Solomon walked to the front of the towering mountain of plundered wealth and smoothly drew his longsword.
The immediate scrape of steel instantly drew the gaze of every soldier. The chaotic, buzzing courtyard fell dead silent.
Solomon's voice cut through the crisp air, ringing in every man's ear. "My brothers!"
"I made you a promise!! Fight for me, and the fruits of war will be shared among you all!!!"
He pointed the tip of his sword at the glittering pile of gold, silver, and supplies.
"Whether you were the man who charged the gates or the man who hauled the supply wagons! Every single man here will receive his rightful share!"
"Olivier!"
"Distribute the wealth according to the ledger!"
Olivier offered a stiff bow. "Yes, Lord Solomon."
"But My Lord..."
Solomon's gaze snapped to the steward, his eyes hard and unyielding. "Execute the order!!"
Olivier snapped his mouth shut, swallowed his protests, and opened the heavy ledger.
The distribution began. Lushen and the squad commanders maintained strict order as the soldiers lined up, stepping forward one by one to claim their literal spoils of war.
The air itself seemed to vibrate with the intoxicating, maddening scent of hard currency.
A conscripted farmer, whose sole duty had been boiling oat porridge for the camp, stepped up. His hands trembled violently as he was handed a heavy leather pouch.
He pulled the drawstring open. Inside was a massive pile of copper pennies, glittering with the unmistakable silver shine of several silver stags. He clutched the pouch tightly to his chest, tears freely streaming down his dirt-streaked face. This money... this is enough to feed my family comfortably for an entire year, perhaps even longer.
Another soldier, who had taken an arrow to the shoulder during the initial siege of Willowbrook, received his coin, but was also handed a magnificent, fur-lined cloak that had once belonged to a knight's wife—a luxury item worth several silver stags on its own.
He stroked the incredibly soft fur as if he were caressing a lover's skin. It was something he could never have dreamed of owning in his previous life. I will give this to my wife when I return.
"LONG LIVE LORD SOLOMON!!!"
It was unclear who shouted it first, but within a fraction of a second, the cry erupted into an earth-shattering, tsunami-like roar.
"LONG LIVE LORD SOLOMON!!!"
The soldiers raised their heavy coin pouches and their bloodstained weapons high into the air, screaming the words with every ounce of air in their lungs.
Their faces radiated the purest, most unadulterated ecstasy.
In this singular moment, Solomon was no longer just a feudal lord to them. He was a living god who delivered undeniable wealth and a tangible future. No man alive hates the man who makes him rich.
Right now, these men would gladly march into the Seven Hells for him and bleed themselves entirely dry.
Standing upon an elevated stone platform, Solomon watched the fanaticism boil over with perfect calm.
This absolute, rabid fervor was exactly what he wanted.
In the brutal era of cold steel, this was the most primal, the most reliable, and the most unbreakable form of loyalty—a loyalty forged entirely by binding their material interests to his own.
The noble families captured from the dozen keeps were rounded up to be escorted back to the dungeons of Willowbrook.
Solomon looked at the pale, terrified noblewomen and their shivering children. After a moment of calculation, he issued strict orders to the escorting guards. "Protect them well! Deliver them safely to Willowbrook to be reunited with their husbands!"
"If a single hair on their heads is harmed, you will all hang!"
The soldiers shouted their acknowledgment. Solomon looked at the hostages, seeing them not as people, but as walking piles of Golden Dragons. These nobles can likely be ransomed a second time.
Next, he turned his attention to the smallfolk—the terrified servants and peasants who had hidden in the corners of the keep. Their meager belongings had been confiscated and logged into the collective pile.
Just as he had done at the previous castles, his tone softened considerably. "It was the arrogance of your lords that brought this war to your door. I will not harm you."
He pointed toward the north.
"Any man or woman willing to follow me may travel to my lands. I will grant you fields to plow and roofs to sleep under."
He then pointed in the opposite direction.
"If you do not wish to come, I will not force you. I will personally provide you with travel coin, seven days of rations, and the exact monetary equivalent of the belongings my army confiscated from you today. My soldiers will escort you safely out of this war zone."
Solomon cast a pointed glance at Olivier, signaling the steward to pay out the refugees exactly as he had done before. Olivier glared back at him with deep, profound resentment. Sometimes my Lord acts with the cold, calculating cruelty of a true ruler, yet at other times he displays this baffling, senseless charity. He treats gold as if it were dirt.
Solomon ignored the steward's silent reprimand. The reality of medieval warfare was grim: when a city or castle fell, a massacre was almost a biological certainty. The soldiers endured unimaginable stress during a siege; attempting to suppress their need to "vent" through sheer authority was foolish, and would only breed deep resentment and mutiny.
Solomon was employing the exact same strategy. He didn't rely on lofty moral speeches. He used massive economic incentives to buy the discipline of his men. Only by doing this could he ensure that the next time they faced a heavily fortified wall, his soldiers would charge it fearlessly, knowing the wealth awaited them, while simultaneously refraining from butchering the innocent.
Furthermore, he cared nothing for the miserable coppers the peasants possessed. The combined wealth of the two hundred commoners in this keep barely equated to a handful of silver stags—less than the value of a single noblewoman's cloak. He had confiscated their items to stop his soldiers from coveting them, and he was now paying them back out of his own pocket to buy their absolute devotion.
The smallfolk stared at him, their faces etched with total disbelief.
An elderly man hobbled forward on trembling legs.
"My Lord... is what you say true?"
"...you will truly return the value of our belongings?"
"You... you will truly let us walk away?"
Sitting high upon his warhorse, Solomon didn't look directly at the old man, but his voice carried the weight of iron. "I have never spoken a word I did not make reality."
The crowd fell into a stunned silence. And then, like wheat bowing before a strong wind, the vast majority of the peasants dropped to their knees.
"We will follow you! We will farm your lands, My Lord!! We will go!!"
To these people, trapped in the chaotic meat grinder of a noble war, a lord who offered them land, shelter, and a means to survive was a miracle sent by the Seven.
If they fled as refugees, who knew if the next lord they encountered would simply enslave them or put them to the sword?
A small minority still chose to leave. True to his word, Solomon paid them from his own purse, provided them with rations, and assigned an armed escort to guide them safely out of the Lege domain.
Deep into the night.
The bonfires crackled loudly in the courtyard of the hollowed-out keep.
The soldiers sat tightly around the flames, laughing boisterously, loudly praising the unmatched generosity of Lord Solomon while greedily recounting their newfound wealth.
Solomon stood alone on the battlements, staring out into the oppressive darkness. He knew the envoys from Riverrun would arrive soon. He also knew that once the opportunistic vassals of House Lege finished cannibalizing their liege's lands, they would inevitably unite to strike at him—the man who had claimed the greatest prize. He was quietly formulating his next strategic maneuver.
Olivier's soft footsteps approached from behind. "Lord Solomon..."
Solomon didn't turn around. "Speak. I know you've been holding it in all day."
Olivier took a deep breath. His voice trembled with a profound, unshakeable anxiety.
"My Lord. What you did today... it certainly bought the absolute, fanatical loyalty of your men..."
He paused, struggling to find the right words to convey the sheer scale of the disaster he foresaw.
"...but it has also planted the seeds of a catastrophic ruin."
Solomon finally turned around. This is interesting. "Oh? How so?"
Given permission to speak freely, Olivier's tone grew impassioned. "My Lord, you are feeding raw, bloody meat to a pack of starving wolves!"
"These peasant soldiers have now tasted the profound sweetness of war. They are going to become increasingly aggressive, increasingly bloodthirsty, and boundlessly greedy."
"When peace finally returns to the realm... what exactly do you expect them to do?"
"An army that has grown completely accustomed to securing wealth through military conquest and the legalized plundering of the nobility... they will become the most terrifying source of rebellion and instability within your own borders!"
He took a step closer, desperate to make Solomon understand the historical precedent.
"My Lord... have you ever heard of the 'Old Way' of the Ironborn?"
Solomon nodded slowly, saying nothing. The "Old Way" was infamous throughout Westeros. And practically speaking, his own predecessor's entire family had been slaughtered by Ironborn reavers practicing it.
"The Ironborn revere their tradition of raiding and pillaging. They call it the 'Old Way.' They refuse to buy what they can take with steel. They call it 'paying the iron price.'"
"They openly mock those who plow the earth and toil in the fields. They view war and plunder as the only true, honorable purpose of a man's life."
"My Lord, look at your soldiers! They are rapidly becoming more Ironborn than the squids themselves! They now define their entire worth and status in your domain by their military merit. They view slaughter as the only valid method of acquiring wealth."
"Lord Solomon... please forgive my bluntness... but you are actively forging an 'Old Way' for the smallfolk of the Riverlands."
Solomon listened quietly, his face entirely devoid of emotion. His gaze drifted back down to the courtyard, watching his soldiers cheering and drinking around the fires.
When Olivier finally finished his desperate plea, Solomon spoke slowly. "You see a future rebellion. I see absolute bravery and unbreakable loyalty. Tell me, Olivier, on the battlefield, which of those is more useful?"
Olivier was momentarily stunned into silence. "...But Westeros does not have an infinite supply of wars to fight, My Lord."
"When this local conflict ends... what will your people do then?"
"In the long term, without a war to focus their greed, these men will tear your domain apart from the inside..."
Solomon cut him off sharply. "The long term?"
"We must actually survive the present before we can afford the luxury of discussing the long term. Right now, I require an army of absolute loyalty and unmatched ferocity. I need an army willing to crack their teeth on the hardest bones in the realm."
"If gold is spent, it can be plundered again. But if the fighting spirit of my men is broken, it can never be reforged."
Solomon patted the steward's shoulder, his tone lightening slightly. "As for your deep fears regarding the inevitable return of peace..."
Solomon smiled. In the dancing, uneven light of the torches, that smile looked profoundly dark and entirely inscrutable.
He leaned in close to Olivier, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for the steward's ears.
"Tell me, Olivier... what makes you so certain there will ever be peace?"
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