"Lord Ronald," Solomon said, leaning against the map table. "Have you ever heard the saying, 'We Do Not Sow'?"
Ser Ronald frowned, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. "Of course. It is the words of House Greyjoy. The squids."
"It is more than words," Solomon said softly, his eyes drifting to the tent's canvas roof. "It is a promise. And a threat."
He let his mind drift back to the beach at Seagard.
"When the longships hit the sand," Solomon began, his voice taking on a distant, haunted quality, "they didn't form lines. They didn't blow trumpets. They just... spilled out. Like a pot of boiling oil tipping over."
The tent was silent.
"A hundred men in salt-stained leather and heavy mail, screaming praises to a Drowned God. They didn't see a shield wall of five hundred disciplined men. They saw meat. They saw women waiting to be taken."
Solomon looked at Ser Ronald.
"They didn't look for a fair fight. They looked for cracks. They threw themselves onto our spears just to drag the man holding it down into the mud. They bit. They clawed. They used our own severed limbs as clubs."
"It wasn't a battle, my lords. It was a butchery. And when the screaming started... when the man to your left went down with his throat torn out... the discipline broke. The line shattered. And the rout began."
Raymun Darry and Ser Ronald listened, transfixed. Solomon wasn't speaking like a boy anymore. He was speaking like a ghost.
"They don't fear death," Solomon continued. "They crave it. They believe that if they die wet and bloody, they feast in the Drowned God's watery halls forever. They don't carry gold, because they only pay the Iron Price. They take what they want from corpses."
He turned his gaze to Ser Ronald, his eyes hard.
"Your men, Ser Ronald? I have eaten with them. They are good lads. They polish their armor. They march in step. They know how to form a shield wall."
He paused.
"But they are farmers. They are potters. They are sons of summer. They have wives waiting at home. They have crops in the field. They fear pain. They fear losing a hand and becoming a burden. They fear death because to them, death is the end."
Solomon stepped closer to the Master-at-Arms.
"They know how to fight other men who fear death. They do not know how to fight monsters who think dying is a promotion."
Solomon let the words hang in the air. "Now tell me, Ser Ronald. Do you still believe your well-drilled cows will hold the line against the wolves?"
Ser Ronald opened his mouth to roar a denial, but the words died in his throat. He had trained his men for war against other knights—honorable charges, ransoms, parleys. He had not trained them for a religious purge.
Raymun Darry broke the silence.
"What would you do?" the young lord asked.
His voice was quiet, devoid of the earlier skepticism. He saw the truth in Solomon's eyes—a reflection of the horror that awaited them.
"How do we fight them?" Raymun pressed.
Solomon hesitated.
He had to be careful. He couldn't sound like a modern tactician quoting Sun Tzu. He had to sound like a boy who learned hard lessons in the mud. He had no Maester to credit for his wisdom.
"Avoid the melee," Solomon said slowly, choosing his words with care. "Do not let them turn the battle into a brawl. That is where they win."
He gestured vaguely at the map.
"Ironborn are raiders. They rely on shock and terror. If you can hold the line... if you can deny them the chaos they crave... they break. They are not soldiers; they are pirates. Pirates don't like dying for nothing."
"Discipline," Solomon said. "Distance. And high ground. If you meet them on the beach, you die. If you make them climb a hill into a wall of spears, they bleed like any other man."
"Avoid their strength. Strike their weakness."
It was basic strategy, but to men raised on the chivalric code of charge and smash, it sounded profound.
Ser Ronald grunted. He still didn't like the boy, but he couldn't argue with the logic. "He... he has a point, my lord. Our heavy infantry would be swarmed in the mud. We must choose our ground."
Raymun nodded slowly. He looked at Solomon, seeing a kindred spirit. Two young lords, thrust into a world of violence they were ill-equipped to handle.
"Ser Ronald," Raymun commanded. "We will double the scouts. No camping near the water. We fortify every night."
"As you command, my lord," Ronald mumbled, shooting Solomon a complicated look before bowing.
"Lord Solomon," Raymun said, his expression softening into a genuine smile. "I thank you for your counsel. It seems there is steel in Mirekeep after all."
Solomon bowed. "I only wish to see House Darry prosper, my lord."
And I wish to not get executed for stealing bread, he added silently.
He turned to leave, eager to escape the suffocating pressure of the command tent.
"Wait," Raymun called out.
Solomon froze. Here it comes. The bread.
Raymun leaned back in his chair. "Your experience... it is valuable. I want you and your guards to speak to my men. Tell them what to expect. Teach them to fear the right things."
Solomon turned back, a spark of opportunity lighting up his eyes.
"To train the men?" Solomon asked.
"Aye."
Solomon's face broke into a grin that was entirely un-noble.
"Does it pay?"
Raymun blinked, then laughed—a loud, startled sound.
"Of course, Lord Solomon. Of course."