The next morning, three villages sent representatives. They arrived at Solomon's camp trembling, pulling a dozen rickety carts behind them.
These were the villages where Solomon's soldiers had already left a trail of violence and blood.
The villagers were herded into Solomon's command tent. The moment they saw him seated at the head table, they shrank back, terror etched into their gaunt faces.
They were a wretched sight—clothes little more than rags, skin sallow from malnutrition. The representative from Riverbend Village looked particularly ghostly, his face drained of all color.
Solomon picked up a quill and a roll of parchment. He looked at them. "Report your village's annual harvest, your population, and the tax quota demanded by House Terry."
One by one, the three peasants stumbled forward to give their reports. Solomon noted everything down meticulously. Knowing the population and yield was vital for future construction.
In truth, he didn't need their grain this year. He needed their tribute. It was a ritual of submission—a way for them to acknowledge his rule and beg for his protection.
His reserves of Gold Dragons could sustain his army for a while yet. If things got desperate, he could always squeeze more coin out of Lady Rona.
As the last man spoke, a commotion erupted outside the tent.
"Quit crying! Keep wailing and I'll cut out your tongue!" a soldier roared, followed by the heart-wrenching shriek of a child.
Solomon frowned. He set down his quill and led the group outside.
A soldier was holding a boy of seven or eight by the collar, lifting him off the ground. A dagger was pressed against the child's throat. The soldier's face was twisted in a savage scowl.
The boy was skeletal, his face streaked with tears and mud, shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Seeing Solomon emerge, the soldier immediately released his grip. The boy dropped to the dirt with a cry of pain.
The representative from Riverbend Village went pale. He scrambled forward, practically crawling, and grabbed the back of the boy's head. He slammed the child's forehead into the dirt, forcing him to kowtow to the soldier and to Solomon.
"What is happening?" Solomon asked calmly, looking at the soldier.
The man snapped to attention. "Lord Solomon! This little whelp started bawling while we were unloading the tax carts. He tried to hide a sack of flour under his tunic!"
Solomon sighed. Expecting a medieval army to respect the elderly or cherish the young was a fool's dream. He had no intention of enforcing modern morality on men who lived by the sword.
"Why were you crying?" Solomon asked the boy.
"Mercy, My Lord! He is just a stupid child! Mercy!" The father didn't let the boy speak, just kept shoving the child's face into the dust, babbling incoherently.
Solomon frowned. He didn't speak, but his silence was enough. Two guards stepped forward and dragged the father away. The man struggled desperately, eyes wide with panic, but he was helpless against the soldiers.
Solomon walked over and stood before the boy. His voice softened. "Tell me. Why do you cry?"
Terrified by his father being dragged away, the boy sobbed louder. "Father... Father gave all our wheat... to the other Lord..."
He pointed a shaking finger at the carts. "That... that is our last food."
"I heard... I heard Mother and Father whispering. Mother said she would save the last of the food for me and Father."
"Mother will starve. I don't want Mother to starve. I don't want it."
"Our village... we pay... we pay two Lords... we will starve this year."
The boy's weeping was the only sound in the camp. It was a desolate, hopeless sound, cold as the winter wind.
Solomon looked at the other village representatives. They all lowered their heads, staring at their boots. The story was the same everywhere.
They had paid double taxes.
"How much did the traitor demand from you?" Solomon asked, his eyes still on the boy.
"My Lord," one representative whispered, trembling. "There is no fixed amount. The Knight takes what he wants. Usually most of it."
Solomon gently took the sack of flour the boy had tried to hide. He looked at the terrified villagers, then at his own soldiers, who were shifting uncomfortably.
He spoke slowly, his voice carrying clearly to every ear.
"Take it back. All of it."
He gestured to the carts. "Leave one sack of flour per village. That will be your tax for this year."
"I collect taxes so that you acknowledge my rule and accept my protection. Go back and tell your people: as long as they are loyal to Solomon, I will shield them. No one will oppress them again."
"Since you have already paid your wealth to a traitor who stole it, I have no choice." His hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. "I will go and take it back. For myself. And for you."
"Remember this. I am your Lord."
Silence. Absolute silence.
The villagers looked up, disbelief washing over their faces. Then, as one, they fell to their knees. This time, there was no fear in the motion—only a deep, reverent awe.
Solomon turned away from them. He signaled to Luchen and Lauchlan.
A moment later, the sharp, rhythmic blast of a war horn tore through the air. Assembly.
The camp erupted into activity. The thunder of running boots and the clatter of armor filled the morning.
The village representatives, still dazed by Solomon's mercy, flinched at the sudden martial display. Fear crept back into their eyes. They didn't know what this new Lord intended.
The soldiers formed up in record time. Lines straight, armor gleaming, an aura of disciplined violence hanging over them.
Solomon turned back to the villagers with a faint smile.
"Do you see? This is my army. How is their spirit? How do they compare to House Terry?"
The villagers stared, eyes wide. They had never seen a force like this. They bowed again, lower this time, their foreheads touching the dirt in genuine submission.
Solomon laughed. "Go! Go back to your villages! Tell everyone what you have seen here today!"
He waved them off and walked back toward his tent, beckoning his commanders to follow. One sack of flour for a tax, backed by a display of overwhelming force. The carrot and the stick. Soon, every village in the valley would know who to support.
Inside the tent, Luchen and Lauchlan were beaming. The display had puffed up their pride as commanders.
Solomon went to the wooden table and unrolled a map. "Lauchlan. The land distribution for the Reclamation Corps. How is it progressing?"
Lauchlan's smile vanished. He scratched the back of his head, looking awkward.
"Well, Lord Solomon... the soldiers... when they heard about the land grant, everyone wanted the plots near the river. The fertile ones."
"Everyone is fighting over the best spots. No one wants the rocky soil. The arguments never stop."
"So... it's moving slowly..."
Solomon stared at him. He looked at Lauchlan's confused, bovine expression and felt a strong urge to kick him.
"Lauchlan!" Solomon slammed his fist onto the map. "I told you to mark the land to force House Terry to draw his sword against me! Do you understand?!"
In Westeros, drawing steel against your liege lord was a capital crime. It was high treason. The War of the Usurper began because men were executed for less.
Solomon felt a headache coming on. Intelligence was rare, but competence was rarer.
He was aggressively marking land on House Terry's illegal holdings to provoke a war. He needed Terry to attack him.
Solomon sighed. Lauchlan still looked confused. His temper snapped.
"I don't care if they argue! I don't care who wants what! That is for later!"
"Now! Immediately! Get those families out there and start turning the soil!"
Solomon stepped forward and kicked Lauchlan in the rear.
"And what is difficult about the dispute?!"
"Tell them!"
"The man who fights the bravest—the man who brings me the most glory—gets the best land!"
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