Lauchlan staggered from Solomon's kick, nearly falling on his face. He rubbed his backside, wincing.
Yet, the dull confusion on his face vanished, replaced by a sudden, shining clarity.
"I understand! Lord Solomon! I understand! I understand it all now!"
He scrambled out of the tent, practically tripping over his own boots. Luchen snorted with laughter at the sight.
The laugh lasted exactly two seconds before Solomon's boot sent Luchen tumbling after him.
"Lauchlan! Wait for me!" Luchen scrambled up and sprinted after his partner.
Solomon watched their retreating backs. In the past, he had found their simple loyalty endearing. Now, their stupidity was becoming an eyesore. He sighed.
I need educated men. Once he secured the territory, he would need surveyors, census takers, and tax collectors.
At Reekfort, the population had been so small that the Lord could personally knock on every door. Here, as the population grew, he would need a bureaucracy. A system was better than no system; order was better than chaos.
His vision differed from the Westerosi elite. He planned to concentrate the scattered population into large, fortified villages, making them easier to tax and defend.
Solomon stepped out of the tent. Across the plains, families were picking up crude tools and marching toward their allocated plots.
He had to admit—for all their foolishness, Luchen and Lauchlan were efficient. Once an order was drilled into their thick skulls, they executed it with terrifying speed.
Over the next few days, villagers from across the valley trickled in, delivering their single sacks of flour. Solomon didn't need the flour. He needed the gesture.
He accepted the tribute publicly. In return, he publicly swore to protect them.
Land, people, and loyalty were gravitating toward him. Now, he only had to wait.
On the third day, Sir Walker Terry's envoy arrived.
Solomon smirked when he heard the news. Finally. The knight had lost his patience. Solomon's patience had been wearing thin, too.
Solomon's strategy of encroaching on the borders and poaching the peasantry was working. If Terry didn't react soon, he would be a lord of nothing but empty fields.
Solomon met the envoy outside the camp gates. He did not invite him in.
The envoy was a middle-aged man in boiled leather armor, his chin held high in an attempt at dignity.
He began with a flowery speech, praising Solomon's valor against the wildlings, conveniently forgetting that his master had called Solomon a "dung-scraper" just days ago.
Solomon cut off the flattery with a wave of his hand. The envoy, embarrassed, finally got to the point.
"Lord Solomon," he said, bowing slightly. "I come on behalf of Sir Walker Terry."
"I know who sent you." Solomon looked at him like he was an idiot.
The envoy cleared his throat. "Sir Walker is willing to swear fealty to you."
"However, he asks that you lead your people to the eastern plains to settle. Those lands remain unclaimed."
"In exchange, Sir Walker offers to pay you ten years of taxes in advance to fund your new settlement."
Solomon stared at him. The envoy shifted uncomfortably, sweat beading on his forehead.
Internally, Solomon was stunned. Ten years of taxes? House Terry is richer than I thought.
Under Solomon's unblinking gaze, the envoy stammered out the line he had been ordered to deliver. "Lord Solomon... after all, this is the traditional territory of House Terry."
Solomon smiled. It was a cold, sharp expression.
"Go back and tell your master: This is my land. It is not his tradition."
"This is my final summon. Tell him to come here and swear fealty."
"I will allow him to keep three villages as his fief. He will serve as a landed knight under my House. I will not mistreat him."
"As my House words say: Grace Endures. His family will enjoy my protection forever."
The envoy was sweating profusely now. "My Lord... this is my master's greatest offer of sincerity."
Solomon's smile vanished. "And this is mine."
"This is the last chance. Three villages. Fealty. And the protection of my banner."
"The Old Gods and the New are my witnesses. If he swears, I will ensure his line prospers."
"This is the final offer."
The envoy went pale. He hadn't expected such a hard line. Solomon was leaving no room for negotiation.
Silence stretched between them.
"Why?" the envoy blurted out, breaking protocol. "Lord Solomon... why us? Why House Terry?"
"Because you are easy to squeeze," Solomon said. His tone was flat, factual.
"W-what?" The envoy leaned forward, sure he had misheard.
Solomon's face was the picture of terrifying honesty. "I said, because your master is the softest fruit. That is why I am squeezing him."
Solomon turned his back and walked away.
The envoy, panicked, took a step forward to argue. Sching.
Luchen drew his sword halfway. The steel flashed in the sunlight, reflecting a beam of white light across the envoy's eyes.
The man froze, the words dying in his throat. His legs gave out, and he sat hard in the dirt, cold sweat soaking his tunic.
He sat there, staring at the empty gate, until he finally picked himself up and left in defeat.
According to the scouts, Sir Walker Terry did not come. He chose the other path.
He began forcibly conscripting peasants within his remaining territory, trying to cobble together an army for a last stand.
Solomon understood. The determination of a man defending his property was powerful. It was the same logic behind his own land reforms—men fought for what they owned. Nobles were no different.
But the news of war spread like wildfire.
And with it came the refugees. Hundreds of emaciated peasants fled across the fields, refusing Terry's conscription. They ran toward Solomon's camp.
House Terry's rule had been harsh, the taxes heavy. Solomon's reputation for mercy—and his one-sack tax—had done its work. The people chose the new Lord.
"This is what they call the Mandate of the People," Solomon said to Luchen, watching the ragged crowd press against the camp gates. "If you do not treat them well in peace, they will not bleed for you in war."
The time had come.
Solomon ordered the assembly.
He stood on the high ridge of the camp, looking down at the desperate refugees on one side and his disciplined, iron-clad soldiers on the other.
He drew his sword.
"Sir Walker Terry has rejected my mercy!"
"He wants war! I will give him war!"
70+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/AgentTwilight