Inside the temporary command hall in Willowbrook's outer keep, Olivier walked in, his clothes dusted with the dirt of the road. His voice carried the specific, exhausted cadence of a noble's steward.
"My Lord, the supply train has arrived in full."
Solomon was seated before the massive map table, his finger slowly tracing the territories directly controlled by House Lege. He had intentionally let the false rumors slip, and he was currently calculating exactly how long it would take for Roger's remaining vassals to mobilize in the chaos.
In truth, he no longer needed the supplies. The granaries he had seized in Willowbrook's outer city were overflowing. However, the order had been given before the swift victory, and more importantly, Solomon genuinely needed someone deeply versed in the bureaucratic affairs of the nobility by his side.
He didn't bother to look up as he spoke. "You have arrived at the perfect time. I need someone who understands noble politics."
Olivier's gaze swept across the oak table, landing on a crumpled piece of parchment. The handwriting on it was frantic and desperate. "What is this?"
Solomon's tone was as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "A letter of surrender. Some men inside the inner keep wrapped it around a rock and threw it over the walls."
"They have no water and no food left. They are breaking. They are asking me to launch an assault, promising to open the gates in the ensuing chaos."
Olivier's heart skipped a beat. Isn't this the ultimate victory? He took a step forward, unable to hide the urgency in his voice. "Then why not accept the surrender, My Lord? If you capture Lord Roger, this war is won."
"If you order the attack, the traitors will open the gates from the inside, and Willowbrook will belong to you entirely."
He looked at the young lord's impassive profile, pressing the question.
"Why continue to besiege them without attacking?"
Solomon finally raised his head. He shook it slowly, tapping his finger heavily against the map. "Because right now, the war must continue."
"It is not yet time for it to end."
The war had gone far too smoothly. In this world, a prolonged, brutal war was the most efficient method of rapid expansion—plundering wealth, seizing land, and breaking rival power structures. A quick surrender would leave the Lege power base largely intact.
Olivier was stunned. He had served the great lords of the Westerlands for years; he knew the fundamental rules of noble warfare intimately.
Victory, then negotiation, followed by a dignified exchange of ransoms and hostages. That was the established order of Westeros.
Olivier carefully weighed his words, attempting to advise the young lord. "Lord Solomon... perhaps I speak out of turn."
"But the highborn of Westeros do not fear defeat."
"On the contrary, they can easily accept a battlefield loss. They will even record it in their family histories as a cautionary tale for their descendants."
He paused, closely observing Solomon's reaction.
"What they fear above all else is being stripped of their dignity. If you allow them a dignified surrender and honorable negotiations, you will win the hearts of the other lords and earn immense prestige across the Riverlands."
The corner of Solomon's mouth twitched, though it could hardly be called a smile. His voice was soft, but it carried a deeply strange, chilling undercurrent. "Oh, there will be a dignified conclusion."
Olivier felt a sudden, freezing chill crawl up his spine. He realized that the young man sitting before him was nothing like the high lords he had served in the West. Those men played by the ancient rules. Solomon was actively writing his own, terrifying rulebook.
Olivier fell silent. He took a step back, lowered his head, and stopped his counsel.
At that moment, the heavy doors opened, bringing a rush of cold wind into the hall.
Bolin stood in the doorway. Seeing Olivier—a man he did not recognize—his heavy footsteps faltered. His lips pressed into a tight line, seemingly hesitating to speak.
"Speak," Solomon's voice cut through the silence.
Only then did Bolin stride fully into the room. He wasted no words, delivering his report with brutal, military efficiency. "Jero Lege is dead."
The air in the room seemed to solidify into ice.
Olivier's head snapped up, his face turning the color of bone ash. He couldn't believe his own ears. "What... what did you just say?!!"
Bolin's voice remained entirely flat. "We encountered Jero Lege's forces on the road."
"He was shot and killed during the battle."
Olivier's voice spiked into a shrill, hysterical pitch. "You killed him?!!"
"You killed the sole heir of House Lege?!!"
"Have you lost your godsdamn mind!!?"
He glared at the massive blacksmith, his eyes wide with absolute terror. He then whipped his head toward Solomon, trying to communicate with a desperate look just how catastrophic this was.
For an heir, the only son of a ruling lord, to be intentionally slaughtered on the battlefield... it meant the war could never be stopped through negotiation.
This fool of a commander just locked Solomon and Roger Lege into a blood feud until one of their houses is exterminated. Olivier's frantic eyes urged Solomon to immediately arrest and punish Bolin to salvage the situation.
Bolin did not look at Solomon, nor did he pay any attention to Olivier's screaming. He simply lowered his head slightly and stood there in heavy silence. He did not mention that it was Solomon's implicit order. He accepted the burden entirely.
His posture clearly stated: I killed him. Let the blame fall entirely on my shoulders.
Solomon remained silent. He did not confirm it was his command, but more importantly, he did not utter a single word of reprimand.
He simply sat there, calmly watching Olivier's horror echo through the grand hall. That silence was infinitely more powerful than any explanation. It was a wordless, absolute declaration: Bolin's actions are my will.
Olivier's breathing grew ragged and shallow.
He looked back and forth between the young lord and his towering enforcer. Finally, he understood. He stumbled backward, his legs giving out until his back hit a heavy wooden chest with a dull thud. "My Lord... what in the names of the Seven are you doing?"
Bolin finally spoke again. His voice was still rough, but it carried the heavy weight of an explanation. "My Lord. Before we ambushed them, Jero Lege ordered the Reekfort torn down to the mud."
Olivier froze.
"He also ordered your ancestral graves dug up and desecrated."
"I have already had the men properly reinter the bones of your ancestors."
Olivier let out a long, shuddering breath. In an instant, he understood Bolin's unyielding fury. He understood the bloody justification behind the assassination.
In Westeros, desecrating a noble's grave was the most vile, unforgivable humiliation imaginable. It was a blasphemy that bred a hatred no amount of gold or negotiation could ever wash away.
Olivier looked at Bolin. Then it is justified. It had to be done. His voice carried a mix of profound realization and heavy resignation. "I see..."
"I can understand your fury... but... but this is still a dark path we walk."
What Olivier did not know was that when Bolin gave the order to execute Jero Lege, he had absolutely no idea the Reekfort had been destroyed. The destruction of the tower merely meant that Bolin ran into the doomed young lord a day earlier than expected.
Jero's death was always Solomon's command.
The desecration of the graves merely provided a perfect, culturally acceptable cloak of "righteous vengeance" to drape over a premeditated, cold-blooded political assassination.
As Solomon watched the two men, his heart was entirely undisturbed.
He wanted this war to continue. Deepening the blood feud was the most efficient way to ensure it did, guaranteeing that House Lege would fight until they had absolutely no strength left to resist, allowing Solomon to extract the maximum possible leverage from their collapse.
Bolin reached behind his back and produced a long, slender object wrapped in cloth, followed by a small, leather-bound journal tied with a thong.
Holding the bundle with both hands, he unwrapped the cloth to reveal a magnificent longsword. He presented it to Solomon with solemn reverence.
Solomon reached out, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
The moment his hand closed around the hilt, a strange sensation washed over him. The blade was shockingly light—far lighter than its size suggested—and the balance was absolutely perfect, superior even to his prized Myrish steel. A faint, icy aura seemed to seep from the grip into his palm.
He drew the blade an inch. A soft, lethal ring vibrated through the air. The dark steel was forged with incredible, flowing patterns that looked like rippling water, radiating a terrifying sharpness.
Olivier's eyes instantly bulged out of his skull. He gasped involuntarily. "Valyrian steel!"
His voice was thick with awe and pure reverence, as if he were gazing upon a holy relic. He lunged forward, completely forgetting his aristocratic manners, his tone frantic.
"Lord Solomon! Quickly! Cover it with the cloth! Such a treasure must not be shown so openly!"
Seeing the genuine panic in the steward's eyes, Solomon sheathed the magnificent blade. Olivier practically snatched the cloth from Bolin, meticulously wrapping the sword until the steel was completely hidden. Every single Valyrian steel sword in the world was priceless—an artifact valuable enough to start a war on its own.
Solomon's gaze shifted to the small, bound journal.
The leather cover was heavily corrupted by time, the edges curled and blackened.
He untied the leather cord and opened the first page.
On the ancient, brittle paper, a line of powerful ink strokes caught his eye.
"I am the Oathbreaker, Falo of the Reekfort."
Solomon flipped through the fragile pages. He quickly realized it was the life account of an ancestor—a fanatical follower of the Seven who had lived during the apocalyptic era of the Dance of the Dragons.
Suddenly, Solomon's hand stopped. His eyes widened. He had found a sentence that was incredibly, shockingly familiar.
"The blood... of the true dragon... wakes the stone dragons..."
He remembered. Isn't this the exact prophecy Melisandre used to manipulate Stannis Baratheon?
When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone. Melisandre firmly believed Stannis was Azor Ahai reborn.
The only difference was the specific mechanism. Melisandre told Stannis that Dragonstone was filled with literal stone dragons, and that only "king's blood" could wake them.
She had demanded Stannis sacrifice his nephew, the bastard Edric Storm, to harness his king's blood for the ritual—a plan that was ultimately thwarted by Davos Seaworth.
But his ancestor's diary added a crucial, highly specific qualifier: The blood of the true dragon.
Solomon slowly closed the book. The blood of the true dragon... does that mean the blood of House Targaryen?
High atop the battlements of the inner keep, Lord Roger Lege stood looking out over the plains.
He prayed desperately that the ravens or the runners had made it out of Willowbrook.
If the news had spread, his young, brave son Jero should already be on the march with a relief force.
He held onto an ironclad belief: The moment my son arrives with the army, we will strike from the inside and the outside, and we will crush this filthy upstart Solomon into the mud once and for all.
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