The widow stayed on her knees as if her legs had grown roots into the mud.
Her ragged dress was caked with dirt.
Tangled, dry hair hung over most of her face.
Only her red, swollen eyes showed now and then, wide with terror.
Solomon stood in front of her.
He wasn’t a tall man, but to her he might as well have been a mountain she could never climb.
“Why didn’t you come to the tower and ask for help?” His voice had lost its earlier weakness.
There was a quiet authority in it now that even he didn’t fully recognize.
The woman flinched and pressed her forehead harder into the ground.
“I—I didn’t dare, m’lord,” she whispered.
“I was afraid I’d offend you.
Afraid you’d… punish me.” “Punish you for what?” Her whole body started shaking.
She knocked her head against the mud again and again, voice breaking into sobs.
“I was afraid you’d punish me… punish my children.
My husband Old Hake went with your father to Seagard.
He never came back.
We have no food left.
My two little ones are going to starve.
I came to beg for your mercy, but when I reached the gate I got scared.
I thought you’d have me beaten or driven off.
So I turned around… but then I thought about how useless I am, how I can’t even catch fish properly.
I tried to steal from someone else’s nets and got caught and beaten bloody.
My children are going to die and I couldn’t stop crying.
I didn’t want to offend you, m’lord.
I deserve to die.
Please spare me.
I’ll go.
I’ll go right now.” She kept babbling, every sentence making her shake harder.
She knew exactly how lords in Westeros looked at people like her.
They were property.
Livestock that walked on two legs.
Sometimes worth less than a good cow or pig.
They had no rights.
A lord could beat them, take their wives or daughters, or kill them for any reason or none at all.
Coming here to beg had already been the most dangerous thing she had ever done.
Solomon was silent for a long moment.
He looked down at this broken woman and felt something cold settle in his chest.
This was the world he had landed in.
Eight thousand years of rigid hierarchy where most lives were worth less than the dirt they farmed.
He was lucky, he realized.
Even with a ruined tower and empty granary, he was still in the top one percent of people in Westeros just by being born to a knightly house.
He took a slow breath and made his voice as gentle as he could.
“I’m not going to punish you.” The widow went very still.
She clearly didn’t believe him.
“Niken,” Solomon said, turning to the old steward.
“Go to the granary.
Bring her two sacks of grain.
Then go to the strongbox and take out three copper pennies for her.” Old Niken stared at him like he had lost his mind.
The tower’s stores were already dangerously low.
The few coins they had left were precious.
Giving any of it to a single farmwife was unthinkable.
Letting her and her children continue living on Stinkfort land was already more generosity than most lords would ever show.
But Old Niken had served three generations of Stinkforts.
He bowed his head.
“Yes, my lord.” He turned and hobbled back toward the tower, still muttering under his breath.
Behind Solomon, Rosslyn and Luden stood frozen.
They had both been born on this land.
They knew how lords treated smallfolk.
Being beaten for looking at a lord the wrong way was normal.
Being killed for it wasn’t even rare.
The fact that Solomon hadn’t punished them for speaking up was already shocking.
Now he was giving food and coin to a widow whose husband had already died serving the family?
They looked at Solomon’s back with something close to awe.
The widow finally lifted her head.
Her eyes were full of tears and disbelief.
The moment she understood he was serious, she started slamming her forehead into the mud again, sobbing with gratitude instead of despair.
“Thank you, Lord Solomon!
Thank you for your mercy!
May the Seven bless you!
May the Seven bless you and House Stinkfort!
May the Seven watch over you always!” She had come here ready to beg, then ready to die.
When even begging had felt too dangerous, she had planned to drown her children and then herself so they wouldn’t starve.
Instead she was being given enough grain to keep them alive and three copper pennies besides.
Solomon waited until her sobbing eased.
“Get up.” She scrambled to her feet on shaking legs, still bowing and thanking him between every breath.
Solomon looked at her, then at Rosslyn and Luden.
A decision settled in his chest.
He was weak.
His lands were poor.
His people were few.
In this world, strength came from swords and gold and powerful friends.
He had almost none of those things.
But he had these people.
If he could bind them to him—not through fear, but through something rarer—he might have a foundation no one else in his position could claim.
“Rosslyn.
Luden.” Both men snapped to attention so fast it was almost comical.
“My lord!” “Every farmer who followed my father to Seagard is dead except the two of you,” Solomon said quietly.
“They died for this family.
You fought for this family.” Both men lowered their heads.
Their eyes were wet.
Old Niken returned, carrying two half-empty sacks of grain and three small copper coins.
He looked like he was in physical pain handing them over.
“Take these,” he told the widow gruffly.
“Remember you owe this to House Stinkfort.
Remember Lord Solomon’s kindness.” The woman took the grain and coins like they were made of gold.
She dropped to her knees again, thanking them over and over until Solomon told her to go home to her children.
When she was gone, he turned to Old Niken.
His face was serious.
“Niken, I need you to do three things.
Right now.” “First, make a complete inventory of everything we still have.
Grain, coin, weapons, armor, livestock, tools, even the household goods.
Everything of any value.
I want the most detailed list you can make.” Old Niken blinked but nodded.
“Yes, my lord.” “Second.” Solomon’s voice grew heavier.
“Make a list of every farmer who went to war with my father.
Every single one.
Then figure out what their families need.
Families that still have a strong man can get less.
Families that lost their only working man and are left with only women and children need more.
We’re going to give them aid.” Old Niken’s mouth opened and closed.
He looked like Solomon had just suggested they set the tower on fire for warmth.
“Third,” Solomon continued, “Rosslyn and Luden will go with you when you distribute the aid.
If anyone tries to steal from these families or abuse them because their men died serving us, cut off the offender’s hand and nail it up where everyone can see it.” Old Niken finally found his voice.
It came out strangled.
“My lord… what are you doing?
These are just farmers.
Their men died in service to the family—that was their duty.
Why would we give them grain and coin?
We barely have enough for ourselves!” Solomon didn’t answer right away.
He looked out over the empty yard toward the reeds.
“I need to know how many families are now without anyone to feed them because of us,” he said.
“And I need to know how much it will cost to keep them alive through the winter.
At least while they’re under my protection.” Old Niken stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language.
Rosslyn and Luden looked at each other.
The same stunned, almost frightened gratitude was in both their eyes.
They had never heard of a lord doing anything like this.
Solomon didn’t care what they thought.
Not yet.
He knew exactly how weak he was.
He knew the wars that were coming.
He knew that when the real storm hit, Stinkfort would be nothing but kindling unless he found a way to make these people choose to stand with him instead of running or turning on him.
Fear could make men obey for a while.
But loyalty—real loyalty—might be the only weapon he could afford to wield right now.
And it had to start here.