Gwynnis gazed at the refugees filling the courtyard. These people had lost everything to the Hafdanian raids: their homes destroyed, possessions looted, hard-earned social and economic networks shattered, many bereft of family members. Few had managed to arrive at Targas whole and intact. Now, exhausted, hungry, and sleep-deprived, they would give anything for a warm bowl of black rye porridge.
The kitchen staff brought out large pots to distribute the porridge. With wooden bowls in hand, the refugees eagerly devoured the somewhat thin gruel, ignoring its scalding heat. Many wept as they ate, their tears mingling with the bland porridge.
Gwynnis then appeared atop the castle walls. He stood silently, his expression unreadable, but his presence cast an unnamed pressure over the entire castle. Eating refugees slowly stopped, sensing an unsettling atmosphere, and turned their anxious eyes towards Gwynnis.
Indeed, these outsiders had never contributed a penny to the Baron of Targas, yet now they shamelessly lived in his castle, eating his food, and relying on his guards for safety from the northern demons. Such benevolence could not be without expectations of return.
What would the Baron want in return? This question filled the refugees with dread as they looked up at Gwynnis, trying to decipher his intentions from his inscrutable face. Embracing their barely alive family members, tears silently flowed down their cheeks. They resigned themselves to a life of servitude, if that was what the Baron demanded, grateful at least for the preservation of their lives in this chaotic world.
Many had already accepted their fate from the night they fled Windermere; all that remained was their lives, hardly worth anything, ready to be offered if the Baron wished.
As they contemplated their bleak future as slaves, many looked around, trying to gauge the lives of existing slaves in the castle for a glimpse of what awaited them.
Finally, as the courtyard quieted down, Gwynnis began to speak. "Everyone knows the mutual dependency between a lord and his subjects. A lord has the duty to provide safety from external threats, while his subjects owe a part of their harvest in gratitude. This reciprocity sustains a healthy, long-term relationship."
"However!" Gwynnis continued, "Some, who have contributed nothing, receive the same treatment as those who have dutifully fulfilled their responsibilities. Is this fair?"
"In this courtyard, my subjects have tirelessly and generously contributed sixty percent of their income, come rain or shine. They have persevered through hardships to fulfill their duties, and I am proud of them. In turn, I have fulfilled my duty to provide them safety, leading my loyal guards in a fight to the death against enemies. My guards and I have paid a heavy price for this commitment."
"In fact, just recently, one of my brave guards tragically passed away, journeying to the embrace of Agnes. However, we should not harbor grievances, for this is our duty," Gwynnis solemnly stated.
"Yet, there are some who, at their wealthiest, never thought of me, never considered parting with a fraction of their earnings for me. Over these years, I haven't received a single copper from them, yet now they enjoy the same treatment as all my subjects."
"What should be done about this? How should I treat you?" Gwynnis continued, his gaze stern and commanding as he looked at the fearful refugees.
The guards of Targas, sensing the moment, gripped their weapons tighter, their threatening eyes sweeping across the crowd. The onlooking Targas subjects, feeling fortunate to have followed the right lord, displayed looks of schadenfreude.
Indeed, why should these people, who never paid a penny in taxes to their lord, expect the same treatment as the rest? The subjects, still mere peasants, felt a sense of fortune and relative happiness. After all, happiness and a sense of superiority are relative.
Hearing Gwynnis's words, many refugees felt they knew what was coming. Reluctantly ready to accept their fate as slaves to save their lives, they braced themselves for the inevitable.
But then, Gwynnis revealed a slight smile. "However, I am not a devil. You followed the wrong ruler through no fault of your own, for you had no choice. But for fairness, you must realize that you indeed owe me."
"Thus, from now on, you are my slaves for ten years. During this time, you will work off your debt to me. After ten years, you and your children will all regain your freedom. You may then do as you please, stay or leave. Moreover, if you perform well during these ten years, I might even reduce your time in servitude. Depending on your performance, it could be reduced to eight, five, or three years, or even immediate freedom. This is up to you. I am a man of my word."
"Of course, if you think my actions are in any way unfair or exploitative, you are free to leave now. Consider this porridge my treat. Those unwilling to stay in the castle, feel free to leave; I will not stop you. Those who choose to stay acknowledge and accept my law."
With that, Gwynnis left the courtyard. It fell silent again as the refugees finished their porridge and waited, none choosing to leave.
When Gwynnis reappeared, he looked down at the crowd and declared coldly, "Under the rule of Earl Edmond Osborn and in the sight of the kind and loving goddess Agnes, I, Gwynnis Wintarling, Baron of Targas, hereby declare that from this moment, you are my slaves."