GoT: From Mud To Iron

Solomon stared at the cramped handwriting on the parchment, his smile slowly fading until his usual, impenetrable calm settled back over his features. He carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his tunic.

He looked up, his gaze sweeping over the paralyzingly exhausted soldiers sprawled across the grass. He turned to Toman and issued his command. "Toman, take your men into the city!"

"Bring them into Willowbrook to rest!"

Solomon's voice rang out, clear and powerful, carrying words that breathed sudden life into the dead-tired men.

"I have already ordered the roasting spits fired up! There is endless meat—eat until your bellies burst! You have earned the finest reward!"

A flush of profound emotion and gratitude swept across Toman's face. The exhausted soldiers pushed themselves up from the dirt, their voices rising in a hoarse, booming cheer. "Long live Lord Solomon!"

Solomon gripped Toman's armored shoulder. "Once your men have eaten and slept..."

"...you will take over the defense of Willowbrook's walls, and you will assume command of the siege line around the inner keep. I need to cycle my own men out."

Toman instantly understood the strategic weight of the order. By taking over the static garrison duties, he was freeing up Solomon's seasoned veterans, transforming them back into a highly mobile, devastating strike force.

Inside the makeshift command center in the Great Hall, Solomon's fingers traced the lines of House Lege's massive map table.

With the addition of Toman's four hundred men, his total force now exceeded nine hundred. If he included Lauchlan's detachment currently pacifying the Weeping Gorge, he commanded well over a thousand swords.

As long as House Lege's vassals failed to unify their banners, this was a force more than capable of crushing any single lord who dared to resist.

His greatest advantage right now was absolute information asymmetry. He would strike them one by one, breaking their strength through division and deception.

Lushen, Bolin, Hector, and Toman stood before the table, awaiting their orders.

Solomon's gaze landed on Bolin. He pointed to a small, jagged mark on the map—a place deeply familiar yet entirely foreign to him: the Reekfort. He began his methodical deployment. "Bolin!"

"I am giving you three hundred men, including your own veteran archers."

"Your objective is to reclaim my ancestral seat."

"And..."

Solomon looked at the four men. They were his inner circle, his most trusted commanders. His voice remained perfectly flat, though a cold, lethal glint flashed in his eyes. He raised a hand, pressing a finger to his lips in a slow, deliberate gesture of silence.

"Steel is blind on the battlefield."

Killing a noble in the chaos of battle is perfectly natural.

Bolin's breath hitched for a fraction of a second, but he understood instantly. He knew exactly who Solomon was referring to. Killing a highborn lord carried zero psychological burden for him. He gave a heavy, solemn nod. "Understood, My Lord."

Solomon's gaze shifted to Hector. The ex-bandit swallowed hard and straightened his spine, waiting for his task. "Hector, take two hundred of my veterans."

Solomon dragged his finger across the map, tracing a wide arc over the villages and towns directly governed by House Lege. He intended to bleed this house completely dry.

"Take one hundred of those men and dress them in the bloodstained, standard-issue Lege armor we looted from the riverbank. Scatter them across House Lege's direct territories."

Hector's face scrunched up in confusion.

"Your mission is to manufacture absolute chaos and sow pure terror. Most importantly, you are to spread a thousand false rumors!"

Solomon tapped the wooden blocks on the map representing the Lege villages.

"Sweep through the remaining towns. Tell them that Willowbrook has fallen and that the entire Lege bloodline has been captured or put to the sword."

"Tell them the Lege army has been utterly annihilated. And then... fabricate the atrocities of 'Lege deserters'."

"Burn everything! Everything!"

Solomon's voice dropped into a low, chilling register. Sometimes, statecraft required the darkest of methods.

"Then, take your remaining hundred men—dressed in our own colors—and step in as their saviors. Protect the fleeing smallfolk. Encourage them to harvest the grain from House Lege's fields for themselves. Promise them public land to farm, and escort them back to our territory."

"Take everything that isn't nailed down, and burn the rest."

A wicked, brilliant grin split Hector's face, revealing his crooked teeth. As a former bandit, this was his professional specialty. Pillage, burn, and run a protection racket—he was born for this. "I understand perfectly, Lord Solomon."

"Leave it to me!"

Solomon then drew a wide circle on the map, encompassing the lands of the Lege vassals and the neighboring minor lords.

"That is still not enough."

"As for the vassals and the neighboring lords... I want you to muddy the waters so thoroughly they drown in it. Let the chaos distract them. Let them gorge themselves on the fleeing Lege population and the unguarded wealth left behind."

"When a pack of starving wolves is fighting over a fresh carcass, they have neither the energy nor the desire to help another dying beast. Especially when that dying beast is the very carcass they are currently eating. They will only pray for the chaos to worsen."

"By the time the vassals hear the false rumors of Willowbrook's fall and the Lege family's capture, they will be too busy carving up Roger's domain to unite against us. The longer they are distracted, the better."

"I will deal with them on my own terms."

"Let the blood flow! I alone shall decide when this war begins, and when it ends!"

The orders were set.

Bolin, Hector, Lushen, and Toman saluted as one. They turned and strode out of the Great Hall, their heavy footsteps echoing with absolute, ruthless purpose.

This war would determine his seat at the high table of Westeros. Solomon's hand rested firmly on the hilt of his sword.

Over a hundred soldiers trudged through the sucking, treacherous muck. With every step, their boots sank deep into the mire, bringing up a chorus of disgusted curses against the rotting land.

The river wind carried the overwhelming stench of the marsh—a foul cocktail of stagnant water, decaying algae, and rotting fish.

Jero Lege hauled hard on his reins, bringing his horse to a halt. He dry-heaved, waving a gloved hand frantically in front of his nose. His face was twisted in an expression of pure, unadulterated revulsion.

He looked at his soldiers, his voice dripping with caustic mockery. "This is the Reekfort?!"

The so-called "castle" standing before them was nothing but a solitary, miserable stone tower. It was squat, ugly, and lacked even a proper outer wall. In Jero's eyes, the tower was smaller than the stables at Willowbrook.

In the distance sat the village—a haphazard collection of hovels constructed from mud, wattle, and river reeds. It had long been abandoned, the only sound the hollow moaning of the wind whipping through the empty, doorless frames.

Jero Lege actually wanted to laugh. This is exactly the kind of squalor that fits a peasant upstart like Solomon!

He had specifically begged his father for the command of these hundred men to occupy this land. He wanted to personally humiliate the bastard who dared challenge his ancient House.

Yet, just thinking the name "Solomon" made a burning, corrosive jealousy flare in Jero's chest.

Solomon was younger than him, yet his name was already famous throughout the Riverlands. A nobody who crawled out of this literal cesspit, a man who earned his lordship through a dishonorable gimmick—how dare he challenge a family with a thousand years of noble blood? How dare they call him the "Black Lion"?

He had even heard rumors that the commoners called Solomon the "Protector of the Riverlands." Before this conflict, the only time Jero had ever heard of House Solomon was when his maester listed them among the most impoverished, foul-smelling minor houses in Westerosi history.

Jero spat into the mud. "It is an absolute insult."

"An insult to the Riverlands!"

"An insult to every true noble!"

Since when does the Riverlands need a man like this making a name for himself across the Seven Kingdoms?! He made his decision then and there. He would erase this filthy stain from the map entirely.

Ser Adam, the veteran knight assigned to advise him, rode up alongside him. He opened his mouth to report. "Young Lord, we should—"

Jero raised his riding crop, sharply cutting the old knight off. He pointed the leather whip at the solitary tower. "Tear it down."

Ser Adam froze, blinking as if he hadn't heard the boy correctly.

Jero's voice turned shrill, instantly irritated by the old man's perceived hesitation. "Take those filthy, rotting stones and throw every last one of them into the river!"

"Tear the whole damn thing down!!"

"When that bastard returns, I want him to find nothing but mud! Not even a single stone to hide under from the rain!!!"

Ser Adam's face lost its color. He spurred his horse forward, his voice desperate. "Young Lord, we cannot do that!"

"Oh?!" Jero glared at him from the corner of his eye, his anger spiking. From the moment they marched, this old relic had shown a lack of absolute deference to his commands.

The more he thought about it, the more furious he became. He thinks because I am young, he can openly defy my authority! The more he tries to stop me, the more I will see it done!!!

Ser Adam tried desperately to keep his tone respectful but firm. "Young Lord, the tower may be small, but it is the only fortified structure we have in this miserable swamp."

"If we tear it down, we will be forced to make camp in the open muck! If we are ambushed, we will have absolutely no defenses to fall back on!"

70+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/AgentTwilight