Lord Raymun Darry sat high on his destrier, a man of silk and steel. His column of knights and men-at-arms stretched along the muddy road to Seagard like a glittering snake.
But his eyes kept drifting to the rear of the procession, to the three ragtag figures clinging to the edge of his baggage train.
They were an eyesore.
In the center rode a boy of sixteen, though he looked older. He wore a tunic of black wool that had been washed until it was grey, fraying at the cuffs. He had the common look of the Riverlands—brown hair, brown eyes, brown dirt. There was no haughtiness in him, no pallor of the highborn. He looked like a stable boy who had stolen a dead man's clothes.
Flanking him were two men who were clearly peasants wrapped in leather scraps. They rode their borrowed mules with the terrified stiffness of men who expected the beasts to explode. Their swords were rusted bars of iron that looked more likely to give an enemy tetanus than a clean death.
If the boy hadn't produced a genuine signet ring bearing the Golden Hand of House Bligh, Raymun would have had them whipped for impersonating nobility.
"The Lords of Reekfort," Raymun muttered to himself, stifling a chuckle.
He remembered his maester's lessons. House Bligh. The Dung Knights. A lesson in why kings should not hand out titles for... personal services.
It was a jest. A living, breathing jest that had attached itself to his army like a barnacle.
What truly appalled Lord Raymun was the boy's behavior.
A proper lord, even a poor one, would have ridden in silence, preserving his dignity. He would have sought the company of the hedge knights, or at least kept to himself.
Not this Solomon Bligh.
Every evening when the fires were lit, the "Lord of Reekfort" took his place in the chow line with the common foot soldiers. He stood there, bowl in hand, waiting for a ladle of brown slop and a heel of hardtack. Then, he sat on the ground with the pikemen, laughing at their coarse jokes, devouring the food like a starving wolf.
He even wrapped the leftover crusts in a rag and shoved them into his pocket!
Raymun shuddered. It is disgraceful. He shames us all.
"Salvation," Solomon whispered, chewing blissfully on a piece of rock-hard bread.
He patted the neck of the scrawny mule Darry's quartermaster had lent him. To Raymun Darry, this animal was glue-factory refuse. To Solomon, it was a Pegasus.
If we hadn't met this pompous windbag, Solomon thought, I would be a corpse in a ditch.
He had almost achieved a historic first: The first noble in Westeros to starve to death while walking to his own inauguration.
It wasn't funny. It was terrifying.
When they left Mirekeep, Nikken had tried to pack them a mule-load of provisions. But Solomon had seen the old steward's hollow cheeks. He knew that every bite he took was a bite taken from the mouths of the villagers he left behind.
So, he had left most of it.
"I'll be fine, Nikken," he had lied. "We can hunt on the road."
Hunt what? Solomon thought now. I have a rusty sword and I can't shoot a bow. I was planning to hunt mosquitoes?
The journey had been a nightmare.
Day one was an adventure.
Day two was a trek.
Day three was a silent march of misery.
Day five was starvation.
Solomon had been ready to eat his boots. His "guards," Lushen and Lauchlan, had tried to give him their rations, their eyes full of that terrifying, suicidal loyalty. Solomon had refused, forcing them to eat.
Then, they saw the banners of House Darry. The Ploughman on a brown field.
Solomon had mustered every ounce of dignity he possessed. He stood in the middle of the road, dusty and gaunt, and declared himself the Heir of Mirekeep.
He saw the look on Lord Darry's face. The disbelief. The amusement. The disgust.
Laugh all you want, you silk-wrapped peacock, Solomon thought, swallowing the last crumb of bread. Your mockery feeds me.
Guest right was a beautiful thing. Even if Darry thought Solomon was a joke, he couldn't let a fellow Riverlord starve on the Kingsroad. Not without looking unchivalrous.
"Lord Solomon?"
A young pikeman nudged him. "You're smiling at your bread, m'lord."
The soldiers of House Darry had taken a shine to him. They found it hilarious and refreshing that a "lord" would sit in the mud with them. To them, he was a mascot—the broke noble who was "one of the boys."
"I was just thinking," Solomon grinned, wiping crumbs from his lip. "Do you think the food at Deddings Town is better than this?"
The soldiers roared with laughter.
"Aye! Roast boar and Arbor Gold, I wager!" one shouted.
"And wenches with teats like melons!" another added, causing the group to howl.
Solomon laughed with them. But his eyes were sharp. He was listening.
He learned that the Ironborn were raiding as far south as Maidenpool. He learned that King Robert was personally leading the fleet to the Iron Islands. He learned that Tywin Lannister was moving troops near the Golden Tooth.
Information. It was worth more than gold.
And all it cost him was his dignity.
Let them think I'm a beggar, Solomon thought, his gaze drifting to the proud, straight back of Lord Darry riding ahead. Beggars are invisible. And invisible men survive.