Arthur raised his hand, pointing into the distance, to an unknown location.
"I will establish two new towns and give you new homes."
He paused, letting the words resonate in their minds.
"All blacksmiths, carpenters, stonemasons, leatherworkers, everyone with a craft and skill."
His voice rose slightly.
"Six hundred of you will go to Kings Road and establish a new town there, which I will call Cross Town."
"I will provide tools, materials, and even Gold Dragons."
"Along Kings Road, merchants travel back and forth."
"Your skills will earn you your own wealth."
In the crowd, some men, who had been huddled, suddenly raised their heads; for the first time, something other than fear flickered in their eyes.
Arthur's arm turned in another direction, pointing to the winding river.
"All those skilled in shipbuilding, fishing, and those with crafts and skills like in Cross Town."
"Six hundred of you will also go to the Green Fork River and establish a new town, which I will call Riverbank Town."
"That is the Green Fork River, where merchants also travel by river, and the water is abundant; your hard work will bring you full warehouses of money and fish."
More people raised their heads, their breathing becoming rapid:
Arthur's hand moved again, pointing to the distant mountain outlines.
"Another six hundred of you will be divided into two teams."
"Three hundred people each will go to the edge of the High Mountain and establish two large ranches."
He withdrew his hand, looking around at those below.
"The remaining people will temporarily stay where they are, awaiting further arrangements."
"Olivier will begin the specific allocation work in the next two days."
The refugees were completely stunned; their brains couldn't process the immense amount of information. A moment ago, they were trembling in a bloody massacre, believing themselves to be lambs to the slaughter.
The next moment, the lord began to lay out a grand and concrete blueprint for their future right before them.
Especially for those who had lost everything, now in a dirty and chaotic refugee camp, new towns, new villages, new lives—
This sounded like an unattainable dream.
Yet, the young man's tone on the rock carried not a hint of falsehood. The crowd began to whisper, fear replaced by a vague hope.
Just then, a trembling voice spoke: "Arthur… My Lord…"
The crowd instantly fell silent, all eyes turning to the source of the voice: a white-haired old man who pushed his way out of the crowd.
He looked like a farmer.
He knelt with a thud, his forehead touching the ground: "I am a carpenter, My Lord Arthur."
"You saved us and gave us food."
"We thank you for your kindness…"
His voice trembled violently, with a hint of a sob. Being a carpenter was only his side job; his main profession was a farmer.
"But… but we don't have our own land… how… how can we pay taxes to you?"
This question was like a giant stone, striking everyone's hearts.
The joy instantly vanished. Yes, taxes. In Westeros, even landless commoners had to pay suffocatingly heavy poll taxes and various complex taxes to their lords as a reward for protection.
Whether you were an artisan or a farmer, as long as you were alive, you had to pay taxes to the lord. The flickering flame of hope that had just ignited was instantly doused by this cold water, making it sway precariously.
Everyone held their breath, their hearts in their throats. They nervously watched Arthur, afraid to hear that familiar, desperate answer from him.
They feared that this new lord, like most lords in Westeros, would completely extinguish the glimmer of light they had just seen with exorbitant taxes.
Arthur looked at the old farmer kneeling on the ground, a timely convenience. A faint smile actually appeared on his face: "You ask a very good question."
He was about to discuss this topic. After calculations, not counting the land secretly occupied by the Brightmoon Mountains, he only had ten thousand acres of arable land, which is forty thousand suleiman acres, certainly not enough for everyone, especially since he did not want to touch the public land of the old villagers, nor the land that would soon be awarded for military merit.
Arthur turned to Olivier beside him.
Olivier immediately understood, stepped forward, pulled a scroll of parchment from his embrace, and read aloud.
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