Solomon leaned against the inner castle wall, looking down at the people below.
Deepden was a good castle. Much better than his own ancestral ruin. It had strong walls, fertile plains, and a strategic position between the mountains and the flatlands.
But they couldn't stay long. A guest who overstays becomes an occupier.
He sighed, watching his soldiers patrol. He didn't want to give it up.
To control this place remotely, he needed a loyal, competent steward for Lady Rona. But he had no one.
Lushen and Lauchlan were loyal dogs, good for biting, useless for governing. Bronn was a wolf who would eat the sheep himself. Old Nikken was needed at Mirekeep Castle.
I need a bureaucrat, Solomon thought. Someone who can read, count, know the law, and handle people. But who answers only to me.
In Westeros, literacy was the monopoly of maesters and septons. There was no middle class of civil servants. Without them, he couldn't build the system he wanted.
"Lord Solomon." Lauchlan's voice broke his reverie.
"Is it done?" Solomon didn't turn around.
"Yes, my Lord. The messengers have departed. Best horses, fastest riders."
Lauchlan hesitated, then asked, "Why are we leaving, my Lord? And why did you give half your spoils to Lady Rona and return so many peasants?"
"Lady Rona obeys you completely. We hold this castle in our hands."
"Lauchlan," Solomon said slowly. "Whose castle is this?"
"Before, it belonged to those two dead traitors. Then Lady Rona. Now... it is yours, my Lord."
"No." Solomon shook his head. "It was never mine. It belongs to Lady Rona."
"We are guests. We were invited to clean the house."
"Now the house is clean. The owner must return. And the neighbors will come looking."
"If we keep this castle, Lady Roslin will have every legal right to call her banners and crush us as rebels."
He turned to Lauchlan. "How many men do we have?"
"323, my Lord."
"Where does our food come from? Where do our weapons come from?"
Lauchlan's face fell. "Lady Roslin provides them."
"Exactly," Solomon said, looking toward Deddings land. "Our lives are in her hand."
"Old Nikken wrote to me. Lady Roslin says grain is short and now demands payment in silver stags. That is a warning."
"If she cuts us off, we starve. My territory will collapse."
Mirekeep Castle was too poor. That was why he wanted a puppet in Deepden—to funnel resources without Lady Roslin's interference. But he had no puppet master.
Lady Roslin was emotional, but her advisor, Old Maester Walder, was a shrewd old buzzard. He wanted to keep Solomon as a "Shit Lord," a useful tool but never a threat.
If Solomon had accepted Rona's proposal, Roslin would have crushed him immediately.
Generals who win too much get executed, Solomon thought. I have to play the humble servant.
"If I keep Deepden, I am a thorn in her hand. She will pull me out and burn me."
"So, we retreat to advance," Solomon explained. "We are heroes who saved her vassal. She cannot attack us without cause."
"Especially since my promise—and my reply—have spread across the Riverlands."
Solomon had made Rona write to every lord in the Riverlands, praising the "loyal" Solomon and the "benevolent" Lady Roslin.
He sighed internally. Rona, that foolish woman, had done everything he asked. He owed her protection, at least.
"House Deddings will want this to be a story of perfect feudal loyalty," Solomon smiled cynically. "Not a scandal."
"More importantly, House Tully will hear of it. They need loyal vassals to stabilize their weak rule."
Solomon clenched his fist, reaching out over the stone wall.
"As long as Lady Roslin gives me land... any land..."
"Once we have land, you will farm your own fields. You will grow your own grain to feed your families."
A gust of wind caught Solomon's black cloak, snapping it like a banner.
Lauchlan stared at him, chest heaving. In the moonlight, the young lord's face was sharp, eyes burning with a terrifying light.
Solomon opened his hand, grasping at the air as if seizing destiny itself.
"I will... fulfill my oath!! I will give you land that belongs to YOU!!"