The wind on the plain brushed against Solomon's face and hair, bringing a rare sense of peace.
He sat on his horse, silently observing the stone fortress that stood atop the hill.
It was not large, yet it shocked him. This mere knight's keep was far sturdier and more imposing than his own ancestral home, Reekfort.
Moss climbed the grey stone walls, and the silhouette of the small tower was sharp against the sun.
The drawbridge lowered slowly with a tooth-aching creak.
A dozen garrison soldiers walked out, wearing fawning smiles. They had discarded their weapons and held their hands high above their heads.
Behind them, they dragged two women bound with ropes. The soldiers tugged at the tethers, forcing the women to stumble forward.
"Lord Solomon!" the lead soldier cried, falling to his knees, his voice trembling. "We surrender the castle! Please forgive our crimes! These are the traitor's wife and daughter! We offer them to you!"
Solomon's gaze drifted past the groveling soldiers to the two women. He frowned.
The older woman was in her thirties. The girl beside her was barely ten.
Mother and daughter were jerked roughly by the ropes, forced to kneel before Solomon's horse by men who had forgotten that, just an hour ago, these women were their mistresses.
"My Lord... spare us..." The woman wept, begging incoherently. "We knew nothing... please forgive us... please..."
Solomon didn't speak. He just looked at them in silence, feeling a headache coming on.
Bloodlines were the most stubborn things in Westeros. Harder than stone or iron, deeper than the roots of weirwood trees.
He couldn't just let them go. Especially not the girl. If she grew up and bore a son, that child would have a claim on this land. Though Solomon didn't fear it personally, he hated loose ends.
Killing them would be simple. But unlike the situation at Deepden, this was a public surrender. Executing noblewomen who had been handed over as prisoners would damage his reputation.
He ignored the weeping woman and addressed the soldiers who had betrayed their masters to save their own skins.
"I forgive your crimes against me," Solomon said. "But I do not accept your cowardice and betrayal."
"I will give you a sum of money as a reward. Take it and get out of my territory! Never return!"
The soldiers, relieved to escape with their lives, banged their heads on the ground in gratitude and scrambled away.
Now, only Solomon, the weeping mother and daughter, and his silent army remained before the empty drawbridge.
"Look up," Solomon said calmly.
The woman didn't dare. Only the young girl, looking as if her soul had already left her body, slowly raised her head. She stared at him with hollow, empty eyes.
"I will not kill you," Solomon said. "But the bloodline ends with this generation."
He paused, delivering his sentence like a cold, immutable law of nature.
"You will join the Silent Sisters. You will cut your hair. You will discard your names. You will never speak again. You will serve the Seven for the rest of your lives, praying for the sins of your husband and father."
"You will have no family. No children. No worldly possessions. This is my mercy."
This meant the complete extinction of their House.
The woman froze, then let out a wail more despairing than before. For a noblewoman, this fate was crueler than death.
Solomon ignored their cries. He turned to Lauchlan.
"Send men to escort them to the nearest sept. Ensure they take their vows. Tell the septons this is my command."
"Yes, My Lord." Lauchlan bowed. He signaled a few soldiers to "respectfully" remove the noblewomen.
With that settled, Solomon finally rode into the castle that was now his.
The interior was far more luxurious than the grim exterior suggested.
Dornish tapestries lined the corridors. Trophies of the hunt hung on the walls. The air still held the faint, expensive scent of Eastern spices.
Hard to imagine I lived in a pigsty while a mere knight lived like this... am I really a noble?
Solomon made his way straight to the vault. When the heavy iron door groaned open, even he had to squint.
Luchen pried open an iron chest. Gold Dragons were piled like a small mountain, glittering seductively in the torchlight.
On the shelves stood rows of silver plate and jeweled goblets.
"My Seven Gods..." Lauchlan stammered, his eyes bulging. "My Seven Gods..."
Solomon stepped forward and grabbed a handful of coins. The cold metal pressed against his palm.
He felt no joy. Only a grim absurdity.
"Damn him! Damn that wretched thing!" Solomon cursed.
"My Lord?" Lauchlan blinked, confused.
Solomon threw the gold back into the chest. Clatter-clatter.
"I said Walker Terry was a complete and utter fool! A damn waste of skin!"
Solomon was shocked by the greed of Westerosi nobles.
Terry sat on a fortune accumulated over generations. Yet he taxed his peasants to the bone and sent them to war with pitchforks and scythes!
With half this gold, he could have equipped every man in the valley with chainmail and steel swords!
He hadn't lost to Solomon. He had lost to his own greed and stupidity. He preferred to let his wealth rot in a dark room rather than use it to defend his life.
"Inventory everything. Immediately. Every copper, every spoon," Solomon ordered. "And summon the headmen of every village in the territory. Now! At once!"
In the Great Hall, a dozen ragged, terrified village headmen stood before Solomon.
This boy lord was not as kind as they had hoped. He had just buried their former master alive.
Solomon sat on the high oak throne, looking down at them.
The sixteen-year-old Lord said nothing for a long time. The silence was heavy, crushing the old men until they began to tremble.
"The traitor is dead. This land has returned to its true master," Solomon said, leaning back in his chair. "How much tax did he take from you?"
One old man mustered his courage. "Lord Solomon... most of the harvest. Plus the extra taxes... River Tax... Rain Tax... every year... we have to abandon some of the old and weak..."
Solomon: "..."
Rain Tax? Abandoning the elderly? What a moron. If Terry had spent even a fraction of his hoard feeding his people, they would have fought for him.
Solomon stood up. He walked slowly down the dais toward them. The old men lowered their heads, terrified.
Solomon stopped in front of the man who had spoken, reaching out to help him up when the man tried to kneel in panic.
"You have already been extorted by a traitor."
"I told you I would take it back. For myself, and for you."
"Now, I keep my promise. In a moment, you will receive back nine-tenths of the tax you paid to the traitor."
"Lord Solomon?" The old men snapped their heads up, disbelief washing over their wrinkled faces. "You... what did you say?"
"I said," Solomon enunciated every word, "I, Solomon, promised I would take only one-tenth this year. I do not break my word."
"Go tell everyone. As long as you are loyal to me, as long as you work for me, I ensure you will have food in your bowls and clothes on your backs. No one will starve again. I do not break my word."
"And next year, I will take five-tenths. No more."
The hall fell dead silent.
Then, the wailing began.
"Oh, Seven Gods!"
"Merciful Lord Solomon!"
"The Gods bless you!"
They finally understood. They wept openly, praying for Solomon with a fervor that gold could not buy, praising him with the raw, clumsy words of the earth.
Solomon watched them, feeling a strange mix of cynicism and satisfaction.
House Terry had spent generations building authority over this land.
Solomon had uprooted it all in three days.