Outside the Lion's Den, dust filled the air. Towering scaffolding wrapped around the mountain like the bones of a giant.
Countless workers moved between the cableways and the cliffs. The sounds of hammering and shouting converged into a scene of chaotic bustle.
Roderick looked at the construction of the Lion's Den with curiosity. He couldn't understand why they were digging into the mountain, nor why the material coming out was stone, not ore.
In a clearing specially prepared outside this heated valley construction site.
A rough wooden table and a few simple wooden chairs made up the entire arrangement. A negotiation was underway.
Solomon sat calmly in the main seat. Behind him stood Luchen, hand on his sword, along with a dozen other soldiers.
Roderick, dressed in a tailored silk tunic, looked out of place among the crowd here. The few caravan representatives behind him were similarly well-dressed but wore expressions of impatience.
Solomon's voice was calm, skipping all pleasantries and getting straight to the point: "Lord Roderick, welcome to my territory."
"I need horses. A large number of horses. Especially warhorses suitable for cavalry. Name your price."
Solomon's tone was like discussing a deal for bread—fast, simple, direct.
As soon as his voice fell, a young caravan representative behind Roderick couldn't hold back. Looking at the child lord before him, a short laugh escaped his throat. It was incredibly jarring.
This laugh was like a stone thrown into a pond, instantly causing ripples. The other members of the caravan revealed expressions of suppressed amusement, looking at Solomon. Such lack of knowledge was simply laughable. They exchanged glances as if hearing the most absurd request in the world.
Their eyes were like wealthy city citizens looking at poor country relatives—full of superiority and pity.
Roderick didn't laugh, but the slight upward curve of his lips indicated he also felt this little lord had a big reputation but little knowledge. In the end, he was just a country bumpkin.
Solomon frowned slightly. What's so funny?
He didn't even need to speak. The soldiers behind him could endure it no longer. In Westeros, vassals and warriors were expected to defend their lord's dignity with their lives.
Clang!
The crisp sound of a blade being drawn cut through the crude negotiation site and the noisy construction site.
Luchen's longsword was half-unsheathed. The cold edge reflected a chilling white light under the sun, pointing directly at the caravan members.
The laughter and mocking expressions stopped abruptly.
The air seemed sucked out in that instant, becoming solidified and heavy. The smiles on the faces of the caravan attendants froze, replaced by shock and a trace of unease.
Luchen pointed his sword tip remotely at the caravan representative who had laughed first, ordering the two soldiers beside him in a cold voice:
"Shatter his teeth! Cut out his tongue!"
"Let him remember to shut his mouth when he laughs in the future!"
The command was calm, devoid of any emotion, yet it made the caravan members' hair stand on end.
Roderick frowned and looked at Solomon, but saw the young lord had no expression or movement, still beaming with such gentle warmth.
Two soldiers stepped forward without hesitation, bypassing Roderick. The blood drained instantly from the young caravan representative's face, leaving it pale as paper. He let out a terrified scream, looking to the caravan members for help, trying to dodge backward.
"Lord Solomon! Mercy..." Roderick also reacted from his shock, standing up abruptly and turning his head, but he saw a spray of fresh blood, turning his sentence into a "Damn it!"
Solomon's soldiers accepted orders too fast. They executed directly without even thinking. It was all too late.
One soldier grabbed the young caravan representative by the collar. The other soldier took his sword hilt—using the heavy pommel—and smashed it ruthlessly into his mouth.
Thud. Thud.
Muffled impacts, one after another, mixed with the sound of shattering bone and falling teeth, echoed clearly in everyone's ears. The rest of the caravan felt cold all over.
The young representative's screams and pleas turned into incoherent whimpers. Blood gushed from the corners of his mouth, instantly staining his front. He collapsed to the ground like a pile of mud, twitching, and passed out. The other soldier took out a dagger, pried open his mouth, and cut out his tongue. Blood sprayed. To prevent him from choking on his own blood, they pulled him up and sat him against a tree.
The whole process was clean and efficient, without a trace of sloppiness. Said to shatter his teeth, shattered his teeth. Said to cut out his tongue, cut out his tongue. No superfluous actions were taken.
Roderick and the caravan representatives turned pale. They had indeed heard that the young lord before them and his soldiers had a fierce reputation, but they didn't expect this boy to be so ruthless. Although Solomon didn't say a word, obviously, how could soldiers violate their master's will?
Solomon seemed to turn a blind eye to the bloody scene before him. He bet the other party would swallow this loss for the goods. Besides, plenty of people wanted his stuff; at worst, he would wait for the next large guild.
Solomon picked up the water cup on the table, took a gentle sip, then turned his gaze to the ashen-faced Roderick.
Solomon's expression and tone remained gentle and refined, so warm and mild, even carrying a hint of inquiry, yet it made Roderick feel cold all over: "Now, can you tell me why?"
"Why can't I buy horses?"
Roderick's chest heaved violently. He stared fixedly at the attendant on the ground whose mouth was full of blood, his knuckles turning white from clenching his fists. But he was, after all, a merchant who had seen big scenes. forcibly suppressing the anger and fear in his heart, he sat down slowly, his voice sounding somewhat hoarse due to extreme restraint:
"Lord Solomon, he mocked a hereditary noble. He deserved this punishment."
Solomon's expression didn't change, still spring-breeze warm. Just as I thought. Sure enough. This meant the other party would yield the initiative for his goods.
Roderick repeatedly expressed apologies and his stance, characterizing the incident as lax discipline of his subordinate. Then, he took a deep breath, restoring his merchant's calm:
"But in Westeros, warhorses have never been a commodity. There are even many fallen hedge knights without fiefs who don't have warhorses."
"No lord will sell horses capable of forming cavalry. Even the most destitute knight wouldn't sell his own horse."
"As for ordinary draft horses or farm horses, perhaps you can buy some. But what you want are warhorses."
"They are the controlled goods among controlled goods. Although there is no explicit rule, if merchants from the Reach sell warhorses to Dorne or the Westerlands, or vice versa, the only end awaiting the merchants is death. Even within a single region, between different families."
In Roderick's words, that condescending tone was restrained a lot, but it still existed. The implication was: You, a country lord who doesn't even know this common sense, actually dream of forming cavalry.
"So that's how it is." Solomon smiled noncommittally, seemingly accepting Roderick's explanation.
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