I raised the cup to my lips and took a small sip. I suppressed my gag reflex with effort and swallowed the vile concoction I was dressing up as a luxury drink in little barrels for the idiots of Westeros to consume.
As it turned out. Whisky was not so simple to make with limited technology and only a moderate understanding of its principles. Thinking back on it, it was incredible how many things people consumed and used on a daily basis that none truly understood. One thing I understood now was that seeing something work and being able to replicate it are two truly different things.
The first batch of whisky had gone fine at the beginning. The malting and mashing was simple stuff and his smallfolk employees easily got the hang of it. It was the distillation that caused the most hassle. As it turned out, the copper necessary for distilleries was rather hard to find in the lands of Eastwood. He had eventually, after much experimentation and queer looks from those around him, managed to fashion said copper into the shape he remembered of distilleries.
It had been a few months since his first batch and it was now noticeably better. I sat at my desk, looking down at the small barrel. One of ten that had gone successfully. The barrels had to be specially made since they were of a much smaller size than anything used practically. I also didn't want to be shipping off a luxury good to lords in a fish barrel. That would ruin the taste. I had had my doubts about my chosen sigil after my conversion with Ser Buckler at Storm's End. Yet I must admit the golden eagle looks rather good when painted on the side of a whisky barrel, the words 'Eastwood Whisky' carved in a curve beneath it.
I had done it. A smile made its way onto my face at that thought. On my orders a malting house had been erected on the outskirts of the village, a small thing for now but enough to produce the first few barrels in order to give a taste to possible buyers. Grinding the malt into grist and extracting soluble sugars was not a complicated thing but plenty time consuming and tedious. After some months of maturation, I had created something that was passably whisky, at least enough to be drunk and sold even if the taste present with ageing wasn't yet present.
Later batches will definitely be left for longer, but first sales was a necessity to continue the business.
In Scotland, it couldn't even be called Whisky until it has aged for three years. A good thing this wasn't Scotland. Trading standards were such a pesky thing.
I took a sip from the mug with my moonshine shit whisky, winced and coughed as it burned. Aside from the barrel on my desk, there were ten more ready to be sent to surrounding castles as gifts, and another fifty were ageing in a building near the malting house. Pricing was something still being considered. The price of smallfolk labour was near nothing, a request from the lord of the lands you lived on was less of a negotiation and more of a 'start jumping'. Which was sad for them but also good for me for the time being, they were, of course, paid a bit but with the piddling amount of gold in the treasury, I could not afford to be a kind-hearted man. They will be compensated once the coin starts flowing.
Maester Armon had argued against such undertakings at first but resigned himself to waiting for my idea to fail, discouraged with his Lord's apparent lack of sense.
My confidence comes from what I know of the world I now live in. If there was one thing you can count on in Westeros, it's that alcohol will always be consumed. Mines run dry, crops wither, but in every corner of the land, some fucker was drinking.
I set the cask aside and grabbed my writing materials. I would be dispatching two kegs to Storm's End as a gift to Lord Baratheon. It would be a faux pas not to dispatch some to my direct liege lord. The favour of House Baratheon seemed like a good start for giving nobility a taste of a new way to rot their livers and empty their coffers. As my liege lord it also seemed polite to inform him of the project I had been working on.
I sighed and set myself to the task of writing several letters I could only call blatant self-promotion leaflets. I took another swig out of my mug and just about managed to stop myself from coughing again.
This shit has a long way to go.
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In King's Landing
In the Tower of the Hand, a man coughed violently much to the worry of his squire and servants. The reason was the cask of unfamiliar liquid he had sampled.
With smarting eyes, the Lord Regent said, "Fuck me, and I thought we Baratheon's could handle our drink."
The worried looks on the faces of his servants receded and some even smiled. Lord Rogar was a well-loved man by highborn and smallfolk alike and none wished to see him come to harm through sword or poison.
He turned his attention again towards the mug he had nearly dropped. Eyes curiously wandering over the brown substance. It had been given as a gift by his newest bannerman. Lord Aelon, son of Daegon, a man who had saved his life during the battle and earned lands that he would never see. The cask had come from Storm's End with a warning from his castellan Bruce of the drink's potency.
Ser Bruce certainly was not wrong. Despite the brutal power of the so-called 'Whisky', he found it gave him a warm feeling in his chest that he rather liked. Resolving to allow the rest of the casks to be distributed at tonight's feast he set the mug down. He had letters to write, a cloudy mind would be of no use.
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Lord Rogar Baratheon laughed as he watched a young man spew his dinner across the polished floors of the dining hall.
His bannerman's Whisky had been only tentatively consumed in the opening hour of the feast, but as men become drunker they also become braver. Drinking contests soon erupted over who could consume the most. Boys often feel invincible before being proved false, drinking was not an exception to this rule. He saw a small smile grace the face of the young king as he watched the proceedings. Ever the dutiful young man he had declined to partake in the new drink. The imagined loss of face from spewing his own dinner across the hall likely playing on his mind.
It did not take long for the casks of whisky to run dry and a disappointed chatter erupted from the drunk men.
Eyes turned to Lord Rogar as he had presented the drink.
"My lord, this here whisky is a fine thing. Might I ask where you found such a drink? I have neither seen nor tasted its like before." Asked the young Ser Stokeworth. Words slurred.
Rogar smiled at the drunken knight. "A bannerman of mine has begun to produce the stuff by the barrel. I suggest you direct your requests to Lord Aelon of House Eastwood."
The knight then raised his last cup of Whisky in a toast, "To Lord Aelon of Eastwood then!"
"To Aelon!" A drunken chorus of agreement followed his statement.
Rogar snorted in amusement. Young Aelon would be inundated with messengers soon, of that there was no doubt.
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I stood atop a hill, overlooking a secondary village located on my lands. The area was a reasonably well sheltered, natural harbour. Small fishing boats scoured the bay for fish and oysters. I could practically smell them from where I stood.
A natural harbour located on my lands was somewhat a great boon. Though with the unfavourable weather notorious of Shipbreaker Bay I was somewhat apprehensive to begin any kind of seafaring developments. Such would be the work of the future. In my previous life, I was not a scholar of naval history and would undoubtedly be incapable of producing better ships than the shipwrights of Westeros and Essos. The village was well located however and would be a good place to facilitate some small amount of trade between Eastwood and the Sapphire Isle.
The ever-present Ser Morden stood tall behind me. His constant presence had required a large amount of acclimation. The man was rather likeable despite his harsh words in the training yard. Despite the obvious truth of his loyalty belonging to Storm's End, I valued his presence. He was a deadly fighter and, unlike the Maester, rarely questioned me. Even on my ludicrous ideas.
The Maester was another problem that had begun to recede after my success with the Whisky. For how could he question my ability when my liege lord himself was both happy and impressed with my produce. When I first arrived he had most likely expected to be left mostly in charge of the lands since I am still, despite my ability, a boy by the standards of these lands. Looking at the situation from his eyes I bore no ill will for his animosity, I would likely act the same as he had were our roles were reversed.
Turning away from the small village we rode back to the keep. I soon found myself holed up in my solar with the Maester.
"Lord Aelon, you have received a raven from Storm's End." I looked up at Maester Armon who was holding a rolled piece of parchment. Taking it from his hand I unrolled it and began to read.
I rubbed my eyes, pinched myself and re-read the letter three times.
He liked it.
Surely he isn't being genuine. The letter was from Ser Bruce announcing that he had sent one of the barrels to King's Landing for Lord Baratheon. Lord Rogar had actually enjoyed drinking a six-month-old poorly distilled swill that had a pretty eagle painted on it. Huh. Interesting. Of the ten kegs I dispatched to surrounding lords, two of the replies I received had described 'Eastwood Whisky' as foul and an insult to their bodily constitution and another lord had seemingly taken the sting as a personal challenge and all but demanded more. But for the Lord of the Stormlands to have enjoyed it meant that others would surely follow. Who would dare insult my whisky when their lord himself enjoyed it.
I smiled. Lord Rogar had asked in his letter that I sell him a further ten casks. I decided to set the price high. House Baratheon were far from poor and despite the poor quality of the whisky currently, as it aged it would become far more palatable and income from its export would allow me to improve the process. Five dragons a barrel seemed a fair price, the wealth disparity in Westeros is enough to make the eyes water. A skilled labourer can expect to earn about three gold dragons per year.
In terms of rich versus poor in Westeros, there are two completely different scales of economy. The poor can scrounge by on handfuls of groats and not even silver, it's a life in poverty to be sure, but they are able to cover most of life's basic necessities never touching the higher denominations. The nobility of Westeros operate predominantly in gold dragons and silver. Even the nobility's minor expenses could cost dragons which would be months of a smallfolk's wages.
As such to a high lord, five dragons for a barrel? Not a drop in the bucket. If Lord Baratheon's love for my whisky extends to others in his court. I stand to make a fortune. Especially since Lord Rogar currently resides in the Red Keep with the King himself. The idea of royal favour for my product made me giddy.
"Thank you Maester. I think I will head down to the yard with Ser Morden for some practice. I also need to arrange expanded production of whisky so it can age for longer before dispatch." That said I rose from my comfortable chair.
"Ah, my lord. Apologies, but there is another matter for you to attend to." The maester said.
I turned around and looked at him expectantly.
"There is a group of immigrants who arrived outside Eastwood early this morning. The leader wants to speak with you."
My eyebrows rose in surprise. Immigrants?
"I will speak to them first then. Where are they currently?"
After he gave me the directions I exited my solar, two guards fell into step behind me. Outside the keep we mounted horses, joined by my faithful knight Ser Morden and we rode down to the large group of tents adjacent to the river.
"Who leads here?" I spoke loudly, hoping my voice would carry across the tents.
A tall man wearing roughspun linen idled out to meet me. Eyes focused directly on the floor in front of me. I imagine that on horseback and with guards I presented a rather intimidating figure.
"I do, milord." said the dirty man.
"Where have you come from and what are your intentions in my lands?" The group look as if they have been through hell, well, more hell than is normal in Westeros.
"We were caught between bandits and the guards of our previous village. The village was ruined during a skirmish. We heard your lands have work and decided to come here in hopes of settling, milord." The man's eyes remained firmly settled on the grass in front of my horse.
So people had heard there was work in my lands? That wasn't so good. Other lords most definitely won't be happy if they think I am poaching their smallfolk. But what I am supposed to do, turn them away? Though there are no true cities in the Stormlands due to the strong martial culture. Perhaps I should change that?
"What's your name?" I pronounced in a deeper and more assertive tone. Developing my 'lord voice' had been the work of many days of practice.
"Bryan, milord."
"Well Bryan, you will be responsible for ensuring these people find their places in Eastwood. On your head be it if they turn to crime, especially since there will be work for them as I plan on expanding my business operations here." The man started nodding furiously as I finished speaking.
I felt slightly bad for making him responsible for his fellows, but a bit of fear never hurt anyone. My mind turned to a different topic, namely the subject of better housing for my people. Concrete would be a very useful invention in that direction, and rather simple as well if I remember correctly. I decided to look into finding some lime.
I turned my horse and rode back to the keep with my guards and Ser Morden in tow. This lord thing is stressful.
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I sat on the top floor of the keep. The tower contained the ravenry and Maester Armon's quarters. As you might expect, lessons from a medieval scholar were somewhat underwhelming. Whilst a number of basic principles were known, many were confused or half baked and more still were entirely wrong. I was currently enduring a history lesson.
"-it was this point in the war which would be the true turning point."
Ah yes, the riveting telling of one of a thousand Dornish-Marcher wars before the coming of Aegon the Conqueror. I liked the maester and admired his enthusiasm for the subject. Yet there are only so many times you can hear the same story with a different date before you lose interest.
It was at this point I decided to interrupt.
"Maester, as interesting as this is. Could you teach me about the tactics involved in major battles rather than just the events themselves? I think an understanding of strategy would serve me better than history lessons." Armon frowned and for a moment I thought I had overstepped before his features lightened up.
"Ah, yes my boy. I understand you have taken a liking to martial pursuits. Ahem, perhaps a closer look at how levies are conscripted from the local population would be better suited to you." He beamed at me before launching himself into what I was sure would be a very detailed and punitive explanation.
I was sure I would be in the study for some time until Ser Morden barged into the room looking flustered.
"Apologies Lord Aelon. Your presence has been requested in the malting hall."
The Maester frowned before conceding, "Ah of course. Aelon, we can continue this discussion on the morrow." I gave him a grin before I hastily followed the guard out through the door.
When we were in the hallway, I turned to Ser Morden who now appeared free of his previous haste.
He gave me what may have been the first smile I had seen from him, "Now my lord. Should we head to the yard? I believe your time will be better spent there. You have enough ideas as it is."
My eyes widened. Weren't knights supposed to obey their lords? I opened my mouth to retort but he was already setting a pace outside of the keep.
Fuck. Outplayed by a knight.
Last edited: Jul 5, 2020
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