Solomon observed the sudden flare of rivalry among the administrative officers. He knew this urgency would press hard upon the smallfolk, yet the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
His tone shifted, smooth and entirely devoid of inflection, yet the words he dropped were heavy enough to shatter the foundation of every household in his domain. "The Second Decree!"
"From this day forth, within my lands, all households are mandated to divide."
Dead silence claimed the lord's hall. Even the crackling flames in the hearth seemed to hesitate. Throats bobbed in the quiet.
Forced division of the family?
Evelyn's breath hitched. Her blue eyes snapped wide, fixing on Solomon with a silent, frantic plea to measure his next words carefully.
Sensing the heavy ambiguity of his phrasing, Solomon cleared his throat softly and hurried to clarify.
"Aside from the eldest son who shall inherit the family estate, every other male member of the household who has reached eighteen years of age must leave the original family and establish a household of his own."
The men stared, jaws slack. They swallowed hard, mouths opening and closing without a sound.
Seeing their paralyzed expressions, Solomon realized the misunderstanding persisted. He shook his head slightly, signaling them to listen.
"Every second son, third son, or even younger son who strikes out on his own—so long as he has come of age—will be granted a plot of public land by me, Solomon."
"These lands lie on the outer edges of the Mountains of the Moon. They will need to clear and cultivate it with their own hands. I will provide them with the most basic farming tools and the first year's seed."
"For a commoner household to trigger this rule, three conditions must be met. If they are, the younger sons must leave to pioneer the mountains."
"One: The eldest son has come of age and can inherit the estate."
"Two: The departing son is eighteen, or at the very least, sixteen."
"Three: The original household exceeds six members."
In Solomon's mind, this was true benevolence. Without dividing the household, a standard plot of public land could never feed so many mouths. A family would either starve or be forced to limit births—a near impossibility in a medieval society without contraception. The grim fate of those excess children was easily imagined.
By mandating division, the new households could forge their own livelihoods, maintaining a stable living standard while expanding the overall population. The lord himself underwrote their risk by providing the land to farm.
Solomon paused, letting the silence stretch before tossing out the true bait.
"For every adult male who strikes out to clear new land in the Mountains of the Moon! From the day he receives his plot, for five full years, he shall owe only civic duty! He will be exempt from paying any form of tax to me!"
A collective gasp tore through the hall.
Five years tax-free! In Westeros, this was pure fantasy. Lords here sought to squeeze oil from newborn babes. When had such a thing ever been heard of?
Solomon raised a single hand, pressing down the rising commotion. His gaze remained steady.
"Let me tell you why."
"I will not have a crowd of people packed into a single thatched hut, fighting their own kin endlessly over a few acres of barren public land, grinding each other to dust."
"I want thousands upon thousands of vibrant, independent new households!"
"I want them to chew into the Mountains of the Moon like ants, to reclaim every inch of soil that can yield grain, to sink my roots deep into this mountain range."
"And when my soldiers bleed on the battlefield, I want them to know, with absolute clarity, that they are not just fighting for Solomon's honor. They are defending the tangible roof and fields held in their own family's hands!"
By pairing equal public land distribution with the incentive of private homesteading, Solomon was forging a stable class of yeoman farmers and military landholders—men who could no longer be called mere serfs. There was no foundation more stable than armed men with their own land. Westeros was vast and sparsely populated; he could write blank checks of wilderness for centuries.
Let the future worry about running out of land hundreds of years from now.
Solomon's voice softened, but the weight of his next words struck with equal force. "The Third Decree!"
"Those who fall in battle for my house shall be compensated!"
He had previously distributed battle spoils to the families of the fallen, but formal pensions had never been issued. It wasn't a lack of will, simply a lack of coin.
Solomon looked at the military officers—hardened veterans—and then swept his gaze across the rest, enunciating every word.
"For every soldier who dies fighting for me: if his widow wishes to remarry, she may."
"But any man who wishes to take her must stand before my appointed administrative officer, sign a contract, and swear by the names of the gods that he will treat her children from the previous marriage as his own, raising them to adulthood."
"If he breaks this vow and mistreats the fallen man's children, his properties will be seized, and he himself will be exiled."
"If she chooses not to remarry, she will not be abandoned. She will not be reduced to begging."
"She may work within my military fortresses—mending clothes, washing laundry, cleaning public spaces, performing simple tasks—to earn a wage sufficient to feed herself and her children."
"Furthermore, her children shall be given priority to learn reading and calculation, that they may serve as my administrative officers in the future."
Solomon watched the paralyzed crowd. He was not finished.
"Additionally, for every soldier killed or severely maimed, his household shall immediately receive ten silver stags directly from my treasury."
"Thereafter, every month, his widow and children will receive a stipend to support their basic livelihood, until the youngest child reaches sixteen years of age."
The lord's hall was pin-drop silent.
Several military officers swiped roughly at their faces. Lauchlan and Lushen blinked rapidly against the sudden glint of moisture. The tax collectors and administrators stood frozen, jaws hanging open.
Bolin and Heck remained rooted to the floor. They stared at Solomon as though a mythical beast had just taken the lord's seat.
They had never heard of such a thing. They could not even conceive of a noble lord in Westeros treating dead soldiers and their families this way. In their world, if a soldier died, it was considered a lord's mercy if the family wasn't immediately kicked off the land.
Evelyn sat ramrod straight. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped her hands together. Her noble upbringing immediately mapped the terrifying financial arithmetic of such mercy. She knew better than to interrupt Solomon here—she would raise her objections in private, even though he routinely dismantled her arguments.
She understood the immense surge in morale and loyalty this decree would buy. But she also calculated the crushing cost. If they suffered a string of defeats, if casualties mounted too high, this promise would shatter the domain's economy. No one could win forever.
Her jaw tightened. This money, this mercy... it is entirely unnecessary.
A long, heavy silence blanketed the hall.
Then Bolin—the blacksmith whose family had been utterly broken by noble oppression—stepped forward. His knee struck the stone floor with a heavy thud.
He bowed his head deeply. When he spoke, his loud voice was choked with a tremor he could not suppress. He wondered briefly if everything in his past would have been different, had he only lived on lands ruled by this man.
"Lord Solomon..." Bolin rasped. "You... are the true... the only... Noble!"
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