Solomon's gaze returned to the parchnt. Or rather, to the handwriting on it.
Olivier. The "forr steward of a minor house."
Solomon doubted that story.
The handwriting was impeccable. Fluid, ornate, and possessed of an almost arrogant confidence. Every loop and flourish spoke of a man accustod to drafting docunts that decided the fate of thousands. This was not the hand of a man who counted chickens for a hedge knight.
Solomon ran his finger over the ink. This man was either lying, or the "minor noble" he served was one of the Great Houses of Westeros.
He sighed. Trouble. Talented people who hid their identities always brought trouble.
Knock, knock, knock.
A soft, rhythmic rapping at the door. It was respectful, controlled—completely different from the bear-paw pounding of Luchen and Lauchlan.
Solomon knew who it was.
"Enter," he said calmly.
The door creaked open. Olivier, the middle-aged scribe, bowed low at the threshold. The dim light of the corridor outlined his humble posture. Even in submission, his form was perfect.
"Lord Solomon," Olivier said, his voice smooth as velvet. "Forgive the late intrusion. I have soone to recomnd to you. Her na is—"
"Approved," Solomon cut him off. "Bring him in."
Olivier blinked, surprised by the swiftness. He bowed again and retreated.
When he returned, he was not alone.
Behind him walked a figure shrouded in a heavy, dark cloak. The hood was pulled low, completely obscuring the face.
Solomon's eyes narrowed. Despite the layers of wool, he noticed details. The gait was graceful, not heavy. The posture was upright.
And beneath the cloak... the silhouette suggested a woman. A woman with a figure that put even Lady Rona to sha.
Why am I analyzing her figure? Solomon shook his head. Focus.
He didn't speak. He just jerked his chin at Olivier.
"This is... my daughter," Olivier said, hesitating slightly. His voice dropped to a whisper. "She is literate. And she is... knowledgeable. She can share your burdens, my Lord."
His tone was protective, almost reverent.
"Daughter?" Solomon smirked. He stood up and walked around the desk, stopping directly in front of the hooded figure.
He stared into the shadows of the hood. "Why does your daughter hide her face?"
The figure lowered her head further.
Beads of sweat appeared on Olivier's forehead. "Lord Solomon... she... she has her reasons. But I swear by the Seven, her talent is real. I stake my life on it."
Solomon sat back down. He interlaced his fingers, assuming a posture of judgnt.
"Since your father vouches for you, I will hear you speak."
"My territory is divided. I have soldiers who bled for , expecting land as a reward. I have peasants who have fard here for generations, depending on the land to survive."
"How do I distribute the land so the soldiers are satisfied, but the peasants do not revolt?"
Silence filled the room.
Olivier looked nervously at the hooded figure, wringing his hands.
A mont later, a voice erged from beneath the hood. It was lodious, clear, and steady.
"Why must you distribute ownership?"
Solomon frowned. He said nothing.
"The ownership belongs to you, my Lord," the woman continued, her pace unhurried. "The soldiers receive Usage Rights and Profit Rights, not Title. You can set a term."
"Fifty years. One hundred years. Define the boundaries. Issue deeds. The deed grants them 'Permanent Tenancy.' They can farm it, they can pass it to their heirs, but the land remains yours."
"The sa applies to the peasants. They are tenants of the Lord."
"Land is a right granted by the Seven to the Nobility."
Solomon's frown deepened. She is definitely highborn. That last sentence was pure Westerosi aristocratic dogma.
But for a feudal lord, her solution was brilliant.
"Rights have no priority, only boundaries," she said, her answers coming faster now, as if she had been preparing for this test her whole life. "You need a Code. A law that everyone must obey."
"The core of the Code is not determining who is right or wrong, but defining the 'Contract'."
"The soldier's land grant is a contract. The peasant's tenancy is a contract."
"Any violation of the contract is punished. Rank does not matter."
"A Code?" Solomon repeated. This was exactly what he wanted.
"Yes. A simple, clear, public Code," she said, her voice carrying a calming authority. "Post it in every village. Let every man know what is forbidden."
"Order cos from clear rules, not from the Lord's whims."
Solomon threw out the second problem. "Taxes. I need money to feed the army and build the land. But the people are poor. How do I extract wealth without killing them?"
She answered instantly.
"Your land is near the river. You have forests. You have clay. Establish Lord's Monopolies. Lumber yards. Fishing fleets. Brick kilns. These industries belong to you directly. Employ the won and children of the tenant farrs to work there for wages—or as part of their tax obligation."
"For cash flow, implent a 'Transaction Tax'. A small levy on every trade in the market. Whether selling a basket of eggs or a bolt of cloth, take a copper. People will not starve from a transaction tax, but the volu of trade will create a river of silver for you."
Solomon: "..."
It wasn't perfect modern economics, but for Westeros? She was a genius. A true Thousand-Mile Horse.
Bang!
Solomon slamd his fist on the table and stood up.
"Who are you?"
Olivier flinched, stepping forward as if to shield her. The hooded woman stopped him with a subtle hand gesture.
Solomon stared at them. They didn't look like father and daughter. Olivier's nervous deference looked more like a servant protecting a mistress.
"Where are you from? Why are you here?"
"I need talent," Solomon said, his voice cold and commanding. "But I hate unnecessary trouble. I need to know who is working for ."
He stepped closer, invading her personal space.
"At the very least, I need to see the face of my advisor."
"Madam! Remove your hood!!!"
The air in the room grew tight as a bowstring. Olivier turned pale, his mouth opening to beg.
The woman stood silent for a long ti. Solomon thought she would refuse.
Finally, she sighed.
Her hands moved slowly. She untied the heavy cloak.
The wool fell to the floor with a soft thud.
Beneath it, she wore a simple linen dress, but it was cut to fit a tall, commanding figure.
She reached up and pulled back the hood.
Solomon saw a face sared with mud and soot. Her hair was a tangled, matted ss. She looked like she had walked through hell to get here.
Solomon frowned. He turned to the door. "Guard! Bring a basin of water and a towel."
When the water arrived, the woman didn't hesitate. She washed her face.
The dirt dissolved. The soot vanished.
When she lifted her head, Solomon forgot to breathe.
The candlelight seed to gather around her.
Her hair was wet, but it shone like spun gold—Lannister gold. It cascaded over her shoulders.
Her eyes were twin sapphires, piercing and intelligent.
Her features were exquisite—high cheekbones, a straight nose, lips that curved with natural elegance. She was perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven. Her beauty was not the fresh bloom of a girl, but the ripe, dangerous beauty of a woman who had seen the world and survived it.
Solomon was stunned. Lady Rona was a village girl compared to this.
But her beauty was a warning. In Westeros, a woman like this, hiding in the countryside with a fake father...
She was a walking disaster. A political ti bomb.
She t his gaze calmly. There was no seduction in her eyes, only a weary wariness. She wore her beauty like armor, not a weapon.
Solomon's mind raced. He needed her brain. He needed her administration skills. But accepting her ant accepting whatever enemies were hunting her.
"You can stay," Solomon said finally, his voice steady. "Olivier, you will remain my scribe."
"As for you..."
He looked at the golden-haired woman.
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