Inside the lord's bedchamber in the Lion's Den, the leaping candlelight stretched the shadows of Solomon and Evelyn, throwing them twisted and long against the cold stone walls.
The air in the room was thick with a strange, delicate tension, pulled as taut as a bowstring.
Solomon glanced around the windowless room carved deep into the mountain. He wasn't claustrophobic, but perhaps it was the heavy atmosphere of the chamber that made him feel stifled. It seems I need to have them carve out an open-air balcony chamber higher up the cliff face.
Ever since the assembly ended, Evelyn had been shadowing him. But Solomon was never alone. If it wasn't Lushen or Lauchlan coming to report, it was Bolin, now the master blacksmith of the Lion's Den, seeking instructions. Through it all, Evelyn's sapphire eyes had been brimming with words she was desperate to speak.
Now, with the others finally gone, the dam broke. Her voice carried a suppressed, urgent edge.
"Little Lord Solomon. We must speak about the bereavement pensions."
"Speak," Solomon said, dropping into a chair with unhurried grace. In private, Evelyn always liked to attach that diminutive "Little" to his title.
"Ten silver stags. It is far too much for a single commoner household." Evelyn stepped in front of him, the candlelight catching the liquid gold of her hair. "And to supply those children every quarter until they are sixteen?"
"If war comes, the burden will grow heavier and heavier. Our treasury will be hollowed out in months. It is an entirely... unnecessary expense."
Evelyn measured her words carefully, trying to frame her objection as rational financial counsel.
"We could substitute goods. Remove the silver, and instead provide enough grain each quarter to keep them alive. We would save a fortune."
Solomon offered no immediate answer. He lifted his hands and rested them on the wooden table, the soft thud echoing in the quiet room.
From a purely accounting perspective, she was right. It was the most logical way to balance the ledger. But Solomon's gaze drifted past Evelyn, landing instead on the new rug covering the stone floor.
It was a lavish Dornish carpet, woven with complex, exotic patterns, so thick and soft a boot could sink past the ankle.
"Tell me then, Evelyn," Solomon said, his voice perfectly level, cutting through the quiet. "Was buying this rug a waste?"
He pointed a finger at the heavy, ornate decorations now hanging on the walls, and the set of prohibitively expensive wine decanters resting on the side table.
Solomon didn't look at her, but his heart was bleeding over the ledger. That rug alone had cost him over a dozen Golden Dragons. Add the wall hangings and the decanters, and the sum she had spent decorating his quarters was enough to feed the children of a hundred fallen soldiers all the way to adulthood.
He didn't scold her directly. He had given her control of the treasury while he was gone. He merely prayed inwardly for the swift return of Bana, his actual Master of Coin.
He had previously thought Bana was too petty to be a good treasurer—the man would literally haggle over a single copper penny in a laborer's wage! He had earned the nickname "The Miser" and ruined his own reputation in the process. But Gods, Solomon thought, at least The Miser didn't buy Dornish rugs.
Evelyn followed his finger. Her expression tightened instantly. The question seemed to trip a switch inside her, convinced he was accusing her of squandering his gold on frivolity.
He doesn't know what's good for him. She shot back, her tone rising with an offended heat. "That is entirely different! This is necessary!"
"If the fortress of a noble lord looks like a destitute peasant's hovel, the other nobles will look down on you!"
"They will believe you have no strength! No foundation!"
"Prestige and honor can sometimes deter an enemy better than an army! This is part of a lord's majesty!"
Solomon listened in silence. Slowly, he shook his head.
He stood up, rounded the table, and walked right up to her, forcing her to meet his eyes. His gaze was burning, heavy with a sudden, overwhelming aggression that made her instinctively lower her chin.
He took one more step, closing the distance until their breathing mingled.
"Evelyn. Remember my words."
"Only a handful of people will ever feel the softness of this rug. But the weight of that pension coin can hold up a shattered family."
"The splendor of these walls will only ever be mocked by our enemies. But when my soldiers know their families have their own land, when they know their wives and children will never starve—they will bleed out the very last drop in their veins for me on the battlefield."
He paused, letting each syllable drive itself into her ears.
"When men draw their swords for me with absolute, willing devotion—that is true prestige. That is honor."
Solomon's voice never rose to a shout, yet it carried an irrefutable weight.
"The majesty you speak of is a castle built on sand."
"The loyalty I speak of is a foundation stone laid deep in the hearts of men."
Solomon caught her by the shoulders and turned her firmly around, pointing down at the extravagant Dornish rug.
"Sooner or later, you will see it. My investment in the hearts of men will yield returns far, far greater than any of this empty vanity."
Evelyn stood frozen. Her lips parted, but she found she had no words. It wasn't that she agreed with him.
She had been born a noble. Every lesson she had absorbed from childhood taught her that majesty came from bloodline, from the display of immense wealth, from the projection of power. The smallfolk were the foundation, yes—but they were a foundation that could be replaced at any time.
She stared at the young lord. She had no idea who had taught this minor Westerosi noble such utterly heretical ideas.
Does he think he can change the rules Westeros has run on for thousands of years just by speaking?
Peasants... in the deep-rooted education of her house, they were narrow-minded, greedy, filthy creatures. They were never satisfied. And they certainly didn't understand the concept of "repaying" a lord's kindness.
He is from a minor house, after all, she thought. That is why he holds onto these naive fantasies.
Solomon saw the struggle and incomprehension in her eyes. To his mind, an enemy would only laugh at a lord who blew his Golden Dragons on lavish decor while his army starved. He didn't give her more time to dwell on it.
He turned and strode out toward the main council hall. Evelyn trailed after him by instinct.
"We have more important work to do," Solomon said, pulling her out of her tangled thoughts. He stood in the center of the council hall, the candlelight throwing the hard lines of his profile into sharp relief. He proceeded to dictate a decree that left her even more bewildered.
"Starting tomorrow, a new Sanitation and Cleanliness Decree will be issued across the domain."
Evelyn frowned. Sanitation decree?
Solomon gestured for her to take up a quill and parchment to transcribe.
"First: All drinking water must be boiled and allowed to cool before consumption, or drawn directly from the highest mountain springs. No one is permitted to drink raw water or standing water under any circumstances."
"Second: Every residential sector will establish designated dumping sites, far removed from water sources and homes. All nightsoil and food waste must be disposed of centrally. Random dumping is strictly forbidden."
"Third: Public latrines must be constructed, and they will be cleaned on a strict schedule."
Evelyn stared at him, her sapphire eyes wide with utter bafflement.
"You are going to dictate how they drink water?" she blurted out.
The absurdity in her tone was palpable. She understood the importance of avoiding plague, but she had never, in all her life, heard of a lord issuing a legal decree to regulate how peasants swallowed water.
Never mind the fact that Westerosi lords simply didn't have the administrative reach to enforce such a thing—it was entirely unrealistic. The smallfolk of Westeros, and even many minor nobles, simply drank from the nearest river when they were thirsty.
Solomon rubbed his eyes and offered a dry smile.
The regulations had to be stamped into them now, while the population was still small and manageable. He had to forge a cultural habit—an ideological brand—before the numbers swelled. If he waited until there were tens of thousands, how could he possibly enforce it? He would end up ruling one of those horrific, shit-flooded cities of the Middle Ages.
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