Solomon took in the reactions of every man in the hall. He stepped forward and pulled Bolin up from his kneeling posture, but he knew this was not enough.
"My laws shall be made public!" Solomon pitched his voice higher, ensuring the words struck with an iron-clad authority.
"I command you: upon returning to the military townships you oversee, you will erect a massive wooden board in the place with the heaviest foot traffic—the central assembly square."
His gaze swept across their faces, pinning them one by one.
"I want it large. I want it sturdy. I call it the Notice Board."
"From this day forward, every single decree I, Solomon, issue—just like the three I have spoken today."
"Any tax we intend to levy in the future: exactly what the rate is, and exactly when it is due."
"Any call for corvée labor: exactly who must serve, how many men are required, and exactly when."
"Any reward I grant to any man: exactly what was given, and exactly why it was earned."
"Any punishment I deal to any man: exactly what the penalty is, and exactly why it was dealt."
"All of it. Clearly, cleanly, without a single word missing—carved directly into the wood of that Notice Board!"
"And whenever a new decree is posted, a man must stand before the board and read it aloud to the people."
Solomon's voice spiked, cracking like thunder against their eardrums.
"Within the lands of Solomon, there is only one law! My law!"
"No noble and no official will govern by their own whims! There will be no private judgments behind closed doors!"
"Every town square will have this board. The details of taxes, the appointment of officials, the punishment of criminals, and the pardoning of the guilty!"
"Remember this well: you are merely the executors of my power! The power resides with me!"
The men fell silent. This final command was more subversive than all the previous decrees combined.
This was an entirely new, fundamentally rebuilt system of governance. The arbitrary power of nobles and administrative officers was being actively crippled. Everything would operate according to written law. The administrators were being stripped of their right to interpret the lord's mood; they were being reduced to mere instruments. The commoners were being granted the right to know the law.
It was not merely an unprecedented respect for the rights of the Westerosi smallfolk—it was a declaration of absolute, terrifying confidence in his own political legitimacy.
The smallfolk of Westeros were accustomed to the mercurial rule of lords. The law was whatever the lord said it was on any given morning. That was the supreme, unquestionable privilege of noble blood.
In the lord's hall, the silence stretched long and heavy.
In the center of the assembly square of the four military townships, massive boards pieced together from freshly felled timber were hauled upright.
At first, no one knew what they were. The smallfolk—Solomon's veteran families, the new settlers, the surrendered bandits, and the refugees alike—crowded around, whispering to one another.
They watched the administrative officers carving marks into the wood, their murmurs growing louder. They had no idea what this business of scratching at timber meant. They merely waited for the officer to strain his throat and shout out whatever had happened, just as it had always been done.
In the Southern Gorge military fortress, the administrative officer stood before the freshly carved board. Beside him, the military officer cleared his throat and projected a voice loud enough to drown out the buzzing crowd.
"Listen up!!!"
The square fell dead quiet.
"These are the three decrees issued by Lord Solomon! From this day forward, the earth beneath our feet, and all lands belonging to the Lord, shall abide by these laws!"
The administrative officer stepped up beside the wooden board. As a boy, he had trailed after a barefoot brother of the Faith, picking up a handful of letters. Growing up, he had viewed it as a stupid childhood hobby—utterly useless for a farmer. He had often regretted the wasted time, wishing he had spent it tilling an extra row of dirt.
He had never imagined it would lead to Lord Solomon elevating him directly to an administrative post. Now, he spent his free evenings teaching his own children how to read and count.
His voice rang out, crisp and clear, reading the contents of the wooden board word by word.
When he read that, excluding the eldest son, every male who reached eighteen was required to split from the household and receive his own plot of public land to clear, a suppressed commotion ripped through the crowd.
"What? I... I can have my own land?" A young man in his early twenties, who had spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over his inability to marry while crammed under one roof with his two older brothers, gripped his neighbor's arm. His face was flushed crimson.
"Seven Gods above, is this true?"
The eyes of the second sons and the landless men burned with a sudden, feverish light. In Westeros, land was life itself. And this Lord Solomon was willing to carve out land for the "extra" mouths of their families.
The crowd was practically vibrating with heat, but the administrator kept reading.
When he reached the policy regarding the compensation for the widows of those who had died fighting for Lord Solomon, the square went deathly still once more.
A woman named Elara stood near the back of the crowd. Her husband had fallen in Solomon's earlier battle against the mountain wildlings. Lord Solomon had given her her husband's share of the battle spoils—a substantial sum—but she had no strength for hard labor and two young children to feed. That coin would only last so long. And when it ran out...
She held her youngest son against her chest and gripped her elder boy's hand. Watching the adult men around her flush with joy over land grants, her own eyes were dead, clouded by a suffocating despair. She was a widow with no man in the house. She had no idea how she was going to keep her boys alive.
"...Every household of a fallen soldier shall receive a one-time compensation of ten silver stags. Should the widow choose not to remarry, she may perform light labor within the domain and receive a monthly wage..."
"Ten silver stags!" someone in the crowd gasped, sucking in cold air. It was a massive sum. To hand out coin like that... could it be real?
Elara froze. She stared at the wooden board and the officer pointing at the carved letters. Her thin frame began to tremble violently.
Then, the tax collector began reading off names. When he called out her name and her husband's, she dragged her two children forward, pushing desperately through the press of bodies.
Seeing her, the crowd parted on their own, leaving a clear path for the widow and her boys.
The tax collector personally carried a heavy coin purse to her. He stopped before her, lowering his voice gently.
"Lady Elara. Remember this: this is a grace bestowed by Lord Solomon upon you, and upon the children of his warrior. Please, take it."
Elara's hands shook uncontrollably as she reached out. She took the heavy purse. The cold touch of the silver rapidly grew warm against her palms.
She looked down at the sleeping toddler in her arms, then at the elder boy holding her skirt. The tears finally broke, sliding silently down her face like severed pearls.
She was not the first, nor was she the last. Every family that had lost kin in the fighting received their coin. Several women clutched their purses and broke down weeping right there in the square.
They harbored no resentment toward Solomon. He had brought them—useless mouths—onto his land. He had placed the battle spoils of their dead husbands, fathers, and sons directly into their hands. For that alone, they had been boundlessly grateful. No noble did that. Nobles swallowed the coin of the dead. But Lord Solomon kept his word. They had never seen a lord like him.
And now, this Lord was actively paying to keep them alive, all in the name of the men who had already bled for him.
The military officer looked at the weeping women before him. He spoke softly into the quiet square.
"Ladies. Lord Solomon remembers every drop of hot blood spilled for him. He remembers the name of every man who fell."
"We shall never forget."
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