For the next three days, Solomon disappeared into the mud of his courtyard.
He had no training dummy, no master-at-arms, and no proper equipment. He improvised. He tied sacks of wet river clay to his wrists and ankles, turning his limbs into leaden weights. Then, he moved.
He lunged, pivoted, and struck at the invisible ghosts of Ironborn reavers. Even with the mud dragging him down, he felt... light. Unnaturally so.
In his old life, he had played strategy games where elite units—swordmasters, water dancers—relied on speed rather than armor. He felt like one of those digital avatars made flesh. He wasn't hacking; he was flowing. The sword was not a bludgeon, but a needle, seeking the gaps in the world's armor.
It's a dance, he realized, sweat stinging his eyes. A dance of rust and ruin.
His heightened senses picked up a footfall on the soft earth. He spun, sword snapping into a guard position, only to find Old Nikken standing there, clutching a roll of parchment.
"My lord," the steward wheezed, eyeing the blade nervously. "The inventory is complete."
Solomon sheathed the sword. "Let me see the damage."
He took the parchment. It was a short list. Painfully short. He scanned the lines—rusted mail, broken spears, three skinny goats, a barrel of salted fish that had gone gray.
Then his eyes hit the bottom of the page.
Granary: Sufficient for four persons, seven days.
Treasury: Empty.
Solomon felt the blood drain from his face. He reread the lines, hoping the ink would change. It didn't.
"Seven days?" Solomon whispered. "How? I thought we had enough for the winter, or at least a moon's turn."
Nikken bowed his head, his voice heavy with resignation. "You forget, my lord. The pension."
Solomon froze.
"The grain you ordered for Harke's widow," Nikken explained gently. "And the double shares for the families of the thirteen dead. And the coppers. You gave it all away, my lord. To the last handful."
Solomon closed his eyes.
He remembered the rush of righteousness he felt when he ordered the charity. He had wanted to buy loyalty. He had wanted to be better than the cruel lords of history.
Congratulations, Solomon, he thought bitterly. You bought loyalty with your own dinner. You are the most beloved lord in the Riverlands, and you will starve to death by Tuesday.
"I am a fool," Solomon muttered.
"No, my lord," Nikken said softly. "You are... kind. It is a rare sickness in this world. But yes, the larder is bare. Even the rats have packed their bags."
Solomon looked at the bleak walls of Mirekeep. If they stayed here, they died. It was that simple.
"Nikken," Solomon said, his voice hardening with necessity. "We go to Deddings Town."
"Now?" Nikken blinked. "But Lord Baron is at Seagard, fighting the squids."
"Then we will see his Lady Wife," Solomon said. "I must swear my fealty to House Deddings to claim my title. And more importantly..."
He looked at his empty belt pouch.
"I need to ask for aid. Or at least eat at their table until the harvest comes."
Or beg, he didn't say. I am a knight of the realm, and I am going to beg for scraps like a dog.
"What of the keep?" Nikken asked, wringing his hands. "Who will watch over the people?"
"You will," Solomon said, placing a hand on the old man's shoulder. "I trust no one else. Keep the peace. Share what little food remains. I will return with wagons, or I will not return at all."
Nikken's eyes filled with tears at the trust, and he nodded vigorously. "I will hold the fort, my lord. I swear it."
"I take Lushen and Lauchlan with me," Solomon added.
He summoned the two guards to the solar—a drafty room that served as bedroom, dining hall, and audience chamber.
When the two peasants-turned-soldiers entered, they looked sharper. The training had begun to erase the slump of the serf from their shoulders.
"We ride for Deddings Town," Solomon told them without preamble. "Or rather, we walk. We have no horses."
"Yes, my lord!" they chorused.
"You should know why," Solomon continued, deciding that truth was the only currency he had left. "The granary is empty. If we stay here, we starve. I cannot feed myself, let alone you."
The guards exchanged a look of shock. Lords did not admit weakness. Lords did not tell their men they were broke.
"Furthermore," Solomon said, his face grim. "The war is not over. Deddings Town is a muster point. It is likely that once I swear my sword to Lord Deddings, he will send us back to the front. Back to the blood and the Ironborn."
He watched their faces. He expected fear. He expected them to ask for release.
Instead, they dropped to their knees.
"My lord!" Lushen cried, his voice thick with emotion. "We are yours! If it is to starve, we starve with you! If it is to bleed, we bleed with you!"
"We failed the Old Lord," Lauchlan sobbed, slamming his fist against his chest. "We ran when the hammer fell! Never again! We will die for you, Lord Solomon! It is an honor to die for you!"
"We go to our deaths with glad hearts!" Lushen agreed, weeping openly. "For the man who saved our kin!"
Solomon's face twitched.
Why is everyone so eager to die? he thought, exasperated. 'We die for you!' 'Glad hearts!' Can we focus on the living part?
But as he looked at them—two dirty men in rusted armor, pledging their lives to a pauper lord—the cynicism faded. This was the loyalty he had bought. It was raw, clumsy, and suicidal, but it was real.
"Get up," Solomon said, pulling them to their feet.
He looked them in the eye, smiling a smile that didn't quite reach the grim set of his jaw.
"Stop talking about dying," he told them. "Dying is easy. Any fool can die. We are going to do something much harder."
"We are going to survive."