Chapter 2 - Edited 05/07/20
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The evening light glanced off the long silver hair lay strewn across the wooden pyre. Pale skin drawn taught across the figure of my father ready for his final voyage into the flames. His blade held between thin fingers across his chest. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I lay my torch against the straw at the base and watched as the pyre caught alight. Exhaling slowly I tried to find my calm. My father's body had been transported to the keep of Eastwood by men loyal to Lord Baratheon.
I couldn't say he had been an excellent father figure, this body's father had never paid much attention to me. I was only the bastard son of a bastard son, after all, not destined for much in a world with so little class fluidity. My father had been the bastard issue of Gargon Qoherys, a man famous for exercising his right of the first night.
"Lord Aelon, it is nearly past the hour of the bat. Perhaps we should return to the castle? Maester Armon asked to speak to you before you retire for today." Reminded Ser Morden, he had been a constant shadow at my side since leaving Storm's End, even without yet knowing him properly I was thankful for it. Westeros is a dangerous place at the best of times and I haven't yet trained particularly hard in the yard.
Staring into the flames once more, I replied.
"Yes, I shouldn't leave him waiting." Picking my father's soot-covered longsword from the ashes I turned around and walked back to my horse. Followed by my small retinue.
It was a short ride back to the keep. The keep was sturdy but small. It was a single tower occupying a large hill over which was a view of Eastwood, the large village that was now mine. The village was built at the bottom of the hill by the keep, a mile or two to the East was the coast, on which a small fishing village also sworn to me resided.
I rode up to the entrance of my keep and dismounted, passing off my horse to the stable hand before ascending the winding spiral staircase to the Maester's solar.
Maester Armon was a man in his late thirties, originating from the Reach he was lightly tanned, his neck laid heavy with links, a fact I was grateful for. He had earned his links in ravenry, warfare, architecture and healing among others. The man was somewhat stern and gave me my lessons. As much as I knew, I still resided in the body of a twelve-year-old and did not have a complete understanding of the subjects necessary for the ruling of even my small lands.
As far as there is such a thing as 'small lands' in Westeros. The continent is giant with a relatively low population, most likely due to the constant wars that raged across it every decade or so. That combined with poor hygiene and high infant mortality rates.
My province, whilst modest compared to greater lords, is still the same size as several english counties put together. Sparsely populated for now, though I had plans to fix that.
Opening the door to the solar I walked in and observed the Maester seemingly lost in thought looking out of his window. I cleared my throat and the Maester jumped and spun around smiling.
"Lord Aelor, I was wondering when you would be back. I wish to discuss your plans for having a census done of Eastwood and the surrounding lands." The Maester intoned in his normal quiet drawl.
One of my first orders upon assuming my lordship had been to have a census done. The maester had complained about the cost of such a thing but during the many decades the lordship had remained empty, the taxes had built up to a point where I felt safe spending a bit to get a good idea of what I have to work with.
I gestured for him to continue.
"Well, I have found a few helpers to aid in collecting the information you required. Whilst I am still against spending so much gold, I will begin work on it immediately and it should be done within a moon or two."
I smiled. I didn't blame the Maester for being sceptical, he would see once my ideas began to turn a profit.
"That is good Maester, is that all?"
"I also wished to report that this year's taxes have been dispatched to Storm's End without delay and should arrive within a fortnight."
I nodded once more, didn't want to piss off my liege lord so early into my career.
"Good. If that is all I will retire, my father's funeral has left me rather drained I'm afraid."
The maester nodded and his eyes softened in what I assumed was pity.
"Of course my lord."
I didn't sleep that night. Haunted by images of a world I had lived in and still so vividly remembered. A world where the trappings of the poor were fit for kings in this one.
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On my way to the ground, I noticed that the sky above Eastwood was clear and blue today. I winced as my back hit the floor for what must have been the fifteenth time so far. Carefully picking my aching body from the stone courtyard, I looked up.
The training yard is a rather small area outside the Keep and was more akin to a field than a true training yard. I was sweating profusely, dust caking every part of my body. I was sure that I would have some brutal welts tomorrow from the many smacks I had taken over the previous hours. A few days after my father's funeral I had enlisted Ser Morden's help in my martial training. He had found much to be desired and had been training me hard every day hence. It was his duty to pummel me into paste until I was capable of putting up a guard correctly.
"Gods boy hurry up, you haven't earned your bloody rest yet. You think the fucking enemy would stop and wait for you to climb to your feet?" The scarred man barked at me.
He had soon become comfortable with me after beating me into the floor each day. Despite his crude words there was no venom to them and as such I didn't really mind. It was for my own good after all. I hastened my pace and returned to the ready position with my sword and shield held as firmly as my battered twelve-year-old body could manage.
Giving me a quick once over Morden sighed. "You should practice with Olyvar now boy. I have other duties to attend to."
At that I looked over at Olyvar, he was slightly older than me at thirteen yet only slightly taller. He and I had practised together a lot over the last week and had formed a semi-close friendship.
Olyvar was far from a shy boy, the son of one of my men-at-arms. He looked like he would grow into a strong frame and was fairly competent with a sword. He began walking over to me.
"Well my lord, it looked like you were struggling a bit there. Time for me to smack you around now?" he smirked as he raised his sword.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "It's going to be you on the floor soon Olyvar."
Despite my countless humiliations by Ser Morden, my skills in the yard were developing pretty well. Fighting Olyvar, I won slightly less bouts than I won but gave out my fair share of bruises.
Living in Westeros means there is a constant pressure to be exemplary in matters of warcraft. No man would ever command respect in this society without the ability to stab people viciously. As such, in the next round, I was determined to impress.
Both panting, Olyvar and I began circling once more. Both of our eyes were narrowed as we sent out testing strikes. He let out a small growl as my next strike struck the hand holding his sword yet he didn't drop it, an ability which would likely serve him well in future battles, a knight without a sword was a very dead knight.
He broke the rhythm with an overhead swing which I deflected. I noticed that his overhead strikes left a moment where he was vulnerable. We continued until he went for another high strike which I used to get inside his guard. I pushed up against his shield with my own. I used the space created to send a draw cut at his ankle. Olyvar flinched back to avoid a painful bruise from my training sword. Using his loss of balance once again I swept out the foot he left forward. Sending him into a heap on the dirt. I swiftly moved forwards to place my sword at his neck.
"I yield." he declared. It looked to be physically painful for him to say the words.
"Feels good being on the beaten end doesn't it?" as I smirked.
I saw Ser Morden's lips twitch in something resembling a smile. He rarely gave praise and so when he did it meant all the more. I wiped my brow and looked at my hands. Blisters were forming under the thick layer of dirt. I sighed, this world was so much more difficult to live in than the last.
The fighting lessons were hard, yet I enjoyed them more than I had any physical hobbies in my previous life. The feeling of everything melting away as all you're focused on is defeating your opponent is incredible. With a few more words to Olyvar, I began my walk back into the castle proper.
I really need a bath.
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Looking out the unembellished window of a stout, if decrepit, keep across his lands was an experience which had yet to lose its novelty. Watching the sunset over the village which was now mine was a very surreal experience.
This world certainly isn't rainbows and sunshine. Shitting in a bucket isn't pleasant and neither are cool nights without window panes to keep the heat in, but at the end of the day, life could be worse. Had been worse, living in that village by Harrenhal.
The main population centre on my lands titled simply as Eastwood had a little over two thousand occupants. The village was only lightly fortified with a palisade of wood surrounding it. There were only a handful of guards in the settlement patrolling and keeping public order.
Since I arrived here I hadn't really made much effort to shake the boat. The only decisions I had made were for a census of the lands to be taken including a population count. My lands are not rich, yet positioning in the Stormlands meant reasonably fertile soil for farming which in turn allowed for a better-fed populace than many places on the continent.
I was the first lord of Eastwood since the conquest. This land had previously been administered by the Lord of Storm's End and was sworn directly to him. Aside from the small keep the land hasn't really been developed and only contained farms, a small fishing harbour and the woods for which the settlement is named.
Upon assuming the lordship of Eastwood the villagers had been nervous and fearful of me. Being a known relative of Gargon the Guest. It was not difficult to understand their fear. A man coming to rule over you who has the right and ability to dish out cruel and unusual punishment for minor offences with impunity would scare anyone.
During the course of the months thereafter the smallfolk had largely settled back down to business as usual. All too happy to ignore my presence for the most part. That suited me fine, there are only so many times you can be stuttered at before patience wears thin.
I turned away from the window and moved towards my desk.
Piles of rough parchment and books were stacked on top of the stained oak haphazardly.
In my previous life I had read the books a few times, also taking an interest in the history and vast amounts of information to be found on the wiki. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it. It was the forty-eighth year after the conquest, meaning the majority of my knowledge was useless. I, therefore, didn't feel any need to try and prevent the events which followed. The long night was two and a half centuries away and entirely not my problem, future members of my house could enjoy participating in that particular issue. Providing I don't end up being brutally immolated by one of the massive fucking dragons before having children.
Therein lies my main issue. Do I live my life in comfortable peace, or do I risk it to rise higher? I was sure there were a good few things retained from my previous life that would give me an advantage over my peers, but a rising star would always attract attention and the attention of maddened dragonlords and other lords of questionable morals did not work out well for the vast majority of historical Westerosi characters.
Doing nothing similarly seemed like a non-option as I am sure whatever Being placed me here didn't intend for me to treat Westeros as a peaceful holiday resort. I sighed and rested my face in my hands. Surely a few small actions to start with couldn't be too risky.
Taking a deep breath I decided to start off small. I needed gold. Gold was best made through trade, Eastwood was lucky enough to sit between a few high lords of the Stormlands, and with a direct connection to the Narrow Sea. Storm's End to the West, Bronzegate to the North and Evenfall Hall across Shipbreaker Bay.
What could I make that people will want to buy? It needed to be something that will not immediately cause death and disaster across the continent while still being lucrative. Steel? Too complex. Printing press? Too controversial. I don't want to anger the Faith and the Citadel at the same time. I am also still technically twelve and smallfolk with pitchforks coming for the witch child is far from an appealing outcome.
I raised the mug of dark beer on my desk to my mouth for a long draw of the drink. Wincing slightly at the taste, the alcohol in Westeros was rather poorly made. Even the famous wine vintages such as Arbor Gold. It wouldn't take a master brewer from my original world to outdo the best of Westeros. Even the variety of drinks was lacking, the fuckers have barley so why has no one in eight-thousand years thought to mash it up and let it ferment into Whisky.
"There are no spirits in Westeros." I whispered and a grin slowly came to my face. Surely it wouldn't take too much initial investment to make a basic malting house and distillery? The process is actually rather simple. Though explaining to the Maester how I have found a way to make Westeros' first spirits will take patience and a good excuse. There could even be the possibility for expansion to other spirits if I could find potatoes or a close substitute in a Planetosi version of South America.
With that idea bringing me some excitement I resolved to look into it the following morning and set off to bed.
Conquering Westeros with alcohol can wait until another day.
Last edited: Jul 5, 2020
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