The heavy iron portcullis lowered behind them, sealing the inner keep away from the world entirely.
Brynden Tully's face remained unreadable. The knights around him, however, were quietly seething at the insult dealt to Riverrun.
Robin Lege's face had gone the colour of cold ash. He looked back at the sealed door as if he could see through the wood and stone to the man inside — his own blood, consumed by madness and grief.
In Willowbrook's temporary command hall, Brynden and Robin entered to find Solomon already there. He waved the room clear of attendants without ceremony.
He was not seated at the head of the table. He stood before a large map, turning a small game piece between his fingers, his tone easy, his face carrying the faintest smile.
"It appears Lord Roger Lege has refused to negotiate."
Robin's voice came out worn through. "He refused to yield."
"He means to fight to the death."
Brynden studied Solomon. His eyes were sharp.
"The garrison has already resorted to eating the bodies of women and servants. His supply line is severed. The defenders' morale has collapsed entirely."
"All you need do is continue the siege. Within a few days, that gate will open of its own accord. He will walk out and negotiate with you."
"In the name of Riverrun, I ask you to wait. Let this be resolved peacefully."
Solomon did not reply immediately. He set the game piece back on the sand table, placing it precisely on the position of the inner keep's main tower.
Then, with an unhurried hand, he drew a single sheet of parchment from the stack of documents on the table and held it out.
Brynden took it with a slight frown and unfolded it. Robin leaned in beside him.
The handwriting was frantic, the strokes rushed and uneven. The ink had bled in places, as if the writer's hands had been wet — with sweat, or perhaps tears.
The contents were brief. The situation inside the keep had deteriorated to cannibalism. A number of soldiers within the inner fortress had signed their names to a joint request: if a torch were lit as a signal at nightfall, they would open the gate from the inside. In return, they asked only for their lives.
The date at the top of the letter was from a long time ago.
Robin's fingers tightened on the parchment. The paper let out a small, brittle sound. He raised his head, lips parting — and found he had nothing to say. This young man had held a winning hand for weeks and had still left the door open for negotiation every single day.
Solomon's gaze moved across Robin's face and settled on the Blackfish.
"I received this letter many days ago."
"I did not attack immediately. I wished to offer Lord Roger Lege an honourable negotiation — not a surrender, but a resolution fitting the customs between noble houses."
"And I wished to wait for my liege lord and Riverrun's envoys to arrive and render a fair judgment on this matter."
His voice was quiet, but it landed like a hammer on Robin Lege's chest. Whatever else one might say about how this war began, everything the young man had done since had been beyond reproach.
A trace of genuine regret finally entered Solomon's tone.
"But he refused my goodwill."
"His vassals' forces are assembling. This must be concluded. If it is not, the war will be forced to drag on indefinitely."
"I have already recalled my main force. I cannot wait here without end." He paused. "Tonight, I will end this."
Brynden Tully held Solomon's gaze for a long time.
At last he spoke, his voice low and deliberate.
"I will not interfere with tonight's operation."
"But Riverrun has one condition."
Solomon looked at him.
"Roger Lege's life must not be taken."
Solomon's face settled into a measured smile. He nodded once.
Robin Lege let out a long breath, turned, and left.
Brynden's eye drifted without intention across the long table in front of Solomon — and stopped.
Spread across the table was an enormous parchment map.
He found himself walking toward it without having decided to move, eyes locked on the surface, each step slow and careful, as if he were afraid of startling it away.
The blue ink traced every tributary of the Trident with meticulous precision. Black lines marked every road from the King's Road down to the most obscure country track. Castles, towns, and villages were distinguished by different symbols, each annotated in tiny, dense script noting house sigils and approximate populations.
What made his pulse quicken most, however, were the territories outlined in red and brown — the Westerlands, the domain of House Lannister. The angles of the mountain ranges. The extent of the forests. The distribution of the mines. The level of detail was such that Riverrun's finest map — its most prized possession — would look like a child's scribble beside it.
Brynden stepped around Solomon without ceremony and pressed closer, his fingers brushing the parchment surface as though it were something sacred.
He could not keep the wonder entirely out of his voice.
"Where did you get this?"
Solomon showed no sign of minding being pushed aside. He replied lightly. "Bought it from a merchant. Cost me considerably."
Evelyn had drawn several versions — this was the least detailed of them. Still, it was extraordinarily rare, and this old man was almost certainly going to try to claim it.
But Brynden's eyes were already fixed to the map like iron to a lodestone, incapable of pulling free. He bent low, his finger tracing slowly along the coastline from Seagard toward Lannisport.
He straightened slightly, cleared his throat, and looked at Solomon.
"Solomon. This map."
"In the name of Riverrun, I ask you to gift it to House Tully."
"It is vital to the Riverlands' defences against the Ironborn."
"Riverrun will reward you generously."
Solomon watched him. This legendary Blackfish — this man of iron reputation — was behaving exactly like a child who had spotted a coveted toy, his face pressed as close to the map as dignity would permit, studying every line as though he feared missing a single detail.
Solomon found it quietly amusing.
He said nothing — neither consent nor refusal — and simply lifted the wine cup from the table and took a small, unhurried sip.
Brynden seemed to expect no immediate answer. His attention had already been drawn back to the map — or rather, to a deeper question the map had stirred in him. He seemed to have suddenly remembered that the young man before him had just achieved a victory of almost improbable precision, employing a campaign that bore very little resemblance to any recognizable Westerosi convention of war.
He extended a hand — weathered, calloused, cross-hatched with old scars — and pointed to the waters off Seagard in the northeastern corner of the map.
"A sizable Iron Fleet is assembling at sea."
Brynden glanced up at Solomon briefly, then back at the map.
"My brother, and every advisor at Riverrun, believes their target is Seagard."
He shook his head, tapping the city's position once with his finger.
"I do not."
He looked up at the young man in front of him. The look in his eyes was that of a man posing an examination.
"What do you think?"
Solomon set down his cup and stepped up beside the Blackfish, shoulder to shoulder.
He looked at the map.
Balon Greyjoy — one of Westeros's great military minds, though emphatically not in any flattering sense. Now, as in the future, the man's strategic reasoning was beyond most people's ability to follow: he launched a rebellion against a unified kingdom, and in the midst of the War of the Five Kings, he ignored the rich, vulnerable Westerlands and marched north instead.
"If the Ironborn only want to raid and plunder, they will strike Seagard. But that war will fail."
"Setting Seagard aside — when an army of that scale assembles, can the plunder balance the cost?"
"If Balon Greyjoy wants a genuine victory — or a situation where he can truly stand alone and untouchable — he will not go anywhere near Seagard."
Solomon's fingers moved across the map, tracing the coastlines of the Riverlands and the Westerlands.
"Three forces currently pose a lethal threat to the Iron Fleet at sea."
"The Royal Fleet. House Redwyne of the Arbor. And House Lannister's fleet in the Westerlands — right on his doorstep."
"The Westerlands and the Reach — I do not believe either would be willing to stake everything in a direct naval engagement with the Ironborn alone. But they will answer the King's summons in the end, wait for the Royal Fleet to assemble, and combine forces."
Solomon's finger moved sharply southward and came down hard on Lannisport, on the western coast.
Brynden's pupils contracted.
The same conclusion.
"So if the Ironborn want to win this war — or at least seize a favourable position —"
"They must cripple one of those three forces before the Royal Fleet can concentrate."
Solomon's voice turned cold and precise. Being remembered by the Blackfish would be no small thing.
"Feint toward the Riverlands. Strike the Westerlands."
"Their true target is the Lannister fleet."
"Raid Lannisport. Destroy the western fleet. In a single stroke, the kingdom's entire naval strength in the western seas is shattered."
"Only then can the Ironborn become the undisputed masters of the sea in the short term — free to appear and vanish along the entire length of the coastline, answerable to no one."
Brynden Tully raised his head slowly.
He looked at the young man in front of him, and something new appeared in his eyes — a quiet, measured appreciation.
"You are clever, Solomon."
A pause.
"Very clever."