Solomon allowed a dark, jagged smile to touch his lips as he handled the heavy windlass crossbow. A weapon like this was never intended for the average soldier to use in a fair duel.
It wasn't meant for long-range suppression; it couldn't compete with the rapid volley of a longbow. Its true value lay in the ambush—in the brutal, stationary defense. And once the bolts were coated in the toxic brews used by the likes of the Red Viper...
Dozens, perhaps hundreds of these windlass engines, hidden in a narrow valley or perched atop a rampart, unleashing a synchronized volley at a charge of armored "lords."
Shoot the horse to fell the rider. The mental image was enough to savor: the proud, heavy-armored war machines of Westeros being systematically dismantled in a single breath.
"My lord... would you... like me to demonstrate its power for you?" Bolin asked, his voice cautious as he watched the shifting expressions on Solomon's face.
Solomon's gaze drifted over Bolin's shoulder toward Evelyn, who had just stepped into the hall from the side corridor.
She appeared to have just finished supervising the excavation work deep within the Lion's Den. Hearing the commotion, she approached with a silent, questioning tilt of her head.
Solomon didn't speak. He simply waved her over and lifted the heavy crossbow in invitation.
Evelyn understood instantly.
At Solomon's command, two sturdy maidservants hauled a specialized target to the far end of the hall. It was a straw man fitted with a complete set of black chainmail. The links were polished to a dark sheen, catching the orange flicker of the candlelight.
To make the test true, Solomon had ordered a freshly slaughtered pig to be split open. The entire carcass—thick with bone, gristle, and heavy fat—had been stuffed inside the mail shirt.
The atmosphere in the hall grew heavy and still.
Evelyn approached the weapon without hesitation. She stepped into the stirrup at the front of the stock, pinning it to the floor with her boot. Bending over the engine, she gripped the twin handles of the windlass and began to crank.
The rhythmic, metallic clicking of the gears echoed sharply against the stone walls, a sound of immense tension being coiled.
The heavy steel drawstring was dragged back millimeter by millimeter, letting out a series of agonizing, high-pitched groans as the tension climbed. Every click represented a terrifying store of potential energy being compressed into the steel limbs.
Standing to the side, Bolin couldn't help but swallow hard.
What a... "sturdy"... woman.
Turning the windlass required a steady, relentless application of strength. Evelyn's movements were fluid and unwavering, appearing even more effortless than some of the young, muscled men in Bolin's smithy.
He had always known she was brilliant, but he hadn't expected her to possess such raw physical power. Her silhouette was striking—it was only a pity about the birthmark.
Finally, a sharp clack signaled the string had seated into the trigger mechanism.
Evelyn stood up, lifting the heavy engine of war into her arms.
Solomon stepped up beside her. He adjusted her posture with a light touch, his hand steady. Even as the faint scent of her skin reached him, his mind remained cold and focused on the target.
She ignored the proximity of his hands, drawing a deep breath and then holding it. She could feel his breathing against the skin of her neck.
The hall was deathly silent. Even the maidservants had stopped their scrubbing to watch.
Bolin stood with his mouth hanging open, his mind reeling. The Lord's tastes... truly are...
Every eye in the room was fixed on the heavy bolt seated in the groove—twice the thickness of a standard arrow, tipped with a four-sided, armor-piercing bodkin point.
Evelyn held her breath for a heartbeat longer. Then, she pulled the trigger.
There was no thunderous roar. Only a dull, short, snapping twang!
It was followed instantly by a high-pitched, terrifying shriek of air being torn apart.
The black bolt seemed to defy time, vanishing into a blur too fast for the human eye to track. It crossed the length of the hall in a heartbeat.
Clang! The sound of metal meeting metal. Thwack! The sound of metal rending flesh.
Before anyone could even blink, the heavy bolt struck the straw man square in the chest.
The thick chainmail, designed to turn aside the heaviest sword strokes, was pierced as easily as wet parchment. A jagged, ugly hole exploded outward.
The sheer kinetic impact was so massive that the entire target, along with its heavy wooden frame, was thrown backward, crashing into the floor.
A suffocating silence blanketed the hall.
Bolin was the first to snap out of it. He sprinted across the floor toward the target.
He knelt, using his belt knife to hack through the leather straps holding the mail in place. He peeled back the punctured steel, exposing the mess beneath. A series of sharp gasps rippled through the onlookers.
The bolt had buried itself nearly its entire length into the pig's body, leaving only a few inches of the fletching visible.
The entry wound was a horrific, blood-soaked crater where bone had been pulverized and meat shredded.
It wasn't a piercing. It was an annihilation.
Bolin reached in, trying to wrench the bolt free, but it was wedged immovably between shattered ribs and dense muscle.
Solomon walked over slowly. He looked at the ruined carcass, then at Evelyn's calm face.
He took the crossbow from her—it was still warm from her touch. He ran a finger over the cold steel limbs, feeling the dormant power vibrating within.
"Good. Very good," Solomon said softly, his voice carrying clearly to Bolin and Evelyn. "Riverrun has offered no reply to the envoys we sent regarding the Lege family."
He knew exactly what that silence meant: a hope that the matter would simply fade away. One was a direct vassal of Riverrun, the other a vassal of a vassal. Even House Deddings had remained silent, essentially telling him to handle it himself.
Solomon raised the empty crossbow, sighting down the hall in a shooting posture.
"In that case, we will simply have to go and take an answer for ourselves."
House Lege was no longer a mere rival; they were a cancer that needed to be cut out.
Solomon felt the cold, lethal weight of the weapon in his hands. He didn't blame King Joffrey for his obsession with the crossbow; it was a marvelous machine. He made a mental note to have Bolin design a smaller, concealable version—something that could be hidden under a cloak, loaded with bolts dipped in the manticore venom favored by the Red Viper. A perfect tool for an assassin.
The road back to the Lion's Den was long and grueling, the heavy wagon wheels carving deep, wet groans into the mud of the mountain path.
Bana pulled his cloak tight against the damp wind and glanced at the man sitting beside him on the lead horse-cart.
The man was lean, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a scruffy patch of stubble. He called himself Bronn.
"So, you're telling me you nearly lost your life for a pile of rusted scrap metal?" Bronn asked, gesturing with a lazy thumb toward the wagons behind them, which were loaded to the brim. His tone was amused, mocking.
"This was the task Lord Solomon entrusted to me," Bana replied. His voice was quiet but possessed a newfound clarity. He looked at the muddy road ahead, his thoughts drifting back to Seagard.
It was a castle filled with the salt-stench of the sea and the reek of fish, serving as the largest garrison point on the frontline of the Ironborn war. The massive, long-term military presence had birthed a medium-sized urban ecosystem around the camp—a place where anything could be bought for the right price.
Bana had found exactly what he was looking for there.
A lord's quartermaster had rubbed his hands together, looking at Bana with a mixture of confusion and pity. "Ser, these... these are all battlefield salvage. The plates are rusted through, the padding is rotting, and the helmets are caved in. They're covered in blood and bone-scraps that won't wash off. Nobody wants this junk. Are you certain?"
"I want all of it," Bana had said, his eyes gleaming. Using a budget far lower than the one Solomon had provided, he had secured a mountain of damaged armor and broken weapons for a price that was practically a gift.
As he watched his men load the "trash" onto the wagons, Bana felt a surge of pride unlike anything he had ever known.
He was no longer the beggar-man, huddled in a village corner living on cold scraps. He was Lord Solomon's Master of Coin. And he had executed his mission perfectly.