Solomon laced his fingers together. One eyebrow twitched upward.
This is going to be interesting.
"Go on."
Hebbard drew a long breath — as though what he was about to say required real courage. The smile faded from his face and was replaced by an expression of deep, pained regret, like a loyal minister who has no choice but to deliver unwelcome counsel to a lord he serves.
He bowed — low, deferential.
"My Lord, forgive my presumption once again."
"This is in no way a challenge to your wisdom."
"But sending those two hundred families into livestock farming... I fear the disadvantages far outweigh the benefits."
Olivier — scribbling notes at the side of the table — stopped writing and looked up at the fat man in surprise.
Solomon's face gave nothing away. He simply watched Hebbard and waited for the analysis.
Hebbard did not disappoint. He shook his head, letting a trace of mild pity cross his face — the expression of a man who regrets that someone too young to know any better has made a mistake.
He raised a thick finger.
"Lord Solomon, traditional animal husbandry — cattle, sheep, pigs — requires astronomical upfront investment."
"Healthy breeding stock. Barns built to survive winter. Enough stored fodder to last the cold months. Disease prevention. Every single one of those is a major expense, without exception."
Second finger. His voice grew heavier.
"Then there is the cycle. This industry demands years of sustained outlay before you see any return at all."
"A calf takes at minimum two years to grow into something you can sell. For those two years, it does nothing but eat. Not a single copper penny comes back to you."
"Can you truly afford to wait?"
Third finger. For maximum effect, he let a thread of genuine-sounding alarm into his voice.
"And the most terrifying thing — the risk! My Lord — one sudden outbreak of plague, or one winter crueler than the last—"
"—and every copper you invested is gone. Nothing left."
Olivier put down his pen. His face had gone slightly pale. He had to admit — every point was accurate, and he had entertained these same doubts. But a lord's decision was a lord's decision. His instinct was to execute without question.
Solomon listened without expression, fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm on the table. He had of course anticipated every one of these drawbacks — they were precisely why he had designed the rabbit farm program. Fast breeding, short cycle, minimal fodder requirements. Each weakness Hebbard named was something rabbits sidestepped entirely.
But he had no intention of explaining this to a man who had been in his service for approximately fifteen minutes. What interested him was what Hebbard would produce after tearing down the plan. A man who only found faults was a mediocrity. A man who could diagnose problems and solve them was something worth having. The gap between those two was vast.
Solomon finally spoke. Calm.
"You make a compelling case."
He did not reveal that traditional livestock had never been the actual plan.
"I acknowledge these as oversights on my part."
He did not argue. He actively conceded. Both Hebbard and Olivier froze.
Hebbard's heart surged. I bet right. This young lord has a breadth of mind that has no business being in someone his age. He can hear hard counsel.
Solomon leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced, gaze sharp.
"Then, Officer Hebbard — since you have seen the problems so clearly, I assume you have the answers ready."
"Tell me. Where is the true gold mine on my land?"
Hebbard's heart hammered against his ribs. Blood rushed to his face, flushing his cheeks dark red. The smile that broke across his features was as full and unguarded as a sunflower turning to face the sun.
He drew himself up and thrust out his belly — his one source of pride.
His voice rang out, rich and hypnotic.
"My Lord!! Your domain's greatest gold mine — an inexhaustible, self-replenishing monopoly commodity — is sitting right in front of you!!"
He knew what he said next would determine everything. Left hand or right hand to this lord — or an irrelevant nobody.
Solomon followed the man's gaze around the tent. Nothing but the map, the table and chairs, and a weapons rack.
His eyes returned to Hebbard. A look that was equal parts inquiry and warning.
"You had better have substance behind those words, my fat officer."
Hebbard dropped the theatrics. He raised his thick hand again — this time with steadiness and purpose — and brought it down hard onto a specific region of the map.
The vast deep-green expanse that occupied nearly half the parchment.
The Moonstone Mountains.
Hebbard shook his bulk, as though gathering every ounce of force in his body into what was coming.
Then, from somewhere deep in his chest, he pushed out a single word.
"Charcoal."
Solomon rose to his feet and looked at the Moonstone Mountains on the map.
He had genuinely overlooked this. He had thought about the iron ore possibly buried in those peaks, the copper, the potential for richer deposits. Long-term projects, all of them.
But he had not thought about the most obvious, most immediate, most abundant thing the mountains offered.
Timber. An endless sea of timber.
Hebbard saw it happen on Solomon's face. He had won the entire bet.
His voice dropped into a pitch that was half excitement and half seduction.
"Lord Solomon, look at these Moonstone Mountains!!"
"The trees inside them — hundred-year giants, thousand-year giants — more than anyone could count in a lifetime!!"
"Your descendants could send woodcutters into the Moonstone Mountains for centuries and still not reach the end of it!!"
His breathing quickened. His eyes shone with the light of gold dragons and silver stags.
Another essential monopoly commodity. My percentage just keeps growing.
"Instead of sending those six hundred people — those two hundred families — into high-risk, long-cycle livestock farming, make them two large charcoal works!!"
"Have them burn charcoal!!"
He was accelerating now, fat frame trembling with enthusiasm.
"My Lord, charcoal production is simplicity itself!! An axe and enough manpower!! And what do we have in abundant supply right now? Cheap labor, converted directly from the refugee camp!!"
"Investment near zero!! Returns immediate!!"
"Think about what charcoal is, My Lord — it is a necessity that no household in Westeros can live without!! Winter heating, daily cooking, the blacksmith's forge — which of these can function without it?"
"An absolute hard-need market!! Produce enough and sales take care of themselves!! The profit in this..."
He paused, savoring the moment.
"...is far larger than you imagine."
He gave Solomon time to absorb it, then delivered the final hook.
"And this is not only for domestic use!! When our output scales up, we export!!"
"Particularly south — those flatland domains with no forests of their own."
Solomon stood in silence before the map. The fat man's delivery was excessive — but the underlying logic held. And regardless of the profit picture, the most critical effect was simpler: every person now had a defined purpose, a defined location, a defined task. The domain would stabilize.
He turned to Olivier. The order was not open to discussion.
"Pass my command. The two planned livestock farms are redesignated as charcoal works."
"The remaining two-hundred-plus in the refugee camp will form a rabbit farm."
"Charcoal is the fifth lord's monopoly commodity."
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