It was surprisingly easy.
Solomon stood on a rise behind the shield wall, watching the confusion unfold.
The Burned Men—forty hardened killers who had terrorized the valleys for weeks—were standing frozen at the edge of the trench. They looked like actors who had forgotten their lines.
Barbarians, Solomon thought, suppressing a snort of laughter. If you don't use your brain, you stay a savage forever.
He had spent the night sweating, expecting a desperate, bloody melee in the dark. He had feared his green troops would break at the first scream.
Instead, the enemy had slept in, eaten a hearty breakfast, and then jogged into a kill zone like they were late for a party.
It wasn't that Solomon hadn't wanted to launch a night raid; he just didn't trust his soldiers to handle a chaotic skirmish in the dark.
He knew the reputation of the Hill Tribes. Tyrion Lannister had rated them highly. The Burned Men were the most feared of all—warriors who mutilated themselves to prove their courage. Burn off a nipple, a finger, an ear. The more you lost, the more of a man you were.
Their war chief, Timett son of Timett, had supposedly gouged out his own eye with a red-hot knife.
When Solomon learned last night that he was facing the Burned Men, he had panicked. But to his shock, the enemy hadn't tried to break out or attack while the camp was unfinished.
So Solomon had ordered his men to dig. All night long, they used farming tools and bare hands to turn the village exit into a fortress.
It wasn't a complex piece of military engineering. Just a ditch and a fence made of sharpened stakes. But against unarmored savages, it was a wall of death.
"Enemy charge!" Lushen screamed, galloping along the line. "Shields up! Spears ready!"
But the charge faltered.
The Burned Men skidded to a halt at the trench. The momentum of their run died instantly. The warriors in the back bumped into the ones in the front, turning their terrifying wedge formation into a confused mosh pit.
They stood there, weapons raised, staring at the ditch.
The ferocious grins on their faces faded, replaced by a look of profound, existential confusion.
Why aren't they running away? their expressions seemed to ask. Why are they hiding behind sticks?
The silence stretched, awkward and heavy.
Finally, one warrior stepped forward. He was a giant of a man, his cheek branded with a jagged scar. He pushed his way to the front, carrying a spiked club the size of a tree branch.
He walked right up to the edge of the trench, ignoring the archers aiming at his chest.
He planted his feet, puffed out his chest, and roared.
"Oi! You cowards!"
His voice echoed in the morning silence.
"Hiding behind wood? Is this how Lowlanders fight? Who is your chief? Step out! Face me like a man!"
He stood there, radiating arrogance. To him, three hundred against forty was already an overwhelming advantage. Hiding behind a wall on top of that? It was pathetic.
Solomon watched from the high ground.
He's just standing there, Solomon thought, marveling at the absurdity. He walked into a siege and asked for a duel. How presumptuous.
Solomon felt the tension leave his shoulders.
"Archers," Solomon said, his voice bored. "Loose."
The bowmen on the flanks looked at him, arrows nocked. They had been tracking the loud barbarian the entire time.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Twelve arrows hissed through the air.
There was no duel. There was no exchange of speeches. There was just physics.
The Burned Man didn't even have time to look surprised.
Thud-thud-thud.
Arrows slammed into his chest. Two took him in the gut. One punched through his thigh. He looked, for a brief second, like a very surprised pincushion.
His shout died in his throat. His spiked club fell from his hand with a heavy clang.
He swayed, blood bubbling from his lips. His eyes went wide, staring at the shafts sticking out of his body.
Until the moment he died, he couldn't understand it.
He had met Lowlanders before. Knights in shining armor who talked about chivalry and honor. They would have ridden out. They would have fought him man-to-man.
But this... this was cheating.
He collapsed backward into the trench with a wet splash. Dead.
The Burned Men roared in fury. They had never seen a Lowland chief so shameless!
"No honor!" they screamed, shaking their axes. "Cowards! You killed him with sticks from afar!"
"Reload," Solomon ordered calmly.
Lushen and Lauchlan looked at him, slightly stunned. Even they had expected... something more noble. A challenge. A parley.
Solomon didn't explain.
Why follow rules? he thought. Why accept a fair fight?
It's a joke. A stupid, primitive joke.
War is inherently unfair. One side is always stronger. And today, the advantage is mine.