Benevolence

The peasant woman knelt tightly on the ground, her legs seemingly welded to the earth.

Her tattered cloth garments were covered in mud, and her dry, disheveled hair obscured most of her face.

Only those red, swollen eyes, filled with terror, were occasionally revealed.

Suleiman stood before her, his figure—not particularly tall—appearing to her like an insurmountable mountain.

"Why did you not come to my castle to seek an audience?" Suleiman's voice was no longer the weak rasp from before, but carried a majesty that even he found unfamiliar.

The woman's body shrank violently, and she buried her head even lower.

Her voice was as thin as a mosquito's hum: "My Lord, I... I dared not. I feared offending you, feared you, feared you would blame me."

"Blame you for what?" Suleiman asked, surprised.

The woman's shoulders began to tremble violently, her body shaking as if some unspeakable horror were about to befall her.

Sobs welled up again, and she kowtowed repeatedly, her forehead striking the ground like a pestle, filled with a bottomless despair: "I feared you, feared you would punish me, punish my children."

"My Old Hack, he... he followed the Old Lord to Seaguard and never returned."

"There is no grain in my home, my two children are about to starve to death, I... I just wanted to beg for the Lord's mercy."

"But when I reached the main gate, I became afraid of offending the Lord, afraid of being punished by the Lord."

"I thought to turn back, but when I got here, I thought of how useless I am, unable to even catch fish, and after being caught stealing fish from others and receiving a brutal beating..."

"My children are about to starve, and I could not control my body, could not control my tears."

"I did not want to offend the Lord, I... I deserve to die, please spare my life, my Lord, please spare my life, I will leave now, I will leave now."

She spoke incoherently, her body trembling more violently with every word.

She knew well how the nobles of Westeros viewed them, these lowly serfs who were no better than livestock.

They were merely appendages to the land, existing like beasts.

Their value was not even equal to that of certain types of livestock.

They had no rights, no dignity; their life and death depended entirely on a single word from their lord.

A peasant who offended a lord, or even one who simply put the lord in a bad mood, could be whipped, exiled, or even put to death.

Her coming here was in itself a massive risk, and the fear in her heart had overwhelmed everything else.

Suleiman fell silent.

He looked at this woman who had completely broken down from despair and terror, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

This was a cold, cruel feudal society, strictly stratified, where life was as cheap as grass.

He understood why she was so terrified; that bone-deep awe and subservience toward those in power was the truth of this eight-thousand-year history.

He suddenly realized how fortunate he was to be a minor noble in the world of Westeros, even if this fiefdom possessed nothing.

He still stood above ninety-nine percent of the commoners in Westeros.

He took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound as gentle as possible: "I will not punish you."

Upon hearing these words, the peasant woman's body stiffened slightly, as if she could not believe her ears, yet she still dared not look up.

"Steward Nicken." Suleiman turned to the old steward behind him, "Go to the granary and take two bags of grain for her. Also, take three copper coins from the family treasury for her."

Old Nicken froze, his cloudy eyes filled with confusion and bewilderment.

His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he bowed: "Yes, Young Master Suleiman."

He knew just how empty the family granary had become and how little of their savings remained.

Yet Young Master Suleiman wanted to give the last of their supplies to a peasant woman from the fief.

This was unheard of; simply allowing them to live on the lands of House Foulkeep was the greatest mercy of all!

He sighed, filled with questions, and hobbled toward the tower.

Lushen and Roslyn, standing behind Suleiman, were completely stunned.

As men born as serfs on the lord's land, they knew well the attitude lords held toward peasants.

Let alone receiving grain or relief, being beaten, disposed of, or executed for trivial matters was a common occurrence.

Just moments ago, when Lushen had gathered the courage to speak, he felt he had exhausted all his bravery; he never expected the young master not only to refrain from blaming them—

But to actually bestow favor upon a peasant family that had no value to him!

They watched Suleiman's back, their eyes complex, a mixture of shock, disbelief, and an indescribable gratitude.

They had never seen a noble lord like this, one willing to listen to the hardships of serfs and even offer help.

The peasant woman on the ground finally raised her head, her eyes filled with tears and shock.

She looked up at Suleiman, then suddenly slammed her forehead against the ground repeatedly.

"Thank you for your mercy, Lord Suleiman! Thank you for your grace, Lord Suleiman! May the Seven bless Lord Suleiman! May the Seven bless Lord Suleiman! May the Seven bless the House Foulkeep of Lord Suleiman!" Her sobbing was no longer filled with despair, but with an unbelievable gratitude.

She had not expected that, after losing her husband and with her and her children on the verge of starvation...

Just as she prepared to face the final moment of despair, she had received such immense mercy from the young lord.

Two bags of grain and three copper coins—a gift she had never dared to imagine—would save her and her children from starvation.

Originally, she had given up on seeking help from the lord.

She had returned home intending to drown her two children before jumping into the river herself, sparing them the agony of hunger so they could reunite with their father in death.

"Get up," Suleiman said calmly.

The peasant woman knocked her head against the ground several times, then scrambled to her feet with clumsy, trembling limbs, standing to one side.

Her legs, numb from kneeling for so long, lacked circulation, causing her to sway unsteadily while she shook with a mix of agitation and gratitude.

Suleiman watched her, then looked toward Lushen and Roslyn, a decision forming in his mind.

In Westeros, he needed to survive, and he needed power. His domain was too small and his subjects too few; he had to govern them in a different way.

The loyalty of these subjects he had rescued and sheltered might be the foundation he could rely upon.

Though they were poor and weak, if they could be united... he thought to himself.

"Lushen, Roslyn," Suleiman addressed them.

"Here! My Lord!" The two immediately straightened their backs, responding to Suleiman with loud, excited voices.

"The farmers who marched to war with the Old Lord—everyone except you two has fallen." Suleiman's voice was low. "You fought for my House, and they died for my House."

The two men lowered their heads, tears glistening in their eyes.

"Old Nicken has returned." Suleiman saw the old steward approaching, clutching two bags of shriveled grain and a few copper coins, his face twisted in pain at the expense.

He took the items and handed them to the peasant woman: "Take these. Remember, this is what you owe House Foulkeep. Remember the kindness of young master Suleiman!"

The woman took the grain and coins, kneeling once more to offer her thanks.

"May the Seven bless Lord Suleiman! May the Seven bless Lord Suleiman! May the Seven bless House Foulkeep! Lord Suleiman will surely be rewarded!"

Suleiman told her to return home, then turned to Old Nicken with a stern expression: "Steward Nicken, attend to three things immediately."

"First, take inventory of all remaining grain, coins, weapons, armor, livestock, and farm tools in the House. List everything of value, including household items!"

Suleiman added: "I want the most detailed list possible."

"Yes, young master Suleiman," Old Nicken replied. Though he did not understand why such a detailed count was necessary, he agreed nonetheless.

"Second," Suleiman paused, his tone heavy: "Compile a list of all the farmers who followed my father to fight at Seaguard. Every family must be given compensation. If a family still has a young, able-bodied man to sustain them, give less. If they have lost their only provider and are left with only women and children, give more."

"Third, Lushen and Roslyn, equip yourselves fully and go into the village to assist Old Nicken in distributing the compensation. If anyone dares to rob these families, or if anyone dares to bully the households of those who died for my House, cut off their hands and nail them where everyone can see!"

Upon hearing the second order, the panic on Old Nicken's face deepened. "Young master Suleiman, my lord, what are you doing?"

"I want to know," Suleiman said, looking toward the distant sky, his tone slow, "how many families have lost their support because of my House. Help me calculate how much grain and coin is needed so that these families, at the very least, do not starve under my watch."

Hearing this, Old Nicken was completely stunned.

His mouth opened, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, nothing came out. He simply stood there, dazed, his face full of incomprehension.

He had lived a lifetime and seen countless lords, but he had never heard of any lord who cared so much about the lives of his subjects.

To go so far as to use the House's remaining wealth to "compensate" the families of dead serfs was unheard of.

In his eyes, this was completely unnecessary—a massive waste of the House's assets!

One had to remember that the subjects of Westeros had no human rights.

A lord could kill them at will, exercise the "right of the first night," or seize their wives and daughters whenever he pleased.

It was the duty of farmers to be conscripted for war, not their right; this was written into the laws of the Seven Kingdoms!

If a farmer died, their family would naturally have to find a way to survive, or starve—that was their fate. Why should a lord care?

Lushen and Roslyn, hearing Suleiman's orders, exchanged glances filled with shock and emotion. This young lord was unlike any noble they had ever heard of or seen.

Suleiman ignored Old Nicken's confusion, his gaze sharp and resolute.

He knew he was facing a dire predicament: poverty, weakness, isolation, and a terrifying future looming on the horizon.

But he also knew that in this world, he could not rely on himself alone.

In this cruel world, he needed a group of people tightly united around him. His only hope perhaps lay within these seemingly humble lives.

He needed to win their hearts, build trust, and let these subjects, who were about to face catastrophe, see a glimmer of hope so that they would be willing to follow him for the sake of that hope.

This was the first foundation he would build in this world.