The "army" that marched out of Deddings Town was less a military force and more a wandering disaster.
Three hundred conscripts shuffled along the road in a loose, sprawling herd. There were no ranks, no files, no discipline. Some used their issued swords as walking sticks; others had already abandoned the formation to relieve themselves in the bushes or simply sit down for a nap.
They chattered like a flock of geese, their voices a cacophony of complaints and confusion. Fear hung over them like a shroud—they knew they were being sent to fight the wild men of the mountains, and they knew most of them wouldn't come back.
It wasn't an army. It was a refugee column with sharp sticks.
Solomon rode at the head of this mess, sitting high on his white courser. He looked back at the chaotic snake of humanity trailing behind him, and felt a cold knot of dread tighten in his stomach.
I'm going to die, he thought, despair washing over him. I'm essentially leading a kindergarten field trip into a war zone. Except the toddlers are drunk, and the playground is full of cannibals.
He thought back to the previous day in the courtyard.
He had stood beside Lady Roslin, looking at the ragged men Maester Walder had scraped together. They held rusted sickles, dull wood axes, and even sharpened stakes.
Is this a joke? Solomon had thought, panic rising. Am I supposed to fight the Hill Tribes with gardening tools?
He had turned to Lady Roslin, summoning every ounce of acting skill he possessed. Tears had welled in his eyes as he dropped to one knee.
"My Lady!" he had cried, his voice breaking. "House Bligh stands ready to die for you! I will march into the jaws of the Stranger himself!"
"But... these men! They have no steel! They have no leather! I fear I will fail you, not for lack of courage, but for lack of iron!"
"If I die, so be it! But let me die with a sword in my hand, not a hoe!"
It was a shameless performance, but it worked. Lady Roslin had turned on her Maester with cold fury.
"Walder! Did you think to send them out naked?" she had snapped. "Open the armory. Give them mail. Give them spears. Do not shame us."
Maester Walder had looked sour, but he had obeyed.
Now, at least, the men had decent steel. But steel didn't make a soldier.
"This is garbage," Solomon muttered to himself, watching a man trip over his own scabbard. "Absolute garbage."
He couldn't take it anymore. If the Hill Tribes hit them now, it would be a massacre.
"Lushen! Lauchlan! To me!"
The two guards rode up, looking sharp in their new armor. They sat their horses well, the confidence of the Kingsroad still fresh in their minds.
"My lord!" they answered.
"Look at this mess," Solomon growled, gesturing at the mob. "Fix it."
He turned his horse to face the column, his voice booming over the noise.
"I am Solomon Bligh! I am your Commander!"
The chatter died down. Three hundred faces turned toward him—some curious, some dull, some fearful.
"Listen to me!" Solomon shouted. "You are not sheep wandering to the slaughter! You are a company of the Riverlands!"
"Form up! One hundred and fifty men to a company! Twenty wide! Six deep! Now!"
He pointed his sword at his lieutenants.
"Lushen! Lauchlan! Make them move! Anyone who drags their feet gets the flat of the blade!"
"Move, you dogs! Move!" Lushen roared, spurring his horse into the throng. "Form ranks! You heard the Lord! Lines! Make lines!"
Slowly, painfully, the mob began to shift. Men pushed and shoved, trying to find their places. It was clumsy, but it was starting to look like a formation.
Solomon watched, feeling a flicker of hope. Maybe. Just maybe.
Then, trouble.
"Pah! Who are you to order me around, peasant?"
The shout came from the center of the column. A circle had cleared in the press.
In the middle stood a burly man wearing the livery of House Deddings. He had a proper leather jerkin and a castle-forged sword. Around him stood a knot of cronies, all sneering.
Solomon recognized them. The "veterans." The handful of castle guards Maester Walder had sprinkled into the levy to add experience. Instead, they were acting like kings of the dung heap.
The big soldier was chest-to-chest with Lushen, laughing in his face.
"I fought for Lord Baron!" the man bragged, waving his sword. "I'm a real soldier! You're just a dirt-digger in stolen armor!"
He shoved Lushen.
"You think you can command me? I was killing men while you were still suckling pigs!"
The levy watched, holding its breath. They looked from the loudmouthed veteran to the quiet, scarred peasant on the horse. Then, they looked to Solomon.
The test, Solomon realized. They want to see if the boy lord has teeth.
He didn't move. He sat still on his white horse, his face impassive.
He didn't need to intervene. Not yet.
He wanted to see what Lushen would do.
The veteran mistook the silence for weakness. He grinned, playing to the crowd.
"See?" he jeered, spitting on Lushen's boot. "Your master says nothing. He knows his place. And you know yours. Get out of my face, peasant, before I—"
The air in the clearing seemed to tighten.
Lushen sat on his horse, looking down at the man. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword. He remembered the beatings. He remembered the fear.
And he remembered Solomon's words. Make them fear you.
Lushen's face didn't change, but his eyes went cold.
"Get down," Lushen said softly.
"What?" the veteran laughed.
"I said," Lushen repeated, drawing his blade with a rasp of steel, "get on your knees."