Enjoy your breakfast, Lord Gyles Lege... future master of Willowbrook."

"I look forward to our cooperation, My Lord."

Stepping out into the courtyard, Solomon took a deep breath of the crisp morning air.

Since negotiation with Roger was impossible, he had simply created a new partner to negotiate with. He knew Gyles would ultimately accept.

Even if Gyles had chosen death, Solomon had other contingencies. But those backup plans were incredibly ugly. He could have eliminated Gyles's sons and forced a marriage with Gyles's eldest daughter to claim the seat. While using inheritance laws to usurp a title was a standard political maneuver in Westeros, executing such a nakedly brutal forced marriage through open warfare would cross too many lines during this era of relative peace. It would invite catastrophic intervention from the higher lords.

The hurried crunch of boots interrupted his thoughts. Lushen came sprinting across the courtyard.

His voice carried a rare note of genuine astonishment. "My Lord!"

"Toman is here! He brought the army from Deepvale! They are right outside the city!"

Solomon turned around, an eyebrow raised in mild surprise. "Already?"

By his calculations, Toman's forces shouldn't have arrived until tomorrow afternoon at the absolute earliest.

Lushen paused to catch his breath, his face flushed. "The scouts said Toman didn't say a single word when he received your order. He just rallied the Deepvale men he'd been preparing and marched. They force-marched through the entire night without a single halt!"

This level of uncompromising execution and absolute loyalty brought a genuine smile to Solomon's face. Toman has grown into someone who can carry true weight.

Led by Lushen, Solomon walked out of the gates to Toman's temporary camp. The sight that greeted him was astonishing.

Four hundred soldiers were sprawled across the grass in every conceivable position, utterly paralyzed by exhaustion.

Some were snoring like thunder, using their spears as makeshift pillows. Others leaned against their heavy packs, groaning loudly as they desperately massaged feeling back into their cramped, burning thighs.

It was exactly as Lushen had said. A forced night march through the mountains with zero rest had squeezed every last drop of stamina from their bodies.

Toman himself, however, seemed to be running on pure adrenaline. The somewhat naive youth who had first followed Solomon into battle against the wildlings had shed his old skin. He was now clad in a well-fitted suit of ringmail. Though the steel was splattered with mud and grass from the frantic ride, he radiated the sharp, undeniable aura of a true military commander.

His face was drawn with fatigue, and his eyes were sunken, but the moment he saw Solomon, those eyes lit up with a brilliant, fanatic light. Toman practically sprinted forward.

His movements were slightly clunky due to the heavy armor, but he dropped to one knee with perfect precision, his fist over his heart. "Lord Solomon!"

Solomon reached down, hauled the young man to his feet, and clapped the dust from his shoulders. "Rise, Toman."

"You and your men have done an incredible job. You have suffered for this speed."

Toman stood at attention, his voice booming with pride. "It is my absolute honor to serve you, My Lord!!!"

After a few more eager, glowing words of devotion, Toman's expression suddenly shifted into something remarkably awkward. He coughed a few times, clearing his throat as if struggling to find the right words.

He observed Solomon's face carefully before speaking. "My Lord... back at Deepvale... Lady Rona..."

"She misses you terribly. And... well, from what I could see... she seems to harbor quite a bit of resentment toward you. She's rather angry."

An image of Rona's mature, alluring face flashed through Solomon's mind, bringing a rare twinge of embarrassment to his own. It was true; he had been entirely consumed by his preparations and hadn't visited her in weeks. He spoke slowly. "Once this war is concluded, I will go to Deepvale and see her."

Toman let out a massive sigh of relief. Because Lady Rona was furious at Solomon's absence, she had taken it out on the soldiers stationed there—kicking them out of the inner keep, finding petty ways to torment them, and even ordering Old Nicken to dock their rations.

Speaking of Old Nicken... Toman reached into his tunic and carefully withdrew a letter sealed with hard red wax. "Steward Nicken asked me to deliver this into your hands personally, My Lord."

Solomon took the parchment. The wax bore the crude imprint of a squalid little tower—the original, humble sigil of House Solomon. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

As he read the cramped writing, a rare, genuine, and deeply warm smile touched his lips. He shook his head slowly.

The first half of the letter was just Old Nicken's incessant, nagging care—reminding him to wear his cloak, avoid reckless charges, and eat properly.

Then, the old man's tone shifted, relentlessly pressuring him to settle down, find a highborn wife, and produce an heir to secure the family's bloodline.

But at the very end, Old Nicken's words turned incredibly solemn and heavy with duty.

He implored Solomon to reclaim the Reekfort—the ancestral seat left by his father—as swiftly as possible.

"That tower is the true home of your blood, My Lord, not some cave in the mountains. It is the earth where your ancestors are buried. You must raise the banner of our House, and let it fly once more where it belongs."

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