Solomon galloped with Lauchlan and sixteen riders.
He had confiscated the warhorses of House Deepden without a second thought, and his men were already using twenty captured wildling ponies to haul goods back to Mirekeep Castle.
They neared the edge of the mountains. Ahead, Solomon saw his soldiers shoving an old man.
Beside the man stood a donkey and a barking dog.
Solomon recognized him immediately. Septon Meribald. The barefoot brother of the Riverlands. A true believer. A genuinely good man.
"Stop!" Solomon shouted, vaulting off his horse.
The soldiers, seeing their lord, stepped back respectfully.
Solomon walked up and helped the old man to his feet.
Meribald's hands were rough and calloused from decades of travel. His feet were bare, swollen, and black with hardened skin. In the hierarchy of the Faith, he was barely above a beggar.
For forty years, he had walked the Riverlands, marrying peasants, hearing confessions, and sharing food carried by his donkey. When the War of the Five Kings would ravage this land in the future, he would be one of the few trying to heal the wounds.
Meribald didn't look at Solomon. His eyes were fixed on the pile of heads.
He limped toward the gruesome monument, ignoring the dust and pain.
With a trembling hand, he reached out and gently touched a wildling's severed head, as if comforting a lost soul.
An angry soldier grabbed his robe and threw him to the ground again.
Thud.
Meribald didn't groan. He just struggled to his feet with his skeletal arms and began to pray for the dead wildling.
The soldiers were breathing heavily, their anger palpable. To them, this old man was honoring monsters.
"Old Septon, they are wildlings," Solomon said, stepping between them to prevent further violence.
Two-thirds of his men had lost everything to these savages. Their hatred was absolute.
"Ser, I have been to Mirekeep Castle," the old man said, finally looking at Solomon. "Your people say you are a merciful lord. They pray to the Seven for your safety."
"That is rare in the Riverlands, or anywhere in Westeros."
Meribald smiled faintly.
"People call you the Guardian of the Riverlands."
"I have walked these lands many times. Old John, Old Hork... they gave me shelter and food. They were good people. Now they are dead."
"These wildlings are guilty, no doubt. They stole, they killed."
"Ser, I do not question your right to defend the people. I thank you. You saved many."
"You did your duty as a warrior. But I must do mine as a servant of the Seven. I pray for these dead so the Father may judge them fairly."
He looked at the rotting heads. "Death is equal. The Stranger takes us all."
"But you should not do this, Ser. Leaving the dead to rot as a monument to your power... that is not what a warrior does."
"You deny their souls rest. They howl in the cold wind."
"To stop them from reaching the Stranger is to usurp the Father's judgment. It tramples the Mother's mercy. It blasphemes the Warrior's spirit."
Solomon was silent. But his men were furious.
"Old fool! Have you ever seen war?!" a soldier shouted. "Do you know what they did to my family?!!"
Meribald stroked his dog, speaking softly. "Of course. They called it the War of the Ninepenny Kings. I never saw a king, nor earned a penny. It was just a war."
"Everyone I went with died. The Stepstones, I think they were called?"
"I know war. I have seen it often in the Riverlands."
"Common folk live in their villages until one day, the lord calls. They march under silk banners with sickles and hoes, wearing rags."
"Fathers watch sons die. Sons watch fathers die. Brothers watch brothers die."
"The survivors see a victorious lord declare he is their new master."
"Then they march to the next battlefield. The wounds never heal. The belly is never full. Shoes rot away."
"One day, they look around and see only strangers. They cannot recognize the banner. They do not know where they are, or how to go home."
"War takes a man's soul. He becomes a husk, walking until he dies."
Solomon looked at his soldiers.
They were ready to kill an unarmed holy man because of their hate. They had become the "broken men" Meribald spoke of. They were wolves now—some driven by vengeance, others by greed for the future he promised.
Their souls were gone. Only desire remained.
If he failed to pay them, their loyalty would turn to hate. If he showed mercy to the enemy, they would kill him just as the Night's Watch killed Jon Snow.
Solomon looked at the hill of skulls.
"Lauchlan! Gather the men!" Solomon ordered, pointing at the gruesome monument.
"Collect wood. Burn them."
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