In another village, an old man named Herman was using a stick to scratch symbols in the dirt, teaching his grandson.
"Look, child. This is 'Water'... this is 'Mountain'..."
Two riders trotted past. They stopped dead.
"You! Old man! Were you writing?!"
The old man's family fell to their knees, terrified that he was casting a spell or writing treason.
The rider pointed his sword at the dirt. "Read that again!"
"It... it is 'Mountain', my Lord," the old man wept.
"And that?"
"It is 'Water'."
The riders grinned. One tossed a heavy bag of coins at the feet of the old man's son.
"This money is yours! Your father belongs to Lord Solomon!"
"My Lord! No!" The son wailed, snatching up the money bag with lightning speed. "My Lord! Take pity! My father is old! He can do nothing!"
He hugged the silver tight, his face flushed with joy, making his fake tears comical.
The soldiers ignored him, threw old Herman over the saddle like a sack of grain, and galloped off.
The news spread like wildfire. A beggar taken for knowing sums. An old man taken for knowing words. And their families left rich.
A few days later, the "Horse Bones" stood in the Great Hall.
Eleven men. Barna the beggar, Herman the elder, and nine others. They had been washed, shaved, and dressed in clean linen tunics.
Solomon sat on the high seat. Fifty village representatives watched in awe.
"Today, I appoint these eleven men!" Solomon announced.
He pointed to Barna. "This is Barna! He has mastered arithmetic! From this day forth, he is my Tax Assessor! He will calculate the harvest of every village!"
He pointed to Herman. "This is Herman! He knows letters! From this day forth, he is a Village Clerk! He will register births, deaths, and land deeds!"
"They will receive a salary from my hand. They will live in the castle."
"From this moment, their rank is equal to my military officers!"
"To disobey them is to disobey me!"
The hall erupted in whispers. A beggar? A senile old man? Ruling over them?
Barna and Herman wept, kissing the stone floor. They had gone from the bottom of the world to the right hand of the Lord in a single day.
The "Horse Bones" strategy worked.
Word spread beyond the valley. Lord Solomon pays for brains.
Soon, stragglers appeared at the castle gates. A lame merchant who could keep a ledger. A young man who knew twenty words. And a middle-aged man with an arrogant air who claimed to be a former steward.
Solomon set up a simple exam table in the hall.
To the arrogant steward: "Write a paragraph introducing yourself."
The man wrote. The handwriting was beautiful, the grammar flowery. Far better than Old Nikken back at Reekfort.
He's overqualified, Solomon thought. Someone this educated usually serves a Great House. He marked him down as a Scribe.
To the lame merchant: "I sell you three sheep for eighteen stags each. I buy five axes from you for seven stags each. Who owes whom, and how much?"
The merchant scribbled. "Lord Solomon! I owe you nineteen stags!"
Solomon nodded.
He ordered Luchen and Lauchlan to register them all.
But as night fell, Solomon sat alone again with the list.
Seventeen applicants. Only one could write a full sentence. Only two could do double-digit multiplication.
The rest were semi-literate at best.
Westeros's lack of talent hit him like a bucket of ice water. He had created the demand, but the supply simply did not exist.