49AC
Sitting in my solar contemplating life was becoming a common occurrence.
My thirteenth birthday had passed with little fanfare. I had grown an inch or two now standing at a respectable five foot nine, with the promise of continuing well past six feet. The coming of my birthday had only brought more troubles with it. My produce was now in great demand.
Keeping up with demand was difficult. In the six months following Lord Rogar's request for more whisky, I had been forced to expand my operation to double its original size. This had also set demand for workers high. Workers that I was struggling to find in great amounts.
Exports were turning a good profit as the processing of whisky became more fluid and streamlined, in turn allowing me to up my workers' pay.
My thoughts had turned towards infrastructure. It became clear to me that my operation was turning into a huge success. As such, issues I had not first considered were becoming prominent. Namely, the amount of barley I was consuming. Across my lands there were fifteen thousand people, children among that number. Fifteen thousand people that would need feeding once winter came and using all the food from each harvest just to produce a luxury item would be the height of madness. Being wealthy wouldn't protect me from a starving peasant revolt once winter came.
I needed a better solution.
Since entering Westeros, especially when living as a smallfolk, I had seen a lot of things that could be done better with Earthly standards. Fortunately, some farming techniques, and some sanitary concerns that need fixing. Reducing infant mortality rates would allow for an increased population in fifteen to twenty years. An extra population that could then be put to work. Gods willing, in twenty years I will still only be in my early thirties. Plenty of time yet to reap the rewards.
One of the greatest ideas I had over the last few months was commissioning a detailed map of my lands. I was currently scrutinising that same map.
In order to increase my available urban workforce, farming land productivity needed to be increased. There were a few factors to this I could remember from my past world.
Only two I believed were currently feasible. Those being crop rotation and a slightly upgraded plough. The exact details of the Dutch plough evaded me though, it would need to be experimented on, something about a mouldboard? The crop rotation, however, was simple and rather easy to implement when the lands of Eastwood are owned directly by me. Lords in Westeros had far more direct ownership and control of land than their counterparts in medieval England did.
The only real issue I foresaw was dealing with an angry outburst from the Maester over my intent to tear up thousands of years of historical farming principle on what he would see as a whim.
My success with whisky had quieted many of his complaints, but something as large scale as this would most definitely get him riled up. Though perhaps I could get him on my side rather than pitting myself against him.
I frowned and turned my gaze away from the map. I often found myself staring into space.
"Ser Morden." The knight looked up from the book he was reading. I had, with much effort, convinced the knight to learn to read. He had been having lessons with the Maester and had made great progress. Where once he stood next to me, ever alert. Now he often sat and read whilst I read letters and made notes. An educated servant is of more use than one who can only swing a sword.
"My lord?"
"Would you fetch Maester Armon." He nodded and left the room. Minutes later the Morden returned, Armon in tow.
"You called for me, my lord?" Armon's face held a frown.
"Indeed, please sit." The maester occupied the chair opposite mine and looked at me expectantly.
I coughed, "I have some more ideas I wish to implement and wanted to consult with a man of learning before giving any orders."
His smile was a rictus, "Of course, my lord. What are your ideas?"
"Well, my lands hold some fifteen thousand people, with the success of my ventures I need more hands here in Eastwood. -"
"Those hands are busy farming." Armon interrupted, lips pursed.
Smiling, I replied, "But what if they didn't need to be?"
I launched into my explanation of four-field crop rotation.
Armon's face turned into curiosity. "To my knowledge, such has never been attempted."
"And to my knowledge, smallfolk all across the kingdoms starve every winter. Would it not be worth at least trying something new?" I pleaded.
Armon looked pensive. "I am unsure if it is feasible. The cost of such would be rather great-"
I interrupted, "My ventures have turned rather profitable, surely we can test at least small scale conversion."
"I believe the treasury could accommodate a small scale test. You currently have a little in excess of five thousand dragons."
"To ensure the idea will be properly implemented, I would appreciate your aid in organising the test, maester." I smiled at him and his face gave way to a small smile.
We then discussed the specifics and he left me on amicable terms, for the moment at least.
I really hoped my idea worked or I would look like a fool. The freedom I currently had despite not yet being of the age of majority would disappear in an instant if I was deemed incapable.
Another thought had been playing on my mind. That of acquiring learned men to aid in my innovations and to educate workers in my businesses. Another long term plan that would really help in forming a semblance of bureaucracy that would take the load off my shoulders.
Only a single maester was permitted per castle. Yet I needed more than a single maester. I remember the Alchemist's Guild being a similar institution if hated by the Citadel. I was unsure if they were currently residing in Westeros, but I would definitely make moves to contact them if they were. Having an idea of how something works does not translate into skill at manufacturing it. That was a lesson I learned first hand with the distilleries. If I intended to overhaul farming properly and thus increase my own wealth I would need people capable of doing the hard work for me.
If alchemist's do reside in Westeros an issue I was likely to encounter would be my lack of prestige. A new house not much better than merchants would not be a desirable target for a guild chapter. I would most likely need to wait for my rule and presence as a valued booze lord to settle before making further grasps.
Honestly, being a petty lord in Westeros is more frustrating than you would imagine. Especially being an underage petty lord. For the first time, I could understand Petyr Baelish's 'burn the world' attitude. Frustration builds action after all. Whilst a quiet life would serve me best I would still aspire to hold some political sway, at least in the Stormlands.
I sighed and rubbed a hand over my face. Success only breeds more problems, I wondered if it would always be like this.
I looked out of the window. The sun was beginning to set, orange flame tinging on the horizon. A truly beautiful sight. Looking down the village of Eastwood could be seen. It had grown a fair amount since he had assumed lordship. The ramshackle shantytown had been pulled apart and properly planned and spaced buildings now stood in its place. The smallfolk had obeyed his decree that houses be kept in orderly areas, it wouldn't do for my lands to end up King's Landing 2.0. I wasn't sure I could stand the stench.
As my town expanded I would take great care to ensure it expanded properly. Widened streets in the area closest to the keep and residential areas properly planned out before the arrival of more immigrants. If I got the farming overhaul right, second and third sons should start coming to Eastwood in search of work within a couple of years. Aelon would ensure there was plenty of work available in his businesses. It would not do for the smallfolk to turn to crime en masse. Idle hands find devil's work after all.
Problem after problem. Time for bed.
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My arse hit the floor of the yard once more. I could hear Olyvar's snickering behind me.
As my wealth had increased, I invested much into the keep in which I resided. A wealthy lord should have a wealthy home. The yard which was once little more than a field next to the keep now looked more like a proper training yard. The guard I had expanded drilled here every day which made me feel better. The reign of King Jaehaerys was supposed to be the longest unbroken peacetime in the history of the seven kingdoms. Yet the world of GRRM was brutal even during such periods and it would be an ill move to be unprepared.
I had also given the order that an outer wall be built a hundred feet from the keep. It would likely take a year or more to complete, but once properly erected, Eastwood would be a castle.
Four years I had resided in Westeros and the idea of castles still made me feel like a child in a sweet shop. That the castle in question would belong to me only made it better.
Ser Morden reached a hand down and I used it to pull myself up, "Come on lad, you are done for the day."
I had improved considerably under the harsh tutelage of my sworn shield. As I got better and older, his scathing remarks receded and sparring became far more pleasant.
I turned, rolling out my shoulders and pulling my long silver hair back. Olyvar walked over to me, smirking.
"He never lets up does he, my lord?" Oly used the title with a bit of sarcasm now. He had relaxed around me after we had started getting to know one another.
"No, that he does not. A good man though." I replied with a smile. I continued, "I am going to head down to the distilleries now. You are welcome to come with me."
Oly nodded and we began the short walk down to the industrial area. The Eastwood Whisky complex had expanded much. There was a large building dedicated to turning barley into grist and then leaving it out to malt. Sat next to it was a similar building filled with copper distilleries. I had made the first one myself over a year ago and had my work replicated by others. The smallfolk I employed had learnt quite quickly and were now most proficient.
A third building, larger than the other two, sat adjacent to them and was more akin to a warehouse than anything else. This building was used for storing whisky and allowing it to age. The longer it is left the better the product after all. I had plans to stamp the ages onto the barrels when I sold them and increase the prices accordingly. I only wondered how long my monopoly would remain in place. Despite my surety in the folk who manned my business, any man becomes talkative when deep in his cups and the process was sure to get out eventually.
It was as we approached the gated complex that Oly spoke.
"So, uh, I have been meaning to ask you a question." I turned my head to him and raised a brow.
He continued, "I would, if it is alright with you, of course, don't worry if it isn't I-"
"Oly, spit it out." I said, growing frustrated with his lack of coherence.
"I would like to become an apprentice within your whisky business." He looked nervous.
"Why the sudden interest, I had pegged you for a future knight."
"I love fighting, but it seems so interesting. The big bronze tanks that somehow make such a strong liquid."
I butted in, "Copper."
"What?" Oly looked confused.
I explained, "The tanks, they are made of copper, not bronze. Bronze doesn't bend as well because it is harder. It would not be well suited to the shape and the piping necessary for distillation."
"Oh, right. Well, that proves my point exactly, it just seems so interesting and I want to learn about it." He looked excited at the prospect.
I thought about it. It would be a good idea to have trusted individuals working in such an important part of my business. Oly was young now but in five years? In ten? He was an intelligent lad and putting him in a good position seemed prudent.
"I don't have a problem with it. Tell Bryan I have recommended you. He will be happy to accommodate." I smiled at him then. Much of Olyvar's nerves slipped off his face and he beamed at me.
"Thank you!" He ran off towards Bryan's office with my direction.
Bryan was the head of the first batch of immigrants who had entered my domain. He had shown to be an intelligent man and had risen to Site Manager of Eastwood Whisky in good time. Helped by the complete lack of experience amongst everyone in Eastwood. No one could claim to be a good whisky maker since I had only just invented it.
With the fast expansion of my enterprise, it looked like I would need to move the site elsewhere. Otherwise, the industrial area would end up surrounded by housing and have nowhere else to expand.
Something else for me to look into.
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Having already surveyed the small village on the coast of the infamous Shipbreaker Bay. I decided to give a small trade port a try. All the greatest cities in my previous world and this one have a port. It was the cheapest and most efficient way to move freight long distances after all.
I had drawn a sketch of the overall design for the small docks that would be put in place. I was tentative to invest too much gold and manpower in the project as storms were commonplace across the coast. Without the necessary technology to prevent great waves from smashing any fleet, I built into driftwood. It seemed a bad idea to hedge my bets on it.
I had even planned for the building of a pier which would reduce the need for loading and unloading to be done over rowboats, increasing productivity and reducing the necessary resources required. Being a petty lord with limited resources encouraged one to become a good resource manager. Use too many people in one place and productivity would be completely eliminated in another. Even with my ever-increasing population, a number of those immigrants had to be put to work in the fields as more mouths require more food.
I was not aware of any other cities using piers in this world. Though as I spent more time in Westeros and came up with more and more ideas I realised that was more likely to be my lack of complete information rather than a lack of existence.
Many things in Westeros were invented but ended up simply unused, such as basic lye soap. Westerosi were a deeply superstitious people, bathing itself was considered dangerous because people die from sickness apparently induced by it. I had evaluated the myth and decided that it was due to remaining cold and wet rather than the water itself. Though the water could definitely do with being boiled first. A practice I had insisted on my cooks and servants upholding for anything I consume.
One of my worries over owning a port was the increased attention I would garner. It was one thing to be a competent lord with good ideas. Another entirely to be a competent lord with the ability to raise a fleet and trade outside of Westeros. The idea of trading with the free cities made me uncomfortable for a number of reasons. Mostly political in nature.
I remember from reading the books that merchants are scorned by the majority of lords. 'Honour' demanding a lord remains self-sufficient in all things and rarely import or export, likely one of the reasons for technological stagnation. For me to be a first-generation lord and also mercantile, I expect I am not favoured among the nobility of the Stormlands. For me to begin engaging in trade further afield, Essos specifically, would be bad. Westerosi looked at Essosi as savages, despite the opposite being closer to the truth. My reputation would take a nosedive I was not sure I could recover from.
I groaned and shifted in my seat. Reminding myself to get a cushion for the hard oak chair. Long days of thinking and planning were more prominent in my life than anything else these days. My life comprised an amount of martial training and much sitting and little else. Westeros is rather limited in leisure activities.
Not that I had anyone to engage with them in, Olyvar having begun his apprenticeship and wholeheartedly thrown himself into it. Rarely coming to the yard now, a fact I had come to terms with. Always a good idea to have loyal servants of skill. The other alternative being Ser Morden, who was not only two decades my senior, but also a Baratheon spy.
I turned my attention back to my desk and continued my sketching.
A storm rages across the coast, wind buffeting against my keep and the, fortunately, stone, houses of Eastwood. Lightning booming across the sky allowed me to understand why people with no scientific understanding would explain it as the rage of a god. Mother Nature holds a force that cannot be matched by man.
An early insistence on my part meant the keep windows are covered with shutters, but even with the shutters closed the wind howls and water pours through the gaps. The hard oak bending against the pressure. I hope this storm doesn't continue for too much longer. I need to turn my attention back to my projects as soon as possible.
I gasped. Just a few days before this storm hit, the construction of the port I had planned had been completed. Fit with a wooden pier and even a small trade vessel I had commissioned and planned to send to Evenfall Hall. If the sound of the wind is to be believed, there will not be much left of it.
I run towards the window, desperately pushing against the wooden shutter as I seek to get a view of the coastal village.
I can hear Ser Morden call out, "Lord Aelon, don't!"
With a great crack, the shutters bend backwards and the storm rips the wooden structure from the window, shoving me over in the process. I quickly get back to my feet and hold onto the window sill, turning my head towards the coast I spot a group of brave men attempting to beach the ship, the mast already laid flat against the deck. I let out the breath I had been holding. At least the ship will be safe. Squinting I observe the pier, to find it in complete ruins, the same condition as the docks. The warehouse that had been under construction lay in a broken heap.
Well done genius. It is called Shipbreaker Bay for a reason.
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A guard bowed as he entered the dining hall. "Milord, myself and another guard caught a raper in the act. We captured him and brought the girl with us. Ser Jarett is preparing the gallows, he told me to make you aware."
The guard finished with another bow and awaited my reply.
Punishment for crime in this world is harsh. Cutting the hands off thieves, execution for various crimes written in law, or merely at a lord's pleasure. I have spent a long time in this world of Westeros now and my modern sensibilities have all but disappeared, there is no space in my life for mercy.
Harsh crime requires harsh punishment.
"Return to Ser Jarett, I will be there shortly to oversee the hanging." Ser Jarett is the head of the town guard. I had welcomed him to Eastwood as a hedge knight but he soon proved his worth and was promoted.
I rise from my chair and Ser Morden grabs another chicken leg before following. Man is insatiable.
We walk into the yard, the same yard I practice my swordplay in. A hastily erected gallows stood in the center. A crying man I don't recognise and a girl with fire in her eyes stood on opposite sides of it.
Ser Jarett nods to me as I walk towards them.
"No doubt on the verdict with this one, my lord. Caught in the act." He grimaces.
"To the gallows with him then. The law is clear." I announce.
The man sobs, "Please milord, I'll do anything! Anything!" Two guards lift him up and pull the noose taut around his neck.
I stare stone-faced as he drops, twitching uncontrollably. A truly harrowing sight. A man pulls on his legs and he stops twitching a second later.
Brutal world, but there is no place in my heart for rapists.
Last edited: Jul 5, 2020
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