Inside the ruined council chamber of Oldstones, the charcoal in the iron brazier popped softly, casting warm flickers across the stone.
The lords and household knights of the combined forces sat along a collapsed limestone column that served as a long table. Every face carried deep exhaustion and the hollow, dazed expression of men pulled from a grave.
Solomon broke the quiet, his eyes moving over Lord Lymond Lychester, the veteran lord acting as his front for the host.
"Lord Lymond, we cannot linger among these ruins."
"The ironborn command thick columns of axes across the western valley, and their longships patrol the waterways. We must gather our lances and make for the eastern lands immediately to build a defensive line."
Raymun Darry rested his heavily bandaged arm on the rough masonry, offering a slow nod. The dull ache from his shoulder left his skin pale.
"Solomon speaks truly. Issue the orders, Lord Lymond."
Lymond moved to speak, but a heavy, rasped voice broke into the discussion before his jaw could open.
"I have a request to submit before your banners turn back to the east."
The captains turned toward the sound.
Tytos Blackwood rose from his seat. The master of Raventree Hall was lean and tall, his hooked nose and short graying beard framed by a heavy cloak woven from black crow feathers that shimmered darkly in the torchlight.
"I ask that the host adjust its march to relieve my seat at Raventree Hall, which remains under siege by the longship crews."
A suffocating quiet fell over the chamber. A single spark burst from the brazier, its crack sharp against the stillness.
To turn toward Raventree Hall meant marching directly into the teeth of the ironborn main force. It required men who had barely survived a slaughter to turn around and throw themselves back into the fire.
No man spoke. Lymond Lychester broke the silence first, his voice firm and immediate. "No."
"Lord Tytos, more than half the enemy host is moving through the western fields. Our two thousand shields are barely enough to clear the pickets, let alone engage their main body."
"You are asking us to march into a trap. If their columns close behind us, not a single lance will see the eastern banks again."
The lead captains from the Deddington levies nodded hard in agreement. Facing the longships was a desperate risk, and no man knew if they could even reach the eastern border intact. To seek out fresh trouble was foolish, and Lymond had spoken for the entire room.
However, a youth's sharp voice rang out from the end of the stone column. "The command of this host belongs to Lord Tytos by right!"
"We ought to follow his banner!"
The lords turned in surprise to mark the speaker. It was young Patrek Mallister. With his father fallen at Seagard, the boy had inherited the seat of his house. Though his face carried the soft innocence of childhood, his eyes burned with a reckless, chivalric zeal.
"House Blackwood is the oldest name in the Riverlands! They carry the ancient blood of the First Kings! Their lineage is prestigious, their rank supreme, and their honor unquestioned! Every man in this room should yield to Lord Tytos's command!"
He drew the broadsword resting at his hip, the steel heavy in his slender grip, and planted the tip against the floorboards before dropping to one knee before Tytos Blackwood.
"My father gave his life for the Trident! I am the master of Seagard now, the head of House Mallister!"
The boy raised his voice, his tone high with excitement. "In the name of my house, I place my lances beneath Lord Tytos's command!"
Young Patrek held his chin high, expecting his gesture to spark a wave of agreement across the room. He imagined the surrounding knights rising to applaud his defense of ancient blood and honor.
Instead, the air in the chamber turned cold, settling into an awkward, absolute silence.
Lymond Lychester sat stiffly, a dull flush creeping up his neck. By every traditional rule of Westerosi hierarchy, House Lychester was a small creek compared to the deep river of House Blackwood. In a formal gathering of lords, custom dictated he yield the floor to a name as ancient as Raventree Hall.
Yet he did not step down. Instinctively, he shifted his eyes to Solomon. Raymun Darry did the same, well aware that the quiet second son was the true anchor holding the host together.
Solomon marked Tytos Blackwood. The lord of Raventree Hall offered no modest refusal, nor did he decline the boy's oath. He stood silent, quietly accepting the posture as if the command were his natural due.
Solomon's expression turned cold. The old crow clearly believed his lineage entitled him to take the reins without question.
Solomon offered no loud objection himself. He merely cast a brief look toward Ser Robin, the senior Deddington knight he had placed in charge of the secondary levies. Ser Robin understood the signal instantly.
The old knight stood up, his deep voice booming through the stone hall. "Had Lord Lymond Lychester not joined his lances with House Deddington and risked his own keep to ride into this furnace, every man in this room would be rotting in the mud of Oldstones! How can any lord debate command while standing alive on his feet?"
Ser Robin paused, his eyes sweeping over the assembled captains.
"By custom and by simple debt, Lord Lymond holds the lead of this host!"
The words fell like cold water on Patrek Mallister's enthusiasm. An older Mallister retainer stepped forward to defend his young master, his voice sharp.
"We honor Lord Lymond and the Deddington lances for their service!"
"However, a host requires a commander of supreme standing!"
"Whether by blood, rank, or experience in battle, no man here outranks Lord Tytos Blackwood!"
Ser Robin hesitated. In terms of traditional nobility, the Blackwoods outranked every house present.
The old knight hesitated, unsure of his next line. But remembering the manors Solomon had promised his lances from the Payle lands, he realized the ancient blood of Raventree Hall offered him nothing. He set his jaw and countered sharply.
"Is that so? The supreme commander I see was trapped in a ruin with barely three hundred men left to his name!"
The Mallister knight flushed with anger, his gauntlet dropping to his hilt. "You dare!"
Inside the ruined council hall, the argument teetered on the edge of drawn steel.
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