The flame of the oil lamp flickered in the Lord's solar, casting Solomon's shadow against the stone wall—stretching it long, then twisting it, then shrinking it back.
Every trace of House Terry had been scrubbed from the castle. The change of masters was absolute.
Solomon sat alone at the desk, his mind a whirlwind of construction plans.
On the parchment before him, his quill scratched relentlessly.
Land survey. Census. Redistribution. Irrigation. Revenue streams. Military organization. Tax code. Merit system.
He had no advisors. No maesters. No stewards. Every detail of governance had to be pulled from his own brain and committed to paper, step by agonizing step.
He wrote, paused to think, tapped his knuckles on the table—thud, thud—and wrote again.
He picked up the parchment and frowned at the timeline.
"Nine years..." he whispered.
Time was not on his side. The Riverlands were fertile, yes, but they were also the designated battlefield of Westeros. Surrounded by powerful neighbors, once the War of the Five Kings began, this place would be scorched earth. Nine years was a blink of an eye to build a state capable of surviving the apocalypse.
The other local powers nibbling at his borders were tough nuts to crack. He would leave them for now. He needed to digest what he had eaten.
News of him burying a knight alive must have spread across the Trident by now. Rule could not rely solely on mercy; it required fear.
Power resides where men believe it resides. And fear was the easiest way to plant that belief.
"Cavalry!"
Solomon pressed the quill hard, bolding the word on his list.
The Riverlands were flat, grassy, and wet. Perfect for horses. Yet, due to the fractured feudal system and the lack of a strong central monarchy, the Riverlords rarely fielded massive standing cavalry armies like the Vale or the Reach.
Cavalry was the only force capable of deep strikes and rapid response in this terrain.
He currently had eighteen warhorses—some liberated from Deepden. He couldn't afford full plate-armored knights (cataphracts were ruinously expensive), but he could equip eighteen medium cavalry.
He also had twenty-some garrons captured from the mountain clans. Those goat-legged ponies were useless for charging but excellent for baggage.
Raising twenty professional cavalrymen—men who did nothing but train and ride—would be a heavy drain on his treasury. Men were cheap; horses and steel were not.
He wrote down: Horses. Stud farm. Equipment.
Knock, knock, knock.
The door to the solar rattled with urgent rapping.
"Enter!" Solomon snapped. He was beginning to hate interruptions.
Lauchlan pushed the door open, stumbling in with a face full of sweat, anxiety, and an awkward, apologetic grin.
"What is it now?" Solomon's brow furrowed, a tic jumping in his cheek.
"My Lord... Lord Solomon." Lauchlan panted, his hand habitually scratching the back of his head. He looked like a child who had broken a vase. "The land distribution... there's another problem... we can't hand it out..."
Lauchlan lowered his head, clearly ashamed of his incompetence.
"What is the reason this time?" Solomon forced his voice to remain calm.
"Some... some men say the plots we marked for them are too small, while others got bigger ones. They say it's unfair." Lauchlan stammered, his face turning red. "Others say their land is full of rocks."
Solomon rubbed his temples. He guessed Lauchlan and Luchen had been measuring land by pacing it out. One, two, three steps. Of course it was inaccurate. Without standardized measurement, fairness was impossible. Ignorance was a terrifying thing.
As for the complaints about soil quality? That was just human nature. But they were also testing the boundaries. Commoners were used to obeying nobles instinctively; Lauchlan and Luchen were lowborn, so the soldiers felt they could argue.
Lauchlan hesitated, as if the next part was even more embarrassing. "And... some of the veteran refugees... they are complaining that their land is too big."
"Too big?"
"Aye. One man said... a plot that size... he can't farm it alone. He says we are setting him up to fail."
"Ha! Ha!" Solomon barked a short, sharp laugh. He stood up and paced the small room, his boots stomping on the stone floor.
He knew exactly what that veteran meant. Many of his men were refugees who had lost their entire families to wildlings. When a man complained his land was "too big to farm alone," he wasn't asking for less land. He was hinting that the Lord should assign him a wife.
Knowledge. Administration. Standards. Order.
The stability of Westeros relied on keeping the smallfolk ignorant.
Solomon felt the crushing weight of being the only literate administrator in his army. Trying to explain governance to men who couldn't count their own toes was like playing a harp to a cow.
I need intellectuals. Finding a Maester or a scholar just moved to the top of the list.
Solomon stopped pacing. He turned to Lauchlan.
"Go. Find me the longest ropes you can find. Strong ones."
"Rope?" Lauchlan blinked blankly.
"Yes! Rope!" Solomon enunciated every word. "Now! Immediately! Then summon every soldier to the riverbank! I will meet them there!"
On the fertile riverbank, over a hundred soldiers gathered. The hum of their arguments sounded like a swarm of angry flies.
They stood in clusters, pointing at the fields, shouting about rock content and step-counts. The discipline of the army had dissolved into a village squabble.
"SILENCE!!!"
Luchen's roar cut through the noise.
The soldiers turned. In the distance, a white stallion galloped toward them. Solomon rode hard, flanked by Lauchlan and ten cavalrymen.
Thud-thud-thud. The hooves struck the soft earth, the sound vibrating in the chests of the men.
The crowd parted automatically. Heads lowered. Silence fell. No one dared to meet the gaze of the boy lord.
Solomon yanked the reins. The white horse reared, neighing loudly, kicking at the air before slamming its hooves back down.
The horse danced in place, turning Solomon to face all four directions.
Solomon looked at them. Silence. Only the sound of the rushing river remained.
"Bring the rope!" Solomon shouted.
Lauchlan jumped down, panting as he lugged a bundle of thick hemp rope.
Solomon took one end. He tossed it to a rider. "You! Stand here! Drive a stake into the ground at this spot!"
He tossed the other end to a second rider. "You! Ride until the rope is taut! Drive a stake at the end! Pull it straight! Straight as an arrow!"
The riders obeyed. In front of the confused soldiers, a long, perfectly straight line appeared on the grass.
The soldiers exchanged glances. What was the Lord doing?
Solomon didn't explain. "Now!" he commanded. "From that stake! Turn ninety degrees! Pull the same length again!"
The riders moved.
Soon, a massive, perfect square was outlined in rope on the field.
It was symmetrical. It was precise. It stood in stark contrast to the jagged, oddly shaped plots the soldiers had been arguing over.
Solomon rode his white horse into the center of the square. He looked down at his silent army.
"Do you see this?!" Solomon bellowed.
"From this day forth! On my land! My rope is the law! There is only the Solomon Acre! This is a Solomon Acre!"
His voice echoed over the empty riverbank, striking their ears like a hammer.
He pointed a finger at the ground beneath his horse's hooves.
"This is the standard!!!"
"This is the size!!!"
"This is the law!!!"
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