Solomon's gaze swept over the cheering crowd.
He lowered the rider's hand and raised his right hand, signaling for silence. The roar of the soldiers died down, hundreds of eyes fixing on him.
Sching.
Solomon drew the longsword at his waist and held it high above his head.
The men followed suit, a forest of steel rising into the air.
"Since it is so!" Solomon's voice was calm, yet it carried across the slope. "We shall go and take the land ourselves!"
No further words were needed. If they would not give, he would take.
Four hundred soldiers—men who craved land, who hungered for a place to call their own—felt the pressure in their chests find a release valve. The frustration of their poverty and the insults of the nobility fueled a sudden, violent clarity.
They raised their swords, axes, and spears higher. The cold light of dawn caught the metal, turning the formation into a sea of glittering white frost.
"Take the land!"
Someone shouted it first. Then, a second voice. Then, a roar like a landslide.
"TAKE THE LAND!"
Even the women and children forgot their fear. They clenched their fists, eyes shining with a fierce, desperate light as they screamed support for their husbands and fathers.
The song of Solomon and the three hundred rose again, more aggressive than before.
Solomon watched with satisfaction. Men lived on breath, on spirit. Armies were no different. He needed this momentum.
His enemy had committed a litany of crimes: refusing fealty, occupying a liege's land, refusing restitution, and insulting a lord's honor.
Solomon turned to face the fields below. Now, let us see if he dares to draw his sword against his liege lord.
He looked at Luchen and Lauchlan. "Lauchlan, Luchen. Take the men. Mark out the plots for them."
"Furthermore," Solomon continued, sheathing his blade. "Divide the riders into three squads. Have them carry my Black Lion banner to every village in the valley. Tell them their Lord, Solomon, has arrived."
"From this day forth, they pay taxes to me, not to that rebel knight."
"It is tax season. Tell them to deliver their dues to our camp within three days."
"I only ask for a tenth of this year's harvest. Grain, silver stags, or goods. Anything will do."
The camp work ceased. Under his lead, over a thousand people marched down the slope, stepping onto the vast, flat plains of their new home.
Under the great oak tree at the entrance of Riverbend Village, the villagers were herded together by four of Solomon's riders.
The hooves of the warhorses struck the packed dirt road with heavy, dull thuds. Thud. Thud. With each impact, the dread in the villagers' hearts grew heavier.
They looked up at the armored men with fearful, wide eyes.
The old village headman was helped forward. His back was bent like a dried bow, his face a map of deep, craggy fissures.
Keff, the leader of the four riders, spurred his horse a step forward. He looked down from the saddle, reading Solomon's decree with arrogant pride.
"From this day forth," Keff bellowed, his voice booming, "this land is under the rule of Lord Solomon. All taxes shall be paid to Lord Solomon!"
"Lord Solomon demands only a tenth of this year's harvest! Grain, silver, or goods—it matters not! Deliver it within three days!"
"Only a tenth! You have never known such a benevolent master!"
The old headman listened. A ripple of emotion crossed his cloudy eyes. He had been appointed by the Terry family because he was respected, but that respect carried a heavy burden.
He bowed his head deeply, letting out a long, trembling sigh. "My Lord... we cannot pay."
Keff's brows knotted together. "What did you say?"
To Keff, a ten-percent tax was unheard of. It was a mercy you wouldn't find in all of Westeros.
"My Lord," the old man rasped, his voice low but distinct. "We must pay taxes to House Terry. If we pay another share... we will die."
"Do you not understand?!" Gale, one of the riders, snapped. He had been a soldier at Reekfort, and his temper was short. He cracked his whip against the ground—CRACK! "You pay only to the rightful master of this land!"
"My Lord, we cannot refuse House Terry." The headman looked up, his eyes holding the calm of absolute despair. "Sir Walker Terry will hang us. He will burn our thatch. He will slaughter our livestock."
"If we could, we would gladly pay two taxes. We would starve to do it. But this year... we truly have nothing left."
"Even after paying House Terry, many of us will starve."
Keff and the other two soldiers fell silent. They had been farmers once. They knew the math of survival.
But Gale's face turned red. The insults Sir Walker Terry had heaped upon Solomon were still ringing in his ears. Dung-scraper. The disrespect was a poison in his blood.
"Old thing!" Gale roared. "You think because Lord Solomon is kind, you do not need to fear him? Is that why you dare refuse his tax?!"
The headman said nothing. To Gale, the silence was an admission. The villagers had heard Solomon was young, perhaps soft.
"I give you one last chance! Old thing! Pay the tax to Lord Solomon!" Gale ground the words out through clenched teeth.
The old man kept his head bowed. Silence.
"Good! Good! Good!"
The refusal ignited the powder keg in Gale's chest. He vaulted from his horse. Sching. His sword flashed in the sun.
A white arc of steel.
Gale's blade sliced through the old man's neck. There was no time to scream. The head flew, eyes still wide, and a fountain of bright red blood sprayed across the dust.
The body stood for a moment, twitched, and collapsed into the bloody mud.
Dead silence.
The villagers stared. The other three soldiers stared, frozen in shock.
Then, the women and children began to weep—low, terrified sobs that they tried to stifle with their hands.
"Gale!!!"
Hawk, another rider, snapped out of his trance. His face twisted in shock and fury. He jumped from his horse and grabbed Gale by the collar. "You bastard!!"
The two men wrestled in the bloody dirt, ignoring Keff's shouts to stop.
In his command tent, Solomon received the report. Villages refusing to pay. A brawl among his men. A murder.
He could understand the villagers. He was new. He had no roots here. They didn't know if he could protect them from the Terry knight who had terrorized them for years.
In truth, the tax was symbolic. A tenth was nothing. Even a cup of water would have sufficed as an act of submission, a plea for his protection.
Lauchlan knelt on one knee, his face burning with shame and anger as he detailed the fight.
Solomon listened in silence. His expression was a blank slate. He sawed methodically at a piece of tough, overcooked steak on his plate. No spices. It tasted like wax.
"My Lord," Luchen ventured, "Gale was rash, but he did it to uphold your authority. The old man was refusing the tax."
Solomon stopped cutting. He looked up.
"Gale receives twenty lashes," Solomon said flatly. "Tell him his crime is not killing a villager. His crime is acting without orders from an officer!"
"Hawk receives twenty lashes! Tell him his crime is raising a hand against a brother-in-arms!"
"Their punishments will be carried out by their squad leader, Keff."
"And when he is finished..." Solomon pointed his knife at Lauchlan. "Lauchlan, you will give Keff forty lashes."
"Tell Keff his crime is poor discipline! Failure to control his men!"
"Tell them I should have confiscated a portion of their land grants. But since this is the first offense, I will let it pass. From this moment on, there will be no second chances!"
"Yes! Lord Solomon!" Lauchlan bowed and hurried out.
Luchen looked at Solomon with shining eyes. He learned something.
Solomon abandoned the steak. He realized his army had rot in the foundation.
Rewards and punishments were the two legs of command. If he rewarded merit with private land, he must punish failure by confiscating it. But he hadn't announced that rule yet. To punish them retroactively would be tyranny—punishment without teaching. He had to clarify the code now.
He stared at the gray, rubbery meat again. It was inedible. He couldn't even cut it.
Finding a cook needs to go on the schedule. Immediately.
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