The clearing was packed. Every knight, squire, and camp follower in the Darry host had gathered to watch the execution.
They murmured among themselves, eyes darting between the massive bulk of Ser Joseth and the slender, unarmored figure of the "Dung Lord."
"Why does he do it?" a soldier whispered. "He throws his life away for pride."
"Nobles," his companion spat. "They value their names more than their blood. Poor fool."
On one side, Ser Joseth was stripped to his breeches. Even without armor, he was a mountain of suet and muscle. He tested the edge of a greatsword, grinning at his squires.
"He wants to die naked," Joseth laughed, his voice carrying over the crowd. "I will oblige him. I will carve him into pieces small enough for the rats."
On the other side, Solomon stood still.
Ser Ronald approached one last time, his face grey. "Solomon... turn back. It is not too late. I can stop this."
Solomon looked at the old knight. "Thank you, Ser Ronald. But the time for words is done."
Ronald sighed, stepping back. He looked at the boy as one looks at a corpse.
The Septon stepped forward, his robes dragging in the dust.
"Today, Solomon of House Bligh and Joseth of House Peck challenge for honor!" the Septon intoned. "Let the Father judge! Let the Warrior guide! The survivor is innocent!"
"Begin!"
Joseth didn't wait. With a roar like a bull, he charged.
The ground shook under his weight. He raised his greatsword high, intent on splitting Solomon from crown to crotch in a single stroke.
"Lord Solomon!" Lushen screamed, lunging forward, but Solomon held up a hand.
Wait.
Solomon watched the white pig come. He saw the sweat flying from Joseth's brow. He saw the madness in his eyes.
To the crowd, Joseth was a terrifying juggernaut.
To Solomon, he was moving underwater.
The greatsword began its descent.
Now.
Solomon stepped.
He didn't jump. He didn't roll. He simply slid to the left, a movement so fluid it looked like he had turned into smoke.
The greatsword slammed into the dirt where he had been standing a heartbeat before.
Snick.
A high, thin scream tore through the air.
The crowd gasped. Joseth stumbled back, staring at his right arm. Or rather, where his right hand used to be.
His hand, still gripping the sword, lay in the mud. Blood pumped from the stump in a bright red fountain.
"My hand! My hand!" Joseth shrieked, the sound tearing at his throat.
Solomon stood a few paces away, the Myrish blade dripping crimson. His face was blank.
Joseth, fueled by agony and adrenaline, fumbled for a dagger with his left hand. "Die! Die, you rat!"
He lunged again, a clumsy, desperate stab.
Solomon side-stepped. He spun behind the fat knight.
Slash.
Another scream, higher and wetter than the first.
Joseth's left hand hit the ground.
The White Pig fell to his knees, waving two bloody stumps in the air, spraying gore across the clearing. He wailed, a sound of pure animal terror.
Solomon walked around him. He didn't look like a knight. He looked like a butcher at work.
He flicked the Myrish blade.
Slice.
"My eyes! Oh gods, my eyes!" Joseth clawed at his face with his stumps, blinding himself with his own blood as the darkness took him.
Solomon circled behind him. Two quick cuts to the back of the ankles.
Snap. Snap.
Joseth collapsed into the dirt, hamstrung, blind, and handless. He writhed like a worm on a hook, sobbing, begging, broken.
The crowd was silent. No one cheered. They stared at Solomon with a mixture of awe and horror.
"He's a monster," someone whispered. "He's not a boy. He's a devil."
Solomon ignored them. He walked over to the sobbing ruin of the knight and drove his sword down through the shoulder, pinning Joseth to the earth like an insect.
Then, he looked at his guards.
"Lushen. Lauchlan."
The two peasants stood frozen, staring at their lord. They had expected to die. Instead, they were watching a nightmare.
Solomon pointed at the two terrified squires, who were shaking in their boots.
"Finish it."
Lushen looked at Solomon. He looked at the squires who had beaten him yesterday.
He roared.
It was a primal sound, the sound of a man shedding a lifetime of fear. Lushen charged.
The squires raised their swords, but their hands were shaking. They were boys playing at war; Lushen was a man possessed. He battered aside a clumsy parry and drove his sword into the first squire's neck.
Crunch.
Blood sprayed Lushen's face. He didn't stop. He hacked again and again, screaming, until the squire was nothing but meat.
Lauchlan was slower, but just as brutal. He cornered the second squire.
"Mercy! Please!" the boy cried, dropping his sword.
Lauchlan hesitated. He looked at Solomon.
Solomon's face was stone. No nod. No mercy.
Lauchlan closed his eyes. For the Lord.
He swung. The head rolled.
Silence returned to the clearing, broken only by the wet gurgling of Ser Joseth.
"Kill me..." the knight wheezed, frothing pink foam. "Finish it... mercy..."
Solomon walked over. He looked down at the blind, maimed thing in the mud.
He pulled his sword free with a wet suck.
But he didn't strike the killing blow.
He cleaned the blade on Joseth's tunic and sheathed it.
"This is the price," Solomon said, his voice carrying to the edges of the stunned crowd.
"Insult my House. Hurt my men. And there will be no mercy. There will be no clean death."
He turned his back on the dying man.
"Let him scream," Solomon ordered. "Let him scream until the Stranger comes for him. Let everyone hear what happens when you cross the Lord of Mirekeep."