The tent filled with desperate, wretched sobbing.
The fat merchant's voice cracked with tears, thick with self-pity.
"By the Seven!! I truly am a merchant!! Why won't anyone believe me!!"
Solomon studied him with open curiosity. Westeros lacked educated bureaucrats — he had no reliable middle management, so merchants were the next best thing. But he couldn't hire just anyone. They had to pass his test.
He crooked a finger, signaling the fat man to rise.
"A merchant? Then why were you in my refugee camp?"
Mention of the camp brought an expression of pure grievance to Hebbard's face, as though he had endured the greatest injustice of his life.
He launched into his complaint without pause.
"It was your war with House Lege!!"
"My entire caravan — full of Dornish wine — all of it, gone!!"
"Swallowed up by Lege's vassals, those dogs, who seized it under wartime requisition and would have killed me too!!"
"Luckily your men arrived and fought them off."
"I barely escaped in the chaos, made it onto your land — and then your soldiers took me for a refugee and locked me in the camp!! Wouldn't let me leave!!"
The more he spoke, the more aggrieved he sounded. His fat frame shook with barely contained sobs.
Solomon rubbed his chin as he listened.
So I am indirectly responsible for bankrupting this poor bastard.
He couldn't help a small smile. But then he reconsidered.
And I am the one who saved him.
"Master Hebbard," he said, looking down at the kneeling merchant like a man appraising an unusual item. "It seems I do bear some responsibility for your misfortune."
He paused.
"Since you are already ruined, why not stay and work for me? I have an excellent position that needs filling."
Hebbard's eyes flashed with brief interest — then wariness. This young lord had just ordered fifty men beheaded without changing expression. He was no soft touch.
He raised his head cautiously.
"Lord Solomon... may I... refuse?"
The smile vanished from Solomon's face. What replaced it was ice.
"No."
Hebbard shuddered violently and buried his face in the ground again. He had been in the front row for the beheadings. The image of the blood was still vivid.
He could only whisper, like a mosquito.
"What... what kind of work?"
Solomon leaned forward slightly. His fingers tapped the table, producing a dull rhythm.
"My." Tap. "Lord's." Tap. "Proprietary." Tap. "Monopoly." Tap. "Officer."
Hebbard blinked.
"Lord's Proprietary... Monopoly... Officer?"
"What does that mean?"
Solomon's explanation was simple.
"Very straightforward."
"From today forward, on my lands, salt, wine, iron, and sugar — these four commodities — may only be produced and sold in bulk by the lord. That is to say, by me."
Hebbard didn't wait for Solomon to finish. His merchant's instincts were already sounding alarms.
He looked up sharply.
"And... you will raise the price on these monopoly goods?"
Solomon gave him an approving nod. The most sophisticated form of taxation was the kind people didn't realize was taxation at all — what the ancients called "taxes hidden in prices." Make the tax unavoidable but imperceptible. "Let them see the giving but not the taking." Publicize every benefit given to the people, but when taking from them, do it quietly, invisibly. The people and their lord become one.
He nodded to the fat merchant.
"Yes."
The confirmation hit Hebbard like lightning. He froze on his knees, mouth slightly open, speechless.
But inside, a storm was raging.
Just as I thought!! I knew it!! All you noble lords — your hearts are black as the hells!!
What "merciful lord"!! What "son of the Seven"!! What "one-in-ten tax reform"!! The real fangs were waiting right here!!
He had almost believed it. Almost convinced himself he had found the one impossibly generous lord Westeros had never produced.
The old taxes — everyone hated them, everyone rebelled against them.
But this...
This monopoly system...
Hebbard's body began to shake. Not from fear. From excitement. From awe.
Brilliant.
This system would fill the lord's coffers endlessly while holding every smallfolk by the throat.
Salt — everyone needed it to live. Iron — for tools, for weapons. Wine and sugar — luxury staples.
Control those, and you controlled everything.
And there would be no mass revolts. No pitchforks. Just quiet, steady profit.
Genius. Pure genius.
Hebbard looked at Solomon's young face. The fear was gone. What replaced it was admiration from the depths of his merchant's soul.
This is a true Westerosi lord.
He was already ruined. Might as well go all in. There was profit to be made here.
He stood — his expression changing so quickly from sobbing despair that it startled Solomon.
He bowed deeply and respectfully.
"At your service, Lord Solomon!!"
Hebbard's bulk did not retreat in tearful gratitude after receiving the appointment. He knew the test wasn't over. Leaving now would disqualify him from this lucrative post. The fat on his face gathered into an expression that bordered on sycophantic, though the sharp glint in his eyes betrayed his genuine excitement.
His voice was smooth, oily, cunning.
"Lord Solomon, if I may be so bold."
"Your four monopoly commodities — salt, wine, iron, sugar — a stroke of genius. They will form the foundation of the domain's future wealth."
"But..." He paused for effect. "Perhaps you could add one more."
Solomon raised an eyebrow. The gaze settled on Hebbard — calm, unreadable. The fat merchant felt cold sweat break out along his spine.
His tone lifted slightly, inviting continuation.
"Oh?"
He did not dislike subordinates with ideas — provided the ideas had value.
With permission granted, all tension drained from Hebbard. He straightened — his silk tunic groaning under the strain — and stepped to the long table.
He did not name it directly. Instead, he extended a fat finger and pointed to a specific area on the map — the two livestock farms Solomon had marked near the Moonstone Mountains.
His voice dropped, carrying a hint of showmanship.
"The key is right here."
He was about to prove his worth as Proprietary Monopoly Officer.
"It's those two hundred families about to be settled there."