The pale light of early morning filtered through the windows of the temporary command hall.
Solomon sat at the table, working a clean linen cloth slowly and methodically along the length of the Myrish blade. Roger Lege's blood had dried on the steel by now, and he was peeling it away a little at a time.
Brynden Tully stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, watching in silence. He seemed, as always, to be wearing that same battered black mail.
The Blackfish's voice broke the quiet, rough with a trace of weariness beneath it.
"You could have pardoned him."
He came inside. His boots made crisp sounds against the flagstones.
"Roger Lege had already lost. Taking his head did nothing to help your position."
Solomon stopped the cloth and looked up. His expression was entirely still — no ripple, no agitation. He slid the cleaned Myrish blade back into its scabbard.
He spread his hands wide on the table, his tone the tone of a man stating something self-evident.
"I gave him many opportunities, Ser."
"I show mercy only to those who are loyal to me and treat me with goodwill."
He paused, letting his gaze rest on Brynden's face.
"As for my enemies — I make certain they understand what they deserve for choosing to stand against me."
The air in the hall seemed to thicken and hold.
After a long silence, the tight line of Brynden Tully's mouth gradually eased. He gave a slow nod, and even allowed himself a quiet exhale.
"You are considerably more honest than those men who never stop talking about honour and mercy."
"But, boy — in Westeros, you cannot govern by the sword alone."
Solomon's smile appeared.
"That only tells me I need more swords."
He reached across the table, picked up a sealed letter, and held it out — wax stamp bearing the sigil of House Deddings.
"A letter arrived by raven from Lord Balon."
Brynden took it, broke the seal, and read quickly, his eyes moving fast across the parchment.
The letter praised Solomon's courage and judgment at considerable length, and offered an explanation for why no reinforcements had been dispatched — Lord Balon had been away from his seat, his lands thinly garrisoned, and he assured Solomon that under any other circumstances he would certainly have sent his army. It closed with a formal pledge that in the negotiations to come, he would exert every effort to secure for Solomon the return of his lands, the ransoms owed, and full compensation for the reconstruction of the Reekfort.
Brynden folded the letter and set it on the table.
He looked at Solomon, and his eyes sharpened.
"Roger is dead. House Lege requires a new lord."
"The party you will negotiate with is his younger brother, Ser Gaels Lege. You should release him at once, without conditions, and let him represent his house. That is the first step toward a peaceful conclusion."
Solomon's answer came without a moment of hesitation.
"Of course."
He did not even ask a follow-up question. He simply turned to Lushen, waiting at the door, and gave the order.
"Release Ser Gaels Lege and his family."
"Withdraw most of the army from the city."
"Release all of Willowbrook's original household servants."
"Return his brother and his nephew to him — the bodies intact. Give him the opportunity to bury them with proper rites."
"And then..." a slight pause, "...extend him an invitation to see me."
Lushen acknowledged the order and departed.
Brynden was visibly surprised by the ease of it — the withdrawal of the army from the city, the return of Jero Lege's body. He had expected Solomon to hesitate. To calculate. At minimum, to push back.
He could not quite stop himself from asking.
"You are not afraid he will come for vengeance?"
The faintest smile settled on Solomon's face.
"He is welcome to try at any time."
That composure — that absolute, untroubled certainty — gave even the battle-scarred Blackfish pause.
Where does this young man's confidence come from?
The silence stretched.
Then Brynden reached to his belt and unclasped his sword. His voice, when he spoke, carried a deliberate gravity.
"This is the Royce family's blade. Lamentation."
Solomon looked. The Valyrian steel sword of House Royce lay quiet in its wrappings.
"I have already sent word to House Royce."
"Remember — they will offer you a generous reward. But there are times when friendship is worth more than a bag of gold dragons. House Royce's friendship in particular. Lord Bronze Yohn's friendship."
Solomon nodded. He understood the Blackfish's implication well enough. He was being told to choose: take the gold from House Royce and close the account, or refuse the payment and open something that could outlast them both — an alliance between two houses across generations.
Brynden continued, rewrapping Lamentation as he spoke.
"Once matters here are settled."
"I will return to the Bloody Gate and escort the sword personally to Runestone."
He paused, and added a quiet footnote.
"After which, I expect I will not be returning to the Riverlands."
Solomon blinked.
Wait. What? Then who endorses my dragon-slaying warrior lineage officially?
He rose, looking at the Blackfish.
"Ser — will you not be reporting everything that occurred here to Lord Paramount Hoster? You are simply leaving?"
Brynden Tully laughed.
It was a laugh with something sly at its edges. He pointed across the yard toward Robin Lege, who was in conversation with several knights in the distance.
"Oh, that. Robin will report it in my place. And strictly speaking — I currently serve the Eyrie. My lord is the Warden of the East, Lord Jon Arryn, not the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."
He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice.
"Besides, my brother and I..." He gave a small, knowing tilt of his head. "You understand. We have never seen things quite the same way. He considers me a bad fish who gives House Tully a poor name."
"Riverrun has quite enough with him and his school of family, duty, and honor."
Solomon held up a finger.
"Hold on."
"Then what about my official certification as heir to a Dragon-Slaying warrior and Champion of the Faith? If you leave, who confirms that to the Lord Paramount?"
The Blackfish blinked. His smile did not waver.
"Robin will report that as well."
He seemed to take genuine pleasure in Solomon's expression of baffled disbelief, savoring it for a moment before leaning in a second time, his voice dropping further — low enough now that only the two of them could hear it.
"One more thing..."
Something entered his eyes — a gleam of private amusement layered over something altogether harder to read.
"What would you say to an endorsement from the Hand of the King?"
Solomon opened his mouth to answer —
And was interrupted.
Gaels Lege was escorted through the door by a pair of soldiers. Brynden Tully took one look at what was entering the room, gave a quiet nod to no one in particular, and slipped out without a word.
The middle-aged knight was presentably dressed, but the exhaustion ran bone-deep. He looked at Solomon and said nothing.
Solomon didn't elaborate either. He simply gestured toward the chair across the table.
His voice was level.
"Ser Gaels."
"Your brother chose to let the Seven decide this by combat. They have rendered their verdict. He is guilty. I am not."
He indicated the empty chair.
"Sit, My Lord. House Lege needs a new head. And you need to secure a future for your family."
He let that land, then added one quiet sentence.
"Or you may choose to solve this the same way your brother did."
Gaels Lege's body went rigid. He looked at Solomon for a long moment.
Then his reason — what was left of it after everything — moved his heavy legs toward the chair.
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