Tragedy

Suleiman spent a few more days resting in bed. Though he was still somewhat weak, he could now walk around.

Anxious to learn about his current situation and the state of his lands, he summoned Old Nicken and the two guards.

After the two farmers had been pardoned and appointed as guards, they had diligently taken on their new roles.

They were assigned rooms on the tower's ground floor, and Old Nicken had found them two sets of battered leather armor and rusty longswords.

Though worn and crude, they were the best armor and swords on the lands. The two men quickly settled into their roles.

Every day, they stood on either side of the tower's main gate, hands on their sword hilts, eyes sweeping back and forth.

Whenever a tenant passed by, they fixed them with what they thought was a fearsome stare. Before long, no tenant dared to walk past the tower.

Suleiman had also learned their names. The one who looked timid and cowered every day was Roslyn; the other, comparatively steady but silent, was Lushen.

They were both men in their early thirties, but had the exhausted faces of men in their fifties or sixties. They were weather-beaten, their palms rough from years of labor. They looked every bit the lifelong farmers they were.

When Old Nicken came in again, he was carrying a wooden bowl of steaming fish soup.

"Have some hot soup to warm yourself, my lord." Old Nicken handed him the bowl.

Steam rose with a faint, fishy smell. Several suspicious-looking chunks of root and fish bobbed in the murky broth.

They didn't even clean the scales off the fish.

Suleiman took the bowl, his face twisting. Every day, they boiled whatever ingredients they had. He could put plans for future development and grand ambitions aside for now; first, they needed to hire a cook—immediately.

He couldn't leave the cooking to Old Nicken anymore. If things went on like this, Suleiman could clearly see how he'd meet his end: he'd be the first to go before the Seven.

Warmth spread down his throat, driving away the chill in his body.

"Steward Nicken, how many people are left on the lands?" Suleiman asked, setting the damned fish soup aside.

"Answering my lord, there are only around thirty people left. Most are the old, women, and children. The able-bodied men went with Old Lord to Seaguard, and none of them came back." Old Nicken sighed.

"What's happening with Greyjoy's rebellion?" Suleiman asked, falling silent with a sigh.

"The war is still going on. The Ironborn fleet has scattered, attacking and plundering poorly defended places everywhere, then withdrawing before our reinforcements can arrive." Old Nicken watched Suleiman's expression furtively, afraid he might break down again at the thought of his father and two brothers.

Seeing that Suleiman seemed all right, he continued. "There's no need to worry, my lord. More and more nobles and soldiers are passing through on their way to the front. Everyone says King Robert has gathered countless troops in the Crownlands and will soon come to aid the Riverlands and the Westerlands. The Ironborn are done for, and the war will surely end soon."

Old Nicken hesitated before speaking. "Rather than worrying about the Ironborn, who are still far from our Green Fork, the more pressing problem is that our granaries are nearly empty. Last year's harvest was poor, and the lands never had much money to begin with. Old Lord spent all the Silver Stag we'd saved on this expedition."

Suleiman furrowed his brow. "Can we catch fish?" He thought of the fish soup he'd been drinking every day.

His memories told him that the main source of food on his lands was fishing in the river. It was their only source of meat.

Old Nicken shook his head. "There are fewer and fewer fish in the river these past two years. Now, all that's left are a few small fish and shrimp. The harvest on our lands has always just barely been enough to get by. In good years, we can save a little surplus. The soil is poor, and the river floods easily."

As Suleiman listened, the future seemed bleak. This was a land that depended on the weather to survive, barely scraping by, with no reserves and no way to weather a crisis.

There was a reason the family was poor.

The state of the lands was worse than he'd imagined.

He now had to face not only the family's decline and poverty, but also stabilize the lands before famine broke out.

"Steward Nicken, now that I'm awake, can I inherit the title?" Suleiman asked. With nothing to his name, this was the most important matter at hand.

Without an official title, he was nobody.

Old Nicken nodded, then shook his head. "You're the only heir, my lord. The family title is naturally yours."

"But to formally become the Knight of Foulkeep, you'll need your liege lord's recognition. You must go to the castle of House Deddings, the lords of the Green Fork—Deddings Castle—and meet Lord Balon Deddings. You'll swear fealty to him and request his recognition and investiture."

Suleiman gazed out at the reed beds, his eyes glimmering with complicated emotions. "Once I'm feeling better, we'll go to Deddings Castle."

Just then, a piercing cry of anguish burrowed into the room, so full of despair it seemed to fill every corner with echoes.

Old Nicken stopped speaking and raised his clouded eyes to Suleiman.

Suleiman rose to his feet. The chair legs scraped against the stone floor with a shrill screech.

"Let's go see."

His voice was not loud, but the two guards immediately straightened up and followed him to the door.

Suleiman stepped over the threshold first. Old Nicken followed with his back hunched, while Roslyn and Lushen flanked Suleiman, watchfully guarding him.

Their weapons were battered, but they gripped them tightly. Suleiman could tell they were nervous.

Outside the tower was an open stretch of mud that barely counted as a castle courtyard.

Farther away, beneath a tree, a figure huddled with their back against the trunk.

It was a woman, dressed in tattered roughspun patched in several places. She knelt on the ground with her head buried in her arms, her whole body convulsing violently. The anguished, piercing wails came from her.

Suleiman walked over with Old Nicken, Roslyn, and Lushen.

"Raise your head. Why are you weeping here?"

At the sound of his voice, the woman stiffened. Her piercing sobs stopped abruptly, like a chicken whose neck had been wrung. Slowly, she raised her head.

Her hair was tangled and dry, mud covered her from head to toe, and her face was sallow and haggard. Her eyes were swollen and filled with fear.

Her lips trembled as if she wanted to say something. Panicked and at a loss, she could only make a breathy, choking sound.

She glanced at Suleiman's clean clothes and realized who he was. Scrambling with her hands and feet, she tried to get up.

"I-I-I'll go right away, my lord." Her voice was as faint as a mosquito's, thick with a nasal whine. As soon as she'd spoken, she staggered around to leave.

But she only made it a few steps. After crouching for so long, her legs had gone stiff; it was as if all her strength had suddenly drained away. Her knees buckled, and she fell back onto the ground.

This time, she made no sound. She only buried her face deeper, her shoulders shaking even harder than before. Her silent sobs weighed more heavily on the heart than her wails had.

Behind Suleiman, Old Nicken pressed his lips into a thin line and stared at the mud without a word. His already hunched frame seemed to shrink even further.

Roslyn turned his gaze elsewhere, seemingly studying the clouds. Yet his slight trembling showed that he was far from calm.

The air hung still for several seconds.

Beside them stood Lushen, a sturdy man with a dark complexion, usually the most taciturn of them all.

His fists clenched with a crackle. His chest heaved a few times. Head bowed and body trembling, he finally stepped forward, his voice muffled.

"My lord, she's... she's Hark. Her husband, Old Hack, was one of the farmers who went with Old Lord and died at Seaguard."

Lushen paused, as if searching for the words, or as if something had caught in his throat.

"Old Hack is dead. There are still two children at home, and there's no man there. She... she... her family will starve to death."

In Westeros, the gulf between nobles and commoners was vast and impossible to cross. The distinction was deeply ingrained in people's minds.

For eight thousand years, nothing had changed in this world. All across the continent were noble houses with histories spanning thousands of years.

When he finished, Lushen lowered his head too and fell silent. His whole body trembled, as though he'd used up every last bit of his strength and courage.

Only the wind remained, along with the woman's stifled, broken sobs drifting and circling around Bleiman.

Suleiman stood there, motionless, weighed down by his thoughts as he looked at the desperate, trembling figure curled up on the ground.