Solomon lay in the damp for three days more before his legs would hold him.
He used the time to study the ceiling—stones slick with nitre, joined by mortar that was slowly turning back into sand. When the strength finally returned to his limbs, he summoned Old Nikken and his new guard.
The two peasants, Lauchlan and Lushen, had taken to their elevation with a desperate seriousness. Nikken had scavenged two hauberks of boiled leather that smelled of mold and dead men, along with longswords pitted with rust. Yet, to men who had only ever held hoes, this was the raiment of kings.
They stood at the tower's heavy oak door, stiff as scarecrows. Every time a scullery maid passed, they glared with such fierce intensity that the servants soon learned to give the gate a wide berth.
Lauchlan was the twitchy one, his eyes darting like a trapped rat's. Lushen was quieter, heavier, a man carved from river clay. Both had faces aged beyond their thirty years—windburned, lined, and hollowed by a lifetime of reaping a harvest that never quite filled their bellies.
Old Nikken shuffled in, bearing a wooden bowl.
"Broth, m'lord. To put the fire back in your blood."
Solomon took the bowl. Steam rose from it, carrying the distinct, muddy aroma of the Green Fork. Inside, grey water swirled around chunks of unidentifiable root and the pale, floating belly of a river pike.
Scales and all, Solomon noted, his stomach churning.
He forced a swallow. It tasted of silt and despair. If he was to be a lord, he needed a cook before Nikken poisoned him by accident.
"Nikken," Solomon said, setting the bowl aside. "How many souls are left in Mirekeep?"
"Thirty-odd, m'lord," the steward sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Mostly the old, the women, and the babes. The men… the men went with your father. The Stranger took the best of us at Seagard."
"And the war?"
"The Ironmen are still reaving," Nikken whispered, glancing at the door as if a longship might sail through the wood. "They strike where the steel is thin and run before the host can catch them. But the talk is of King Robert. They say the Stag is gathering a storm in the Crownlands. The lions of the West are sharpening their claws. The rebellion will break soon."
Nikken hesitated, wringing his hands. "But the war is far off, m'lord. The hunger is at the gate. The harvest was poor. We have no coin. Your father… Ser Bligh spent the last stag fitting the men for battle."
Solomon frowned. "The river? Can we not fish?"
" The river is stingy of late," Nikken said. "Small fry and bottom feeders. The floods rot the crops in the field. We have always lived hand-to-mouth, m'lord. Now… the hand is empty."
Solomon looked out the arrow slit. Mirekeep was a aptly named. It was a dying holdfast on dying land, waiting for the swamp to swallow it whole.
"I need to secure the succession," Solomon said, his voice flat. "I am a lord of nothing until the liege says otherwise."
"Aye," Nikken nodded. "You must go to Deddings town. You must kneel to Lord Baron Deddings and swear the oaths. Only then are you the Knight of Mirekeep."
"We will go when I can ride," Solomon said.
Suddenly, a sound pierced the stone walls—a high, keening wail that tore through the damp air like a knife. It was the sound of a heart breaking.
Solomon pushed himself up. "What is that?"
He walked to the door, his new guards falling in step behind him. They moved stiffly, hands white-knuckled on their rusted hilts.
The courtyard of Mirekeep was a patch of mud surrounded by a crumbling wall. Beneath the skeletal branches of a dying elm, a woman huddled in the dirt.
She was a bundle of rags and bones, her face buried in her arms, her body convulsing with violent sobs.
Solomon approached, the mud sucking at his boots.
"Look at me," he commanded.
The wailing cut off with a wet choke. The woman raised her head. She was old before her time, her face a map of misery, eyes red and swollen. When she saw the clean tunic of the lord, terror replaced the grief. She scrambled backward, clawing at the mud.
"M-m'lord! I go! I go!" she rasped, trying to stand. But her legs, stiff from hours of kneeling, gave way, and she collapsed back into the filth. She buried her face in the dirt, her shoulders shaking silently.
Old Nikken stared at his boots, ashamed. Lauchlan looked at the sky, his jaw working.
But Lushen, the quiet stone of a man, stepped forward. His fists were clenched at his sides, trembling.
"My lord," Lushen rumbled, his voice thick. "That is Harke."
He swallowed hard.
"Her man… Old Harke… he died on the beach with your father. One of the thirteen."
Lushen looked at the woman, then at the ground.
"She has two babes in the hut. No man to work the field. No man to cast the net." His voice dropped to a whisper. "They will starve, m'lord. Winter or no, they are dead already."
The wind whistled through the courtyard, carrying the scent of rain and rot.
Solomon stood motionless, looking down at the woman who was shaking in the mud of his castle. This was the reality of the game. High lords played for thrones; smallfolk played for bread. And in Mirekeep, there was no bread left.