The cold wind swept over the high slopes, rippling through the plains grass and carrying the scent of damp earth and crushed vegetation.
Solomon stood at the crest of the ridge, his gaze sweeping over the sprawling expanse below.
A river, silver and shimmering like a vein of mercury, wound through the landscape, feeding the fertile black soil on either bank. To the right, the jagged, snow-capped silhouette of the Mountains of the Moon blurred into the clouds—the natural fortress separating the Riverlands from the Vale of Arryn.
This was Wycombe Gorge. Flanked by the Green Fork on the left and the mountains on the right, it was a basin pierced by three mountain streams that tumbled down to join the great river. Better yet, the Kingsroad cut straight through it. A major artery of trade, paved and waiting.
"Perfect. It is too perfect," Solomon murmured, a low hum in his throat. The sight of such arable land triggered an instinct deep within his soul—the genetic memory of a people from an ancient civilization across the stars, a people who had spent five thousand years taming rivers and sowing grain. He could not resist the allure of a flat plain.
In his mind's eye, the grass vanished, replaced by irrigation canals, water wheels, and golden waves of harvest wheat.
"My Lord?" Lauchlan asked, watching Solomon's widened, obsessive eyes.
Solomon blinked, the fantasy shattering. The headache returned. Lady Roslin Deddings had kept her word; she had given him a fertile fiefdom. But she had also handed him a poisoned chalice.
The ownership of Wycombe Gorge was a mess of tangled claims. Multiple houses declared rights to it. Old Walder Frey had his greedy eyes on the crossings, and there were ancient border disputes between the Vale lords and the Riverlords.
This was the curse of the Riverlands. Unlike the other six kingdoms, this region had seen hundreds of petty kings rise and fall before the Conquest. Every minor house claimed a drop of royal blood, leading to a culture where vassals like the Brackens or Blackwoods often eclipsed their liege lords, the Tullys.
Solomon turned to look behind him. His people were unloading carts and driving stakes for tents. Four hundred soldiers.
The promise of private property was a powerful lure. Though many doubted, over a hundred male refugees from the famine-stricken areas near his old home—Reekfort—had chosen to trust him. They had migrated here to break the soil.
Counting the soldiers' families—the elderly, the women, the children—his caravan numbered over a thousand souls. This was his Reclamation Corps. His future subjects.
Children chased each other through the knee-high grass. Women gathered in circles, their faces flushed with excitement as they touched the rich earth, chattering about the harvest to come.
The men—Solomon's soldiers—stared at the fields with hunger in their eyes. Then, a rough voice started a melody, and soon hundreds joined in. It was a marching song, a ballad of the Riverlands praising their Lord Solomon. It lacked the refinement of court music, but it throbbed with raw power:
"The Moon Mountains high, where the shadows creep,
The frost bites hard, and the earth implies sleep.
A thousand wildlings, a tide of bone,
Descend to strip the Riverlands prone."
"The wind screams cold, the snow falls gray,
But the Black Lion rises to seize the day.
Three hundred farmers, with steel in hand,
Stand in the gorge, defend the land!"
"Black Lion's oath, in blood we bind!
Death awaits, but we leave none behind!
No step back, no knee shall bend,
We hold the line until the end!"
"The Lion roars! The night ignites!
Shoulder to shoulder, through the darkest fights!
Farmers bleed, with wills of steel,
For every inch of field, we make them kneel!"
"Let them come, let them fall! Back against the wall!
In the gorge, we stand tall!
Let them come, let them fall! Solomon! Black Lion!"
"Legend reborn!"
"The Black Lion of the Rivers!"
"Long may he reign! Long may he reign!"
Solomon bit the tip of his tongue, the sharp pain grounding him. He had to stay sober. These people saw only land and a new start. They did not see the vultures circling.
"What a place, Lord Solomon," Luchen said, standing at his shoulder, his dark, weathered face split in a grin. "Ten thousand times better than Reekfort."
"Aye. A good place," Solomon said, his eyes drifting back to the horizon. "But good places never lack for men who want to steal them." He turned to his aide. "Lauchlan, has the envoy returned?"
The land beneath his boots belonged to him by decree and by law. Yet, it was currently held by House Terry, a knightly house and the last nail House Deddings had left in this region.
House Terry was a vassal of Deddings, but due to the chaos of the borderlands, they had occupied far more land than a landed knight was entitled to. A knight usually held a village; Sir Walker Terry held a domain fit for a small lord.
Solomon was now his liege. By law, Terry should have ridden out to swear fealty and surrender the illegally occupied tracts the moment Solomon's banner appeared. Instead, the valley remained silent. They were pretending Solomon did not exist.
Lauchlan nodded. "I sent the rider to convey your orders, My Lord. To demand his oath and the return of the land."
"Always squeeze the softest fruit first," Solomon sighed. The other factions in the area—the Freys, the Valemen—were dangerous unknowns. He had to start by crushing the insubordinate vassal he actually had legal rights over.
As he spoke, a black dot appeared on the horizon, moving fast.
A rider urged his horse up the slope, foam flecking the beast's mouth. He reined in hard before Solomon, the horse dancing nervously, sensing its rider's distress.
The messenger threw himself from the saddle, stumbling before dropping to one knee. His face was a mask of sweat, dust, and a flushed, uncontrollable rage.
"Lord Solomon!" His voice was a rasp, broken by heaving breaths.
"Walker Terry... he refuses!" The rider looked up, eyes burning. "He read your decree, threw it into the dirt, and stamped on it!"
"He said... he said..."
Luchen stepped forward, grabbing the rider's shoulder with a grip like a vice. "What did he say?!"
The rider flinched, his voice trembling. "He said your master is nothing but a dung-scraper! He kills a few savages and thinks he's a lion? He said he might let you live in peace, but..."
"But the land is his! His family bled for it! You want his land? Fine! Aside from the mud on his boots, you will get nothing!"
With shaking hands, the rider pulled a pouch from his belt. He upended it. A clod of wet, dirty clay—scraped from the boots of Sir Walker Terry—fell onto the grass.
"You fool!" Luchen roared, eyes bulging. He swung a heavy fist, striking the rider across the face and knocking him flat. "Why would you bring this filth back to the Lord?!"
The soldiers nearby heard the shout. The insult rippled through the ranks like wildfire. Dung-scraper. Men drew steel. Shouts of anger rose, merging into a dull roar of outrage.
They looked to Solomon.
Solomon stood motionless. His expression did not change. He had expected resistance; no man gives up land easily.
Slowly, he walked to the fallen rider. He reached down, gripping the man's arm, and hauled him to his feet. He dusted the dirt from the man's tunic and, using his own fine velvet sleeve, wiped the blood trickling from the messenger's nose.
The rider's eyes welled with tears of shame and gratitude. He hung his head.
Solomon reached out and took the rider's right hand—the hand that had held the clod of earth. He raised their joined hands high into the air, lifting the rider's arm like a champion's.
He turned to his people, his voice cutting through the wind.
"Look!" Solomon bellowed. "My soldier has traveled to the enemy, and he has returned having seized the soil itself!"
"He has presented me with the land!"
For a second, silence. Then, understanding.
"Long live!"
The roar was deafening.
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