Chapter 232 - 232: The Trade

Hendry Bracken's face shifted through a rapid succession of pale, furious colors as he stared at Solomon's retreating back. The words slipped through his clamped jaw in a ragged hiss.

"The boy has lost his mind. He is entirely gone to rot."

"My shields will take no part in this farce."

To claim the keep would fall within three days without a single siege engine, did the boy believe he was Aegon the Conqueror reborn, sitting atop Balerion with streams of dragonflame at his command?

Solomon's boast echoed through the camp lines like a heavy boulder dropped into a shallow stream, stirring a massive wave of murmuring among the two thousand levies.

Knights and common pikemen gathered near the baggage wagons, their expressions a volatile mix of suspicion, mockery, and a strange, desperate thread of anticipation.

Rosso Bren kept his brow furrowed as he hurried to catch his master's stride, his voice dropped to a frantic whisper. "My Lord, an open field and a sheer limestone curtain are two different matters."

"The walls are high. The squids need only drop common river stones to turn our front lines into a slaughterhouse."

Solomon merely shook his head, his gaze remaining fixed on the road ahead. "We are not going to climb the stone, Rosso."

He did not summon his captains to review the maps, nor did he issue commands to harvest the treeline for rams or ladders. He simply mounted his destrier and looked down at his two closest men.

"Check the cinches on your horses. Follow my lead."

Under the bewildered stare of the two thousand gathered levies, three riders slowly walked their mounts out of the picket lines.

The midday wind swept across the parched flats, kicking up a thin trail of gray dust behind their hooves.

Three horses, three men, moving without a trace of hesitation across the open ground until they drew rein precisely a hundred paces from the castle's timber drawbridge.

Along the battlements, the ironborn garrison fell into a confused silence. They could see the dark mass of the regional host resting in the distance, and now these three solitary riders had presented themselves like sheep before the slaughter.

Solomon tightened his grip on his reins, his voice rising clear above the whistle of the wind as his destrier pawed impatiently at the dry earth. "Send out a man who speaks for the longships!"

A sharp commotion broke out along the parapet. A few heartbeats later, the heavy chains of the drawbridge groaned, the massive timber dropping into the ditch with a heavy, dust-raising thud. A dozen ironborn stepped through the shadow of the portcullis, their round shields held low, swords and heavy sea-axes loose in their palms.

They moved with the coarse, irregular stride of sailors, but the blood on their leather was authentic. At their head stood a remarkably tall man whose shoulders carried a heavy slouch. His thick beard was plaited into grease-stained braids that brushed against his boiled leather breastplate, his wide face set in a cruel, mocking sneer.

They deployed in a loose crescent, cutting off the path behind Solomon's small party. The tall captain rested his broadsword casually over his shoulder, his dark eyes sizing up the three horsemen like a merchant inspecting cattle. "Hotho Harlaw, master of the Salty Wench."

"Speak your name, green boy, before I decide how many pieces to leave for the crows."

Solomon met his stare, his youthful features completely serene, his voice level. "My piece will remain whole."

"But your men will be meat before the sun sets."

Hotho Harlaw blinked, his sneer freezing for a fraction of a second before he bared a row of yellowed teeth, letting out a sharp, booming laugh that carried no true mirth. He stopped abruptly, the silence returning because the boy's gaze possessed a cold, absolute certainty that had no business living in the face of a secondary lord.

Solomon offered a slight nod to the giant sitting behind him. Ludo reached down to the flank of his saddle, lifting a heavy, grease-stained sack of coarse wool. With a single, sharp jerk of his wrist, he inverted the cloth, letting two heavy objects tumble into the gray dirt between the horses.

A massive, double-bladed war-axe with a notched steel edge, and a heavy iron helm adorned with the silver horn of a unicorn.

Hotho's yellow smile vanished instantly. Behind his shield, a sharp, collective intake of breath rustled through the raiders.

"That's the iron of Viken," a voice muttered from the rear. "The first mate from Rodrik's personal longship."

Hotho turned his head sharply, delivering a glare so savage the speaker silenced himself at once, but the seed of doubt had already taken root in the soil.

Solomon waited, letting the silence work through the minds of the fifty real fighters on the wall.

He broke the quiet with a calm, conversational tone. "Let us put away the games, captain."

"Rodrik Greyjoy's host was broken along the upper forks six days ago. The river is choked with your kin."

Solomon's gaze pierced the slouch-shouldered captain like a spear, his finger lifting to point toward the square keep behind them. "You have fewer than fifty true ironborn inside that stone."

Hotho's pupils shrunk to pinpricks, the skin along his jaw twitching violently. But he was an old wolf of the sea-lanes, and he forced a dark, mocking grin back onto his face as he pointed his blade toward the crowded battlements.

"Is that your count, little lord? Lift your chin and count again. There are four hundred axes waiting for your vanguard behind that mortar."

Solomon did not bother to look up. He kept his dark stare fixed on Hotho's eyes, his voice dropping into a quiet, heavy pressure.

"The land has swallowed your king's ambitions. Your Drowned God did not follow you into the mud. You can argue the numbers until your throat is dry, but we both know there are only fifty pairs of hands inside that wall capable of holding a true edge."

Hotho's throat moved as he swallowed. Was the boy speaking the truth, or was this a clever river trick to draw him from the gate? Yet, the precision of the count was too exact. If Rodrik's main host had truly been destroyed in the interior, his own small command was nothing but a collective of dead men waiting for a shovel.

He spat into the dirt, trying to bolster his failing confidence with a harsh snarl. "You can bring your spears to the ditch then, boy. Let us see if your farmers can reach the top before I turn your skull into a drinking cup."

"A test?" Solomon murmured, shaking his head slightly as he pointed his sword toward the distant lines of the coalition host. "We can certainly have our test."

"I have two thousand lances behind my horse. You have fifty men. If I order my squads to scale all four curtains at the dawn, tell me, captain, how many walls can you hold at once?"

Hotho Harlaw scowled. If the boy understood the weakness of the garrison so thoroughly, why had he stopped his spears at a hundred paces? Why parley when the prize was bare? He could not fathom what the young lord hoped to buy with his breath.

"What is your price, boy?"

Solomon leaned forward over his saddle pommel. "When the moon rises tonight, my entire host will abandon the trenches and withdraw three leagues into the southern valley."

"You and your fifty men will open the rear gate and vanish into the brush. I take the keys without a drop of rust on my iron."

A dead, heavy silence settled over the flats. A moment later, Hotho and the surrounding raiders broke into a ragged chorus of harsh laughter. "And why should I trust a river lord's oath? The moment we clear the ditch, your heavy horse will hunt us through the thickets like wild swine!"

Solomon's demeanor turned instantly sharp, his voice dropping into a cold, metallic register. "Because you have no other card to play, captain."

"You are already dead if you stay in this hall. A secondary host from Riverrun numbering three thousand spears is moving down the main track as we speak."

"If I wanted to spend the lives of my common levies, I would have ordered the ladders forward before noon."

"Accept the terms. I receive the castle and the credit for its fall, and you receive your lives and a road back to your salt-wives."

Finding himself entirely trapped by the boy's logic, a desperate, bloody light flared in Hotho's eyes. They were ironborn, they knew no law but the iron price. If he struck now and dragged this young commander from his horse, he would have a hostage to buy his way back to the sea. He gave a sharp, silent signal with his fingers to the men on his left.

Before the raiders could shift their weight, Ludo and Rosso Bren moved their hands to their hilts with a single, synchronized motion. They did not shout, their gray eyes sweeping over the crescent of sailors with a cold, professional indifference.

Ludo spurred his heavy destrier half a step forward, his massive two-meter frame casting a long, shadow over the front rank. The ironborn who had prepared to lunge froze in their tracks, looking like rabbits cornered by a shadow in the brush.

Hotho Harlaw looked up at the towering giant in plate, then back to the serene, unblinking face of the young lord.

Slowly, the captain lowered his sword, his fingers relaxing against the leather grip. He did not accept the terms aloud, nor did he offer a refusal. He gave Solomon a long, burning look that promised a future accounting, then jerked his arm toward the gate.

The twelve raiders backed toward the timber drawbridge, their shields held high until the portcullis dropped between them and the road.

When Solomon returned to the coalition camp, his first command left every captain in the host in a state of absolute bewilderment.

"Strike the tents. We fall back three leagues to the south and reset the pickets."

Hendry Bracken let out a sharp, mocking laugh within his own lines, his internal contempt confirmed. The arrogant boy had ridden to the gate, caught a glimpse of the ironborn axes, and had lost his stomach for the wall. He would watch from a safe distance while his boast turned to ash.

Old Lord Lymond Lychester leaned heavily on his broadsword, his clouded eyes full of worry as he questioned the withdrawal. Solomon merely looked at the old man, his voice flat. "Ensure your ledger has the thousand dragons ready, my Lord. The keys will be in your hand before two suns have set."

The army began its slow retreat, the two thousand lances moving away from the limestone walls until they were five leagues removed from the valley. By nightfall, their cooking fires appeared as tiny, distant stars against the black hills.

On the high ramparts of the Lychester keep, Hotho Harlaw walked the stones with a restless, frantic stride. A lone scout slipped through the small postern gate below, pulled up to the battlements in a willow basket.

The man's breath was short, his voice trembling with genuine shock. "Captain, the road is clear!"

"The entire host... they have truly abandoned the trenches. Their fires are burning three leagues into the south."

The news fell into the garrison like a spark into dried straw. The remaining fifty ironborn swarmed around Hotho, their voices a chaotic babble.

"What is the play, captain? Does the river boy speak true?"

"It's a trap! The moment we clear the ditch, they will ride us down in the open!"

"And if we stay here, we eat our boots before the moon turns!"

Hotho threw the men back with a heavy swing of his arm, resuming his solitary pacing. He reviewed every detail of the parley. The boy held Viken's iron, he knew the exact strength of the walls, and he knew Rodrik's lines were broken. There was no rescue coming from the sea.

Why offer a road? The answer was simple enough for a merchant to understand. The young lord wanted the credit for reducing a major ironborn hold without paying a single drop of his own blood. If he reported that he had taken a castle guarded by four hundred axes through sheer strategic maneuver, his name would be made in the high courts of Riverrun.

A cornered wolf had no business arguing with a hunter who offered an open gate. Hotho stopped his pacing, his mind settled.

A gamble offered a thread of life. Remaining on the stone meant a certain grave.

He looked down at his nervous captains, his voice a low command. "Divide the four hundred river prisoners into eight separate groups. Send them out through the lower gates in different directions before the mist clears."

"Leave the chests of gold and silver in the hall. Take nothing but your steel and your water skins. We shall mix with the crowd when the lanes open."

"It is time to return to the salt."

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