Suleiman rested in bed for a few more days. Although his body was still a bit weak, he was already able to get up and walk.
Eager to understand his current situation and the state of his territory, he summoned Old Nick and two guards.
After the two farmers were pardoned and appointed as guards, they diligently played their roles.
They were arranged to live on the ground floor of the tower, and Old Nick found them two sets of worn-out leather armor and rusty longswords.
Although dilapidated and simple, they were already the best armor and swords in the territory, and from then on, they quickly got into character.
Every day, they stood at the tower gate, one on the left and one on the right, gripping their sword hilts, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings.
Whenever a commoner passed by, they would fix their eyes on the person with what they believed to be a terrifying gaze, so much so that no commoner dared to pass by the tower again.
Suleiman also learned their names: the one who was always timid and fearful was Lenn, and the other, relatively steady but silent, was Simon.
They were both men in their early thirties, but they had the tired faces of fifty or sixty-year-olds, weathered by the elements, with rough palms; labor had aged them, and it was clear they were farmers who had toiled for years.
When Old Nick came in again, he was holding a steaming bowl of fish soup in a wooden bowl.
"My Lord, have some hot soup to warm yourself first," Old Nick handed him the soup bowl.
The steam carried a faint fishy smell, and a few suspicious-looking root pieces and fish chunks floated in the murky soup.
"The fish scales haven't even been cleaned off," he thought to himself.
Suleiman took it, his expression grim. Every day was just various ingredients boiled in water. What future development, what grand plans, could wait. He absolutely had to recruit a cook immediately.
He couldn't let Old Nick be in charge of the food anymore. If this continued, Suleiman could even clearly foresee his own end: he would surely go to meet the Seven before Old Nick.
Warmth spread down his throat, dispelling the chill in his body.
"Nick, how many people are left in the territory now?" Suleiman asked, casually putting the dreadful fish soup aside.
"To answer My Lord, there are only about thirty people left in the territory now, mostly old, weak, women, and children. The young and strong men all followed the Old Lord to Seagard and never returned," Old Nick sighed.
"How is Greyjoy's rebellion going?" Suleiman sighed in silence.
"The war is still ongoing. The Ironborn fleet is scattered, attacking and plundering weakly defended areas everywhere, then quickly withdrawing before our reinforcements arrive," Old Nick secretly observed Suleiman's expression, afraid that Suleiman would think of his father and two brothers again and break down emotionally.
Seeing no change in his expression, he continued, "My Lord, you don't need to worry. More and more nobles and soldiers are passing through, all heading to the front lines. Everyone is saying that King Robert has assembled countless troops in the Crownlands and will soon come to support the Riverlands and the Westeros. The Ironborn are doomed, and the war will surely end very soon."
Old Nick hesitated, saying, "Compared to worrying about the Ironborn, who are still far from our Green Fork, the more important issue now is that our granary is almost empty. Last year's harvest was poor, and the territory didn't have much money to begin with. The silver stags we saved, the Old Lord spent all of them on this expedition."
Suleiman frowned: "Can we fish?" Suleiman thought of the fish soup he had been drinking every day these past few days.
His memory told him that in his territory, food mainly depended on fishing in the river; that was the only source of meat.
Old Nick shook his head, "In the past two years, the fish in the river have also become fewer and fewer. What's left now is barely enough to catch some small fish and shrimp. Our territory's harvest has always been just enough to get by. In good years, we might save a little bit of surplus grain. The land isn't fertile and is also prone to flooding from the river."
Listening to this, Suleiman felt a bleak future. This was a territory that relied on the heavens for sustenance, barely surviving, with no accumulation and no ability to resist risks.
The family's poverty was not without reason.
The situation in the territory was even worse than he had imagined.
He now not only had to face the decline and poverty of his family but also had to stabilize the territory's situation quickly before a famine broke out.
"Nick, now that I'm awake, can I inherit the title?" Suleiman asked. In the current situation of having nothing, this was the most important thing.
Without a formal title, he was nothing.
Old Nick nodded, then shook his head. "My Lord, you are the sole heir, so the family's title is naturally yours."
"However, to officially become 'Ser of Droppings,' you must receive recognition from your liege lord. You must go to Deddings Keep, the castle of House Deddings, the liege lords of the Green Fork, and meet with Lord Balon Dading to swear fealty to him and request his investiture and approval."
Suleiman looked out at the reed fields outside the window, a complex light flickering in his eyes, "When I feel better, we will go to Deddings Keep."
Just then, a sharp cry, filled with heart-wrenching despair, pierced the room, filling every corner with echoes, so grating.
Old Nick stopped speaking and raised his cloudy eyes to look at Suleiman.
Suleiman stood up, the chair legs scraping an ear-splitting sound on the stone floor.
"Let's go see."
His voice wasn't loud, but the two guards immediately straightened their backs and followed Suleiman to the door.
Suleiman stepped out first, Old Nick followed, hunched over, while Lenn and Simon, one on each side, vigilantly guarded Suleiman.
Although the weapons were old and worn, they held them tightly. Suleiman could sense their tension.
Outside the tower was an open muddy area, barely qualifying as the castle courtyard.
In the distance, beneath a tree, a figure was huddled, leaning against the large tree.
It was a woman, dressed in patched, ragged coarse cloth, kneeling on the ground, her head buried deep in her arms, her whole body shaking violently. The heartbreaking and sharp wails came from her.
Suleiman, accompanied by Old Nick, Lenn, and Simon, walked over to her.
"Raise your head. Why are you weeping here?"
When the woman heard the voice, her body stiffened abruptly, and her sharp cries ceased as if a chicken's neck had been wrung. She slowly raised her head,
Her hair was disheveled and dry, her body covered in mud, her face a sallow, haggard old woman's, her eyes swollen and filled with terror.
Her lips trembled, as if she wanted to say something, flustered, but only made a gasping, wheezing sound.
She glanced at Suleiman's clean clothes and immediately knew his identity, trying to scramble to her feet using both hands and feet.
"I, I, I'll leave now, my Lord," Her voice was as thin as a mosquito's buzz, with a heavy nasal tone. After speaking, she stumbled and turned, trying to run away.
But she hadn't run more than a few steps before her legs, stiff from prolonged squatting, suddenly lost all strength, and she collapsed to the ground again.
This time, she made no sound, only burying her face deeper, but her shoulders heaved more violently than before. The silent sobs were more heart-wrenching than a full-blown wail.
Old Nick stood behind Suleiman, his lips pressed into a straight line, looking at the dirt on the ground, saying nothing. His already hunched body appeared even lower.
Lenn cast his gaze elsewhere, seemingly studying the clouds in the sky, though his slightly trembling body revealed his inner turmoil.
The air hung heavy for several seconds.
The guard beside them, Simon, a burly man with a dark complexion, was usually the most taciturn.
His fists clenched, making cracking sounds, his chest heaved a few times, and with his head bowed, trembling all over, he finally couldn't hold back. He stepped forward, his voice muffled:
"My Lord, she is, she is Sansara. Her husband, Old Hark, was one of the farmers who followed the Old Lord and died in Seagard."
Simon paused, seemingly organizing his words, or as if something was caught in his throat.
"Old Hark is dead, and there are two children at home. Without a man, she, she, her family will starve to death."
In Westeros, the vast difference in status between nobles and commoners, an unbridgeable gap, was deeply ingrained.
This world had not changed for eight thousand years, and noble families with thousands of years of heritage were everywhere on the continent.
After speaking, Simon also lowered his head, no longer making a sound, trembling all over, as if he had used up all his strength and courage.
Only the sound of the wind remained, and the woman's uncontrollable, fragmented sobs, swirling around Suleiman.
Suleiman stood there, motionless, his heart heavy, his gaze fixed on the figure curled on the ground, trembling in despair.