Inside the temporary command hall of Willow Wood City's outer city.
Olivier walked in, covered in dust, his voice carrying the distinct tone and weariness of a noble steward:
"My Lord, all supplies have arrived."
Arthur was sitting in front of a map, his finger slowly moving across an area representing the Legge Family's direct territories. Now that the news had been intentionally leaked, he was estimating how long it would take for the Legge Family's vassals to mobilize.
Originally, he no longer needed supplies; Willow Wood City even had a surplus of grain, but the order had been given before this, and he indeed needed someone knowledgeable about noble affairs by his side.
Without lifting his head, he spoke: "You've come at just the right time. I need someone who understands noble affairs."
Olivier's gaze swept across the table to a crumpled parchment with messy, desperate handwriting: "Is this…?"
Arthur's tone was as flat as if he were discussing a trivial matter: "A plea for surrender, wrapped in a stone and thrown out by some people in the inner keep."
"The inner keep has no water or food; they can't hold out. They want me to launch an attack, and they'll open the gates during the chaos."
Olivier's heart skipped a beat. Wasn't this winning the war? He stepped forward, his voice filled with unconcealed urgency: "Then why not accept the surrender? My Lord, as long as Roger Lygg is captured, this war can end."
"As long as you order the attack, these traitors will open the city gates from the inside, and Willow Wood City will be completely yours."
He looked at Arthur's calm profile, asking with confusion.
"Why are we still besieging without attacking?"
Arthur finally looked up. He shook his head, pointing emphatically at the map: "Now, the war must continue."
"It's not time to end it yet."
This war had been too smooth, and war was the most convenient way to grow: burning, looting, plundering.
Olivier was stunned. He had served great nobles in Westeros for many years, deeply understanding the rules of war among nobles.
Victory, then negotiation, and finally a dignified transaction—that was the order of Westeros.
Olivier carefully chose his words, attempting to persuade: "Lord Arthur, perhaps I shouldn't say too much."
"But the nobles of Westeros fear not failure the most."
"On the contrary, they can accept failure, even letting it serve as a footnote in their family history to warn future generations."
He paused, observing Arthur's reaction.
"What they fear most is being stripped of their dignity. If you can allow them a dignified surrender and negotiation, it will instead win you the hearts of the nobles and earn you prestige."
Arthur's lips seemed to move, but it was not a smile. His voice was very soft, yet carried a strange meaning: "There will be a dignified end."
Olivier felt a chill. He knew that the young man before him was different from the great nobles he had served in the past. Those men followed ancient rules, while Arthur was creating his own strange rules.
Olivier fell silent. He stepped back, lowered his head, and stopped trying to persuade.
Just then, a gust of wind was swept in by someone rushing through the door.
Brin stood at the doorway. He saw Olivier inside the room and, not recognizing Olivier, paused, his lips tightly pressed, seemingly hesitating.
"Speak," Arthur's voice broke the silence.
Brin then stepped inside. He had no superfluous words, simply reporting in the most concise way: "Jero Legge is dead."
The air seemed to freeze.
Olivier abruptly looked up, his face instantly turning pale. He couldn't believe his ears: "You… you said what?!!!"
Brin's voice was calm and even: "On the road, we encountered Jero Legge's army."
"He was shot dead in battle."
Olivier's voice suddenly rose, even changing pitch: "You killed him?!!!"
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