Solomon's arms were steady as he laid Lady Rona gently on the bed.
Her dress was disheveled from the riot, exposing the pale skin of her neck and the rise of her chest. The room smelled faintly of her perfume—lavender and fear.
She stared at the ceiling, eyes hollow. A lamb who had survived the wolves but lost the flock.
"You are... safe for now, My Lady," Solomon said softly, bowing slightly. "I must leave to join my men outside the walls."
He turned to go.
A cold, soft hand grabbed his wrist.
The grip wasn't strong, but it was desperate, like a drowning woman clutching a piece of driftwood.
"No... Lord Solomon!" Her voice was a whisper, thick with tears. "Please... don't go... don't leave me alone... help me."
She trembled. Her husband was dead. Her father-in-law was dead. Her servants were dead. The knights outside were vultures. Solomon was the only solid thing left in her world.
Solomon stopped. He looked down at her tear-streaked face. The pride of a noblewoman was gone. Only terror remained.
He hesitated, then reached out and gently smoothed her messy hair.
She didn't flinch. She leaned into his touch, seeking comfort like a child.
" The granaries are empty, but I will transfer enough food for you," Solomon said, his voice lowering to a soothing hum. "Your castle will survive the winter."
Rona looked up, hope sparking in her eyes. "Really? You... you would do that?"
"I would, My Lady."
She wept again, but this time with relief. She pressed her cheek against his palm.
"Thank you... thank you, Lord Solomon. I will repay you... I promise."
She was completely disarmed. The fear melted away, replaced by total dependence. In her eyes, he was her savior.
Solomon sighed internally. This feels wrong. But he needed Deepden secure.
He gently tried to pull his hand away, but she grabbed it and placed it back on her head.
Solomon: "..."
Awkwardly, he used his free hand to pull a folded parchment from his robe. He unfolded it with difficulty.
It was a list of names.
"My Lady," he said calmly. "Your castle fell into chaos because of these men."
"They killed your steward. They stole your grain to cause a riot. They spread rumors to steal your land."
Rona looked at the list. The names blurred. She didn't care who they were. She just wanted the nightmare to end.
She shook her head, pressing her face into his hand again.
"I... I don't know, Lord Solomon," she sobbed. "I don't know anything... please, you handle it. Everything."
"You decide."
Solomon handed her a quill. She signed the bottom of the parchment without reading it. It was a death warrant for every remaining loyalist of House Deepden.
Solomon refolded the paper.
"Rest now, My Lady. My soldiers will guard the keep. No one will disturb you."
She didn't let go. Her breathing slowed as exhaustion took over.
Solomon waited until she was asleep. He gently extricated his hand.
"Don't... don't go... Little Solomon," she murmured in her sleep.
Solomon paused. He looked at her sleeping face with a complex expression.
He tucked her in, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Then he turned and left the room.
Outside, Lushen and his guards stood at attention.
"Guard this door. Control the inner keep," Solomon whispered. "No one enters without my order."
"Yes, my Lord!"
Solomon walked into the courtyard. Bronn stepped out of the shadows.
Solomon handed him the list without a word.
"As you wish, Solomon." Bronn took it and vanished into the dark.
Solomon walked into the castle garden. It was Lady Rona's pride, filled with roses. He sat on the grass, plucked a flower, and smelled it.
Was he a villain? Maybe. But he was alive. And soon, he would be powerful.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Heavy footsteps broke the peace.
Lauchlan ran into the garden, bending over, gasping for air. He pointed back the way he came, face red with anger.
Solomon waited calmly.
Finally, Lauchlan sucked in a breath.
"Lord Solomon! A patrol reports... there is an old Septon!"
"He is burying the wildling heads! The Hill of Skulls!"
"And... he smashed your stone monument!"
Lauchlan looked up, furious. "He is burying our enemies! He is insulting your victory!"
Solomon stared at him. His expression didn't change.
He just sat there, holding the rose, listening to the silence of the garden.
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