The fire was still burning, casting an eerie glow over the scene.
"You," Solomon said slowly, "rise."
One by one, the soldiers stood up. Their eyes burned as they looked at the sixteen-year-old boy standing tall in his noble black robes.
They had seen the black lion—a monster that terrified even the wildlings—kneel at his feet. It was a scene straight out of a legend, etched forever into their minds.
Unlike the tavern tales they grew up on, they were witnesses. They were participants. To them, Solomon was no longer just a lord; he was touched by the gods.
Solomon felt a bit awkward. He was good at improvising, but acting? His limbs felt stiff.
"Lushen! Lauchlan! Soldiers!" Solomon raised a clenched fist. "Clean the battlefield! Count the casualties!"
"Yes!" Lushen and Lauchlan shouted, voices hoarse from screaming orders.
The men dispersed.
Crack. Pop.
A sound of joints popping came from the edge of the woods.
Bronn limped out of the shadows. He was covered in mud, blood, and streaks of black dye. Every step seemed to pain him.
"Put it on the tab!" Bronn grimaced, hobbling up to Solomon. "I just added a hell of a chapter to your family history."
"How did you do that?" Solomon asked, genuinely impressed.
Bronn didn't look at him. He stood beside him, watching the cleanup.
"You got lucky. I caught two lions. Maybe brothers. Doesn't matter."
"I killed one. Skinned it." He shuddered. "Wearing that damn pelt while running on two legs... agony."
"By the way! Two lions go on the bill! Lions are rare in Westeros these days. Lords would kill to hang one on their wall."
He hadn't caught them alone—Solomon's twenty men did the heavy lifting—but details didn't matter to a sellsword.
"You seem experienced at this," Solomon said, glancing at him.
Bronn shrugged.
"Heh. In Dorne, I heard a story. A noble baby strangled a viper in his crib."
"In the Stormlands, a nine-year-old boy killed a dozen bandits alone."
"In the North, a noble child survived the winter wasteland for months, guided home by a white bear."
"Behind every legend, peasants fear, enemies tremble, and nobles sit tighter on their chairs."
"When I become a noble, I'll say my parents were wolves. Wolf-suckled spawn! Ha!"
Solomon chuckled and patted his shoulder. "Wolf spawn? Looking at you now, unwashed and bloody, I believe it."
"Full moon tonight. Want to howl?"
Bronn ignored him, turning to leave. He waved a hand without looking back. "Don't forget the tab!"
Solomon turned his attention back to the army.
Labor was done. The air reeked of blood, charred wood, sweat, and roast meat.
"Lauchlan!" Solomon barked.
Lauchlan stepped forward. His armor was filthy, his face pale. He knew what was coming.
He knelt on one knee before Solomon, head bowed low.
"Lord Solomon! I have sinned!" Lauchlan's voice was heavy. "The right flank broke! I almost caused a disaster! I let the wildlings escape!"
Behind him, his soldiers lowered their heads, shame burning their faces.
Solomon knew the cause—the rear attack on their loot had panicked them. It was human nature.
But the contrast with Lushen's iron discipline was too stark.
"I will not punish you," Solomon said coldly, scanning the soldiers.
Every man flinched.
"A lack of discipline in soldiers means the commander is incompetent," Solomon stated. "So I will not punish you."
"Your commander failed. You tell me—what is the price?"
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
Lauchlan treated them well. They didn't want him punished.
No one spoke.
Suddenly, Lauchlan stood up. He stripped off his armor and his tunic.
He stood bare-chested in the cold night, revealing a back already scarred from battle.
He snatched a rattan whip from Lushen's hands.
"You! Come up here! One lash each!" Lauchlan roared. "Execute military law!"
He knew his sin. If the flank hadn't broken, Solomon could have taken the head of the most powerful wildling chief in the Mountains of the Moon. He had failed his lord.
He remembered the panic, the screaming, the urge to kill himself when the line broke. Only the black lion had saved them.
"What are you waiting for!!" Lauchlan screamed. "Step forward!!"
Lushen looked at Solomon, wanting to intervene, but Lauchlan's glare stopped him.
Finally, a young soldier stepped forward, trembling. He raised the whip.
He struck lightly, weeping.
"Again!!" Lauchlan roared. "Harder!!"
Crack!
"Again!!!!"
CRACK!
Blood welled up. The soldier dropped the whip and ran back, sobbing.
Solomon stood silent. He had wanted to punish Lauchlan, but not like this. One hundred lashes? The man would be crippled.
He glanced at Lushen, signaling for an intervention, but the stubborn ox just wiped his eyes and did nothing.
Damn it, Solomon thought. I miss Bronn already. Loyalty is great, but brains are better.
The soldiers showed no mercy because Lauchlan wouldn't let them. If anyone struck lightly, Lauchlan glared with bloodshot eyes and demanded another strike.
When the last soldier finished, Lauchlan's back was a ruin of shredded flesh.
Yet he knelt upright, straight as a spear. The posture of a farmer was gone forever.
He knew Solomon wouldn't punish him severely.
So he chose the pain himself.
He wanted the agony to carve this lesson into his soul.
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