It was the third day since the royal assent had reached Winterfell.
Daemon was giving his past actions some very serious reflection.
Sometimes, a person needed to calmly review exactly what they had done. It was important, if only to avoid repeating the same mistakes, to determine where matters had begun to go wrong, what one should not have done, and just why the result had rolled this far.
Having retraced things one by one, Daemon reached a conclusion rather quickly.
I was at fault.
Quite badly, at that.
Making heating in White Harbor had been all right. It had been cold, so he had made things warm, and people had happened to respond well. Even meddling with glass, though somewhat excessive, had still been understandable.
The problem had come after he arrived in Winterfell.
He met Rickard Stark, and when the man asked him this and that, he had eagerly started talking.
He had rambled on from tales of the old Stark kings to the Boltons and the Andals, the Iron Islands, the North's western coast, fleets, ports, and Moat Cailin. He had said he wanted a castle of his own, and that he wanted to build workshops and a harbor himself.
And, most crucially—
I am not even a lord.
He had helpfully informed the man, with his own mouth, of the one condition he lacked.
The more Daemon thought of it, the more he wanted to punch the mouth he had had that day.
I laid the seduction on Rickard way too thick.
I can make heating.
I can make glass too.
I read history books.
Ask me, and I can talk about war as well.
I like harbors and castles.
But I have no land.
Daemon frowned.
From Rickard's perspective, it was worse still.
There was this foreign child whom the Manderlys had protected for years. He had produced results with heating, and results with glass. Summon him and speak with him, and he proved sharper than expected, with no deeply entangled interests among the established northern nobility.
And such a boy said, eyes shining, that he liked castles.
He said he wanted to make a harbor as well.
He said he wanted workshops.
And then he said he had no land of his own.
I am the idiot for showing him all that and expecting him not to pick me up.
The result was perfectly clear.
A tremendous success at making a favorable impression.
Sea Dragon Point, soon to be acquired.
The Iron Throne's approval, secured.
Congratulations.
You have become a lord at four years old.
Fuck.
And Daemon was now paying the price for that karma with great diligence.
"Young master."
A low voice cut across the training yard.
Daemon snapped back to himself.
"Huh."
"Ahead."
"I am looking."
"Your feet."
"I was thinking!"
Raymund was not moved in the slightest.
"Run."
"You expect a four-year-old to multitask too?"
Though he did not seem to know what that meant, he apparently understood it was a protest. Rather than answer, Raymund glanced down at Daemon's feet.
"They are dragging."
Grinding his teeth, Daemon moved his legs again.
Winterfell's dawn was cold. The sun had not yet fully risen, and only bluish light seeped between the high walls. Frost that had fallen through the night still lay whitely about the edge of the training yard. White breath burst forth with every exhalation, and Daemon's cheeks had long since turned red.
His legs were in still worse condition.
Heavy.
Painful.
Above all, Winterfell's training yard was fucking enormous.
Even in White Harbor, Raymund had sometimes woken Daemon in the morning and made him run laps about the yard. He had hated it then too, but compared to this, it now seemed almost cute.
Winterfell was a colossal castle.
It was a place where grown knights warmed up on horseback, and dozens could swing spears and swords all at once without crowding it.
A broad training ground to an adult knight.
Nearly a plain to a four-year-old.
Daemon diligently worked his short legs.
There was another injustice to it.
Raymund did not drive him to actual danger. If his breathing grew too labored, he made him walk and gave him water. If his feet began to tangle, he slowed him; if his posture collapsed, he let him rest briefly.
Yet he had an uncanny sense for precisely what Daemon could endure.
And he always pushed him exactly that far.
Precisely calculated child abuse.
That was how Daemon defined it to himself.
"Old man."
"What."
"I am four."
"I know."
"Then cut me some slack."
Raymund did not alter his expression.
"You managed the great feat of becoming a lord at four."
Daemon's feet nearly tangled for a moment.
"What does that have to do with this?"
"A boy who is to become a lord."
A pause.
"Cannot even run this much?"
"Those are entirely different matters!"
Then two armored knights passed nearby.
Raymund's gaze turned toward them.
His voice changed.
"My lord."
The corner of Daemon's eye twitched.
"Do regulate your breathing."
"..."
"Just a little more effort, please."
One passing knight appeared to recognize Daemon.
The child who had received royal approval.
The four-year-old foreigner soon to become Sea Dragon Point's new lord.
Such looks had notably increased over the past few days.
The knight lightly bowed his head.
Raymund answered with equal courtesy.
"You are doing splendidly, my lord."
Daemon forced a smile.
The knights passed by.
A few steps.
A little farther.
They were completely out of earshot.
Raymund spoke.
"Your feet."
Daemon whipped his head around.
"See!"
"What."
"You are doing it again."
This time, two squires holding wooden swords turned their heads.
As though waiting for them, Raymund straightened his posture.
"My lord."
Daemon's face stiffened.
"Please lower your voice."
"..."
"You will strain your throat."
He could feel the squires watching.
Daemon could all too easily imagine what scene they believed they were seeing.
A hot-tempered young lord.
An old, loyal retainer silently enduring him.
You bastard.
He only cursed inwardly.
"No."
"That is fortunate."
Raymund even dipped his head a little, courteously.
The squires returned to their training.
Daemon waited.
Until every eye had turned away.
Then he spoke softly.
"Old man."
"What."
He was back to speaking casually.
Daemon's temple twitched.
"You do it on purpose."
"What."
"When people are around, you call me my lord and act polite. When no one is around, it is, 'Feet. Run. Go.'"
"And?"
"You are trying to get under my skin."
Raymund did not reply.
Which was answer enough.
Daemon let out a deep sigh.
"Just do it like before."
"Do what."
"Pull my cheeks or tug my ears."
He pointed to his cheek.
"That would be better."
Raymund silently looked down at him.
Just then, three soldiers approached nearby.
And once again—
"How could I dare?"
Daemon's expression soured.
"Would a mere huntsman lay hands upon the body of so noble a lord?"
"You—"
"I am afraid to."
"You really—"
"I would not wish to tarnish my lord's dignity."
The soldiers went past.
One of them even smiled at Daemon.
Once they had gone farther away, Raymund said:
"Run."
"Just tug my ears!"
His voice rose again.
A distant knight turned his head.
Raymund immediately bent slightly at the waist.
"Even if my lord wishes it, that would be difficult."
"..."
"How could I dare?"
Daemon closed both eyes.
The curse rose to the tip of his tongue.
He held it back.
The knight's gaze turned away.
A moment later, Raymund spoke low.
"Yes."
Daemon opened his eyes.
There was not a trace of mirth on the old man's face.
"Patience is a virtue."
"..."
That single sentence irritated him most of all.
"Old man."
"What."
"Where did you learn this?"
One of Raymund's brows lifted slightly.
"What."
"Changing the way you talk depending on who is watching, and getting under people's skin."
A pause.
Raymund said:
"You."
Daemon's face hardened.
"...Me?"
"Yes."
"When did I ever!"
Raymund asked shortly.
"Before Lord Manderly?"
Daemon shut his mouth.
"You chose your words."
A pause.
"And bowed your head."
"That was courtesy."
"Before the laborers?"
Daemon's mouth closed again.
The furnace.
The construction site.
The bricklayers.
The porters.
He remembered the worksite, where hammering, sparks, and shouted voices mingled.
"It was noisy there."
"You cursed too."
"Everyone did."
"You shouted too."
"They could not hear otherwise!"
"Yes."
Raymund was matter-of-fact.
"You adapted to your audience."
"...That is right."
"Then."
A pause.
"Experience it yourself."
Daemon narrowed his eyes.
"Experience what."
"The difficulties of those who must listen to it."
"..."
Daemon glared at Raymund for some time.
The old man did not budge.
"You think this is proper instruction?"
"It is."
"Your basis?"
"It makes you angry."
"What kind of basis is that!"
Raymund pointed across the training yard.
"One lap."
"There was only one lap left already."
"Two laps."
"Why did it increase?"
People around them looked over again.
Raymund immediately bowed slightly.
"My lord is overflowing with vigor."
"..."
"How admirable."
Daemon shut his mouth.
At last, he understood the structure.
He got angry.
Raymund became polite.
Then everyone around him saw a rude young lord.
He endured it.
Raymund went back to speaking casually and continued needling him.
He retaliated.
People watched.
Back to calling him my lord.
Whatever I do, I lose.
Daemon looked drained.
He has laid a complete trap.
In the end, he ran.
By the time training ended, he nearly collapsed at the edge of the yard.
Raymund handed him a waterskin.
"Drink."
Daemon took it in both hands and gulped it down.
"Are you going to keep using that respectful speech?"
"When necessary."
"What is your standard for necessary?"
There was no reply.
Daemon looked up at him suspiciously.
"Done?"
"For today."
"Why do you have to add 'for today'?"
"There is tomorrow too."
Daemon fell backward flat onto the ground.
"I do not want to be a lord."
"Too late."
"I can withdraw it."
"Try."
"..."
He would go to Rickard Stark and say that, after gaining the royal assent, he would not accept the land because he did not want to run at dawn.
Daemon closed his eyes.
I would rather die.
Still, this morning's suffering was over.
He would wash in warm water, eat breakfast, then go lie down in his room.
That was what he thought.
Until before he opened the door to his room.
A letter lay on the table.
Daemon stopped.
Familiar sealing wax.
Familiar handwriting.
It was from his mother.
He broke the seal.
The contents were affectionate.
She said she was glad he was healthy.
She said she had heard news that he had accomplished something great.
She said she had received Lord Stark's letter as well.
And then—
I want to hear in person about what you discussed with Lord Stark when we meet.
Daemon's hand stopped.
The handwriting was too neat.
More so than usual.
Every letter was excessively clear and exact.
Daemon had seen much of his mother's writing.
So he knew.
When his mother held back her anger, her handwriting became prettier.
He read the next sentence.
As it happens, I have something I must ask Lord Stark myself, so I mean to come to Winterfell soon.
Beneath it—
If the road is fair, I shall arrive within three days.
Daemon's eyes widened.
And finally—
Then tell me, slowly and from the very beginning, what you spoke of with Lord Stark.
"..."
From the very beginning.
Slowly.
There was no reason for those words to be frightening.
Yet they were strangely frightening now.
Daemon slowly set down the letter.
She is angry.
He was certain.
His mother was angry.
For the first time that day, Daemon realized that Raymund might only have been the opening skirmish.
*
Three days later.
Valena truly came to Winterfell.
The instant Daemon saw her familiar figure entering through the gates, he ran to her.
"Mother!"
He was sincerely glad to see her.
Valena smiled and caught the child in her arms. She stroked his head, inspected his face, then ran her hands over his cheeks and neck as well.
"You are not hurt anywhere?"
"No."
"Have you been eating?"
"I ate well."
"A cold?"
"I did not catch one."
Then Valena's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You seem a little thinner."
Daemon's eyes flashed.
Here it comes.
"The old man makes me run every dawn—"
Raymund, standing beside them, courteously interjected.
"As the young master will bear great responsibilities henceforth, I was merely seeing to his basic stamina."
Daemon turned sharply toward him.
"Merely?"
Valena looked at Raymund.
Daemon waited expectantly.
It is over.
Old man, you are dead.
"You have not overworked him, have you?"
"I would never."
Valena nodded.
"Then please continue."
"..."
Daemon slowly looked up at his mother.
"Mother?"
"Yes?"
"I am four."
Valena stroked his head once.
"I know."
In that moment, Daemon understood.
No reinforcements had come to save him.
The enemy had received reinforcements.
Still, he was somewhat relieved at first.
Valena did not drag Daemon away and scold him at once.
She met with Rickard Stark first.
She gave her thanks, then checked each matter in turn: the bounds of Sea Dragon Point, how it would be administered, and who would handle the practical affairs until Daemon came of age. She asked in what form the royal assent had been granted, and heard how far Winterfell intended to take responsibility for the initial reconstruction, men, and supplies.
Daemon watched her from beside them.
She did not grow excited.
Nor did she appear overly pleased.
Neither was she frightened.
She simply confirmed, in order, what needed to be known.
That is my mother.
Watching her, he felt a little relieved.
Could what I felt from that letter have been my imagination?
In the end, things had turned out well.
The Starks approved.
The king had allowed it.
He would have land.
Could it truly be all right?
That evening.
When they returned to the room, Valena sent even Raymund outside.
The door shut.
She sat in a chair.
Then she said:
"Now."
Daemon abandoned hope.
"Tell me from the beginning."
"..."
"Beginning with when you entered Lord Stark's solar."
It had not been his imagination after all.
Much time later.
Daemon seriously pondered in a corner of the room.
Why did I do that?
He only needed to hold back a little.
No matter what he was asked—
"I do not know."
That would have ended it.
He was four.
Who could say anything?
Theon Stark?
I do not know.
Bolton?
Scary.
Torrhen Stark?
I suppose he was afraid of dragons.
The western sea?
It is big.
Done.
That would have been enough.
But Daemon had opened his mouth.
And he had eagerly prattled on.
He had begun with history, then moved through war and politics, fleets and ports, all the way to Moat Cailin.
At the end, he had even talked about his own castle and workshops.
Why did I do it?
For roughly three seconds, Daemon sincerely reflected.
Then he immediately began defending himself.
No, but is it not unfair to say this is entirely my fault?
Did he not want to live easily like an ordinary four-year-old himself?
Play a little, act cute, listen well to his mother, and occasionally pretend to listen to Raymund.
Life would have been far easier that way.
The problem was that Daemon was not an ordinary four-year-old.
He had been born carrying the memories of his past life intact.
With the mind of a grown man, he had endured for years the time when he could neither speak nor walk. He had lived in a world where he took out a smartphone whenever bored, then abruptly fell into an age when finding a single book required sending someone for it, and learning something required seeking out maesters, merchants, and craftsmen instead of a search bar.
In his past life, he could lie in bed, move a finger, and have endless videos, games, news, and every kind of nonsense pour forth.
There was none of that here.
It was boring.
Terribly so.
So he read books.
History was interesting.
He liked considering who fought whom and why, why a castle had been built upon a given land, why some houses fell and others endured.
He had meddled with heating because he was cold.
This could be made less cold with a few improvements.
It began with only that much.
But it had truly worked.
Glass had been much the same.
I think this might work too.
He had thrown himself into it, struggled with craftsmen for ages, and ultimately produced something usable.
It had been troublesome.
It took a long time.
Failures cost money and materials.
But it was fun.
That was the problem.
And above all, adults with whom he could truly converse were precious.
His mother.
Raymund.
Wyman.
The craftsmen.
Though their fields of knowledge differed, he could speak with them.
Then Rickard Stark asked him first.
What do you think?
How was he supposed to restrain himself after that?
Someone asked first about thoughts he had turned over only in his own mind for years.
They heard his answer.
Then they asked another question.
Of course he wanted to talk.
Daemon was a person too.
Even if graduate school in his past life had worn away a fair portion of his humanity, a person was still a person.
He could not seize a child his own apparent age and ask what Theon Stark's expedition to Andalos had meant.
That child would sniffle and ask him to go look at horses.
That child would be normal.
Daemon knew that too.
That did not mean he was not bored.
Thus, though Daemon's own mouth certainly bore the greatest responsibility for this incident, the structural problem of living in an age before smartphones had yet to be invented ought to receive some consideration as well.
Just as the defense in Daemon's head was growing increasingly lengthy—
"Daemon."
Valena's voice called.
His mind returned to reality.
And he became aware of his present state again.
In the corner of the room.
Kneeling.
With both arms raised above his head.
"...Yes."
His shoulders hurt.
Though in his mind he was drafting an extensive defense based on the lack of entertainment in medieval society, the Daemon in reality was very quiet.
Valena sat in her chair.
She did not shout.
Her expression did not change greatly either.
That was more frightening.
"What did I just say?"
Daemon's eyes wavered slightly.
Uh.
Wait.
How much did I hear?
His mind spun quickly.
"You said what I think is right—"
He opened his mouth cautiously.
"And whether it is all right to say it are separate matters."
"Do you know why they are separate?"
The first answer that came to him was:
But this time, it went well.
He had gained land.
The Starks approved.
The crown had sanctioned it.
Judging only by the result, it was a tremendous success.
Daemon did not say that aloud.
Because he wanted to live.
"Because I do not know how the other person will take it."
"Yes."
"Even if I say it with one meaning, the listener may attach their own meaning to it."
"And?"
There is more?
Daemon desperately thought.
"Because even the same words can carry different weight depending on who I am."
Valena's eyes softened a fraction.
It was the right answer.
Daemon inwardly sighed with relief.
"This time, it went well," Valena said.
"Lord Stark received your words favorably, recognized your talents, and so intends to give you land. The king permitted it too."
"...Yes."
"So do you believe you did well?"
In Daemon's head, the words came at once.
In the end.
His mouth was much wiser.
"This time, the result was good."
He paused.
"It does not mean it is always right for me to speak that way."
Valena nodded slowly.
"Yes."
Some more time passed afterward.
Daemon's arms were beginning to feel as though they no longer belonged to him.
Only after Valena had watched that long enough did she say:
"That is enough."
Daemon's eyes flashed.
"Lower your hands."
Both arms fell as though they might come off.
"Urgh..."
There was no dignity to it.
As he rolled his shoulders and flexed and unflexed his fingers, Valena asked:
"Does it hurt badly?"
Daemon considered for a moment.
"...A little."
"Come here."
At that, he moved at once.
His knees ached too.
When he came near, Valena brushed the dust from his clothes. She straightened his knees and sleeves, then smoothed back his disordered hair with her hand.
It was the same hand that had been scolding him moments before.
"Daemon."
"Yes."
"Do you think Mother does not know how remarkable the things you have done are?"
Daemon raised his eyes.
"The heating, and the glass too."
"...Yes."
"Of course, they were not things you did alone."
"Yes."
"The craftsmen made them, Lord Wyman provided money and people, and many people worked together."
Daemon nodded.
Valena looked at the child's face for a moment.
"But Mother knows who first pointed them in that direction."
Daemon said nothing.
"Lord Stark does not give land to just any child. Not while going so far as to seek the king's permission."
Her voice softened a little.
"My son has done something remarkable."
"..."
It felt strange.
It was different from the praise he had heard from Rickard.
It was different from hearing that the royal assent had been granted.
Something in one corner of his chest tickled for no reason.
Daemon looked away a little.
"Well."
He let his words trail away.
"I am rather a genius, after all."
Valena's hand came up to Daemon's cheek.
Daemon flinched.
She did not pull it.
She merely stroked it.
"Yes," Valena said.
"My son is clever."
"..."
Having it immediately acknowledged only made him more embarrassed.
Then Valena's voice lowered a little.
"That is why Mother is more afraid."
The playfulness vanished from Daemon's face.
"If you were an ordinary child, perhaps it would have been enough to raise you quietly in hiding. To make anyone who saw you think you were simply some child from elsewhere."
Valena let out a small breath.
"But you keep making people remember you."
Heating.
Glass.
Wyman.
Winterfell.
Rickard.
Sea Dragon Point.
Daemon knew what that meant too.
"There are things about you that you could not choose."
Daemon looked to his mother.
"Things decided before you were born."
"..."
"They are not your sin."
Valena spoke clearly.
"They did not happen because you did wrong, nor is there any reason you should bear responsibility for them."
Then she added more quietly:
"But there are too many people in this world who will think them your sin."
The room fell quiet.
Daemon knew.
He was a Blackfyre.
Maelys Blackfyre's son.
Not a name he had chosen.
He did not even properly remember his father.
A massive body.
A low voice.
Broad arms.
A grotesque head.
That was all he remembered.
To Daemon, the words biological father felt much closer than the word father.
He had no interest in the Blackfyre throne, and did not want the Iron Throne either.
But would that matter to others?
The moment his identity was exposed, people would look first not at what Daemon wanted, but at whose son he was.
Maelys had waged war only a few years ago.
Westeros believed the Blackfyre male line had ended.
But it had not ended.
It was here.
In the form of a four-year-old child who had been punished with raised hands by his mother only moments ago in some room of Winterfell.
This really is not my fault.
Daemon thought inwardly.
But the world had never run purely on who was right and who was wrong, not even in his former life.
Here, it would be even less likely to do so.
"Do you understand?" Valena asked.
Daemon answered after a moment.
"I understand."
This time, he did not evade with a childish answer.
"It means what I want might not matter much to those people."
Valena did not answer.
That silence was practically agreement.
Daemon looked down at his little hand.
"There are people who will hate me merely because I was born."
Valena's hand settled over it.
"Yes."
It was brief.
That made it all the clearer.
"That does not mean you should do nothing."
Daemon raised his head.
"Then what?"
"It means you should think."
Valena spoke slowly.
"What you will show, and whom you will show it to. And that once you show it, you cannot ever hide it completely again."
Daemon quietly nodded.
It was not greatly different from what Raymund had said.
Once a thought came out of his mouth, it was no longer his alone.
The listener gave it meaning.
Raymund said it harshly.
His mother said it gently.
The meaning was the same.
They are squeezing me from both sides in one household.
Still, he felt a little less wronged.
He had no intention of living without doing anything.
Then he needed restraint.
What to show.
What to hide.
What to say.
When to keep his mouth shut.
He needed to draw that line a little better than before.
What a nuisance.
Daemon thought.
Life keeps getting harder.
Valena tugged his hand.
Daemon stepped closer.
She pulled him into her arms.
It was familiar and warm.
"Still," Valena said.
Daemon's ears stirred.
"You did well."
"..."
"Being angry is one thing."
She slowly stroked his back.
"What you did well, you did well."
Daemon said nothing for a while.
Then, very quietly—
"Yes."
It felt strange.
Better than when Rickard told him to accept the land.
Better than when he heard the king had granted permission.
Why do I feel like a real four-year-old at times like this?
Whether it was because his body was young, or simply because she was his mother, he did not bother to consider.
After a while, Valena said:
"And."
Daemon's body immediately went stiff.
Valena smiled.
"This is not something I mean to scold you over."
"...Really?"
"Yes."
"You are sure?"
"Daemon."
"Yes?"
Valena smiled again.
"Should you not see for yourself the place where you will become lord?"
Daemon's eyes widened a little.
"Sea Dragon Point?"
"Yes."
"You spoke to Lord Stark too?"
"Today."
"...That was quick."
"It is your affair. Why delay it?"
That was true.
"We will prepare from tomorrow."
Daemon thought of the west, which he had never seen.
The sea.
The forest.
A possible harbor site.
An old castle.
And his own land.
His heart beat a little faster.
Valena asked:
"Do you like it?"
This time, he answered honestly.
"Yes."
"Then let us go see it."
*
On the seventeenth day after leaving Winterfell, Daemon finally saw Sea Dragon Point.
He said nothing for a while atop his horse.
His first impression was very simple.
...It is a swamp.
The cold wind struck his face.
A damp smell rose around him.
Wet earth, dead grass, and salty sea wind mingled and stung his nose. Water lay pooled in every low place, and little channels tangled in many directions. Broad stretches of yellowed dry grass and reedlike plants spread before him, with low hills and forest beyond.
And then wetlands again.
Water.
Mud.
Water again.
Daemon's lips parted slightly.
Fuck.
It is fucking swamp everywhere.
The journey had taken a long time.
Daemon had not ridden here alone at speed.
Valena and Raymund were with him, followed by wagons, tools, and supplies. There were carpenters, masons, and laborers, and above all, two hundred armed men traveling with them.
There had been no possibility of moving quickly.
The farther northwest they went from Winterfell, the rougher the roads became.
At first, they had at least been fit to call roads.
Before long, it became difficult to tell whether there was a road or merely the trace of someone having dragged a cart through once.
It rained.
They passed through forest.
Wheels sank in mud.
They came upon streams.
Then forest again.
Whenever a wagon sank, people crowded around and hauled it free. At waterways without bridges, they found shallow places to cross.
After they neared Deepwood Motte, people sent by the Glovers joined them.
Hunters, lumbermen, and local carpenters.
People who knew the forest paths.
From then on, they at least spent far less time wandering without knowing where to go.
And at last, his own land.
Anyone expecting farmland would have been disappointed.
There were not many places one looked upon and immediately wished to turn into fields.
Daemon looked upon the wetlands in silence.
Drainage.
Roads.
Foundations.
Bridges.
If he meant to drain the water, where would he send it?
Lowlands near the shore meant he would need to account for salt as well.
Even a little thought produced an endless list of places that would consume money.
Wow.
This will devour a fucking fortune.
He understood, at least somewhat, why Rickard Stark had not actively developed this place until now.
There were few people.
The land was difficult.
The west lay close to the Iron Islands.
And the North would not suddenly starve if it was left alone.
It was only natural that it had been pushed down the order of priorities.
But as Daemon looked upon the broad lowlands filled with water, his eyes suddenly narrowed.
...Rice.
The past life he had lived as a Korean surfaced too naturally.
Water.
Low ground.
Dikes.
Waterways.
Paddies.
A picture swiftly formed in his mind.
If we manage that water well, all of it could become rice paddies.
The cold wind lashed his face.
Daemon sniffed.
"..."
Wait.
Can rice even grow here?
He had eaten rice all his life.
Fried rice.
Rice soup.
Rice rolls.
Rice porridge.
He had eaten rice in all manner of forms, but had never grown it himself.
He did not know the precise temperatures at which rice grew best, how much cold damage it could endure, or whether summers here lasted long enough.
He seemed to remember rice paddies in northern Korea, and that rice was cultivated even in Hokkaido.
But what did that have to do with Sea Dragon Point?
The climate was different, and so were the varieties.
There was a more fundamental problem.
Does rice even exist here?
He did not remember ever eating rice in White Harbor.
Wheat.
Barley.
Oats.
Beans.
Root vegetables.
He had seen plenty of those.
There had been no rice.
Perhaps somewhere in Essos it existed.
Even that was only a guess.
If it does, should I find one that endures cold and keep planting it?
Then he immediately frowned.
No.
I am not an agronomist. What do I know?
Selecting for cold resistance might destroy yields; a high-yielding variety might be vulnerable to disease. If the world allowed one desired trait to follow neatly on its own, farming would have become easy long ago.
Ruin crops through one scrap of mistaken knowledge, and it was not a paper that suffered. People starved.
There was no reason to confidently spout nonsense in this field.
Then potatoes came to mind.
Cold places mean potatoes.
That much came naturally.
Then the next thought came naturally too.
...Do potatoes exist in this world?
Daemon stared blankly ahead.
Does not know whether rice exists.
Does not know whether potatoes exist.
Cotton?
Does not know that either.
God, I really need the internet.
In his past life, it would have taken only a few words typed into a search bar.
Major crops in cool climates.
Crops for saline soil.
Cold resistance of rice.
Done.
Information would pour forth.
Here, he first needed to find whether a book existed.
Daemon's thoughts reached cotton for a moment, then stopped.
He seemed to recall reading somewhere that it endured somewhat better even in salty soil.
But he could not remember whether that meant it actually removed salt from soil, or merely tolerated it better than other crops.
Those are the most dangerous memories.
The things that seemed known, and were more dangerous for it.
Daemon came to a conclusion without regret.
For farming, bring in someone who knows it.
A maester.
Farmers.
People who had worked this land for generations.
They knew it far better than he did.
His task was not to pretend to be a genius and dictate farming methods. It was to decide what to ask, and find people who could answer.
And pay them properly.
At that thought, Kim Jaebong's face briefly came to mind.
Yes. Proper pay.
It was important.
Very important.
Daemon looked upon the wetlands again.
Then his thoughts shifted a little.
But do I need to drain it all?
Water itself might have uses.
Fish.
Shellfish.
Crabs.
Seaweed.
Small channels and pools.
Places where fresh water and seawater met.
The word aquaculture came to mind.
Then another memory immediately surfaced.
Norway.
Salmon.
Cold seas.
Fish pens.
Exports.
The conditions, at a rough glance, seemed plausible.
Sea Dragon Point was cold too, had many small bays, and seawater flowed in and out.
Daemon's eyes brightened for a moment.
Then they cooled at once.
Does salmon even exist here?
He was back at the beginning again.
Whether similar fish existed.
Whether there were fish that ran upriver.
What they ate.
What diseases afflicted them.
He did not know.
A structure like fish pens was something he could consider.
That was the more familiar side of it.
But what living creatures went inside was another matter entirely.
Fish could all die at once if things went wrong.
They died from overcrowding.
They died if they were fed wrongly.
If disease spread, they died even more spectacularly.
And the money would die with them.
Daemon changed course.
Salmon farming.
No.
First, investigate local fish species.
He would seize a nearby fisherman and first learn what fish they caught, in which seasons they were abundant, and which ones ran upriver.
Nor was there any need to look only at fish.
If the shore was rocky and shallow, shellfish, mussels, crabs, or seaweed might be easier.
It was even possible the local people already managed a resource in some similar fashion.
Daemon looked upon the wetlands again.
At first, it had only been a swamp.
Now it was a little different.
Places to drain.
Places to leave alone.
Places where water might be controlled.
Places to test farming.
Places for fishing.
And there would be places better left untouched.
I do not need to reclaim all of it.
He stopped there.
He did not say it aloud yet.
That took rather conscious effort.
The next thing that caught his eye was the forest.
The Wolfswood.
The western edge of that immense forest nearly touched Sea Dragon Point.
The farmland was uncertain.
But trees were different.
Pine and other timber for construction and ships.
And ironwood.
During the journey, Daemon had once handled a piece of ironwood brought by the Glover men.
Black.
Heavy.
Hard.
The grain was extremely dense, and even those putting axe and chisel to it handled it far more carefully than ordinary wood.
When Daemon first held the wood, it reminded him of a timber he had seen in his past life.
Snakewood.
Snakewood from South America was among the heaviest and hardest timbers even on Earth. Its distinctive pattern, like snakeskin as its name suggested, saw it used in fine carvings, instrument parts, and bows, and it was famous as a wood whose smallest pieces bore absurd prices. As hard as it was, it was difficult to work as well.
Ironwood was heavy and tough enough to call that memory to mind.
Of course, resemblance did not mean they were the same tree.
In any event, classifying plants from another continent and northern ironwood as the same species or subspecies in a medieval fantasy world that was not Earth would be meaningless.
If I treated them as kin just because they look alike, botanists would climb out of their coffins.
What mattered to Daemon was not its lineage, but its properties.
Ironwood was not some scrub tree found everywhere in the North. It grew in certain areas, including deep within the Wolfswood, but grew slowly, and felling, transporting, and working it were all difficult. Its durability made it a timber chosen for precious uses, and it was correspondingly valuable.
Making an entire ship of ironwood would be close to wasteful.
It was heavy.
It was hard to work.
Above all, it was rare.
But the matter was different for sections that bore concentrated force or suffered long wear.
Parts of pulleys.
Axles.
Tool handles.
Wagon parts.
Castle gates.
Palisades.
Fine furniture and carved wares.
And exports.
Daemon's eyes narrowed a little.
This could make money.
That was quite certain.
But a rare resource was not something to cut down recklessly merely because it earned money.
The Wolfswood was Stark forest, and the Glovers lived from that forest as well. He first needed to know where and how much ironwood there was, how often it could be felled, and how long young trees took to grow.
I should ask the Glovers about this.
When he did not know, he asked.
That was quickest.
The list of things to do in Daemon's mind kept growing.
Agriculture.
Fishing.
Timber.
Roads.
Drainage.
Bridges.
And—
A harbor.
When that word surfaced, the tenor of his thoughts changed.
Daemon's gaze naturally turned to the sea.
Sea Dragon Point's coastline was not a smooth line.
Small bays cut inward here and there, while headlands and rocks thrust out in complicated patterns. Even to the eye, a few places looked as though they could shelter from wind and waves to some degree.
I understand this part somewhat.
Farming was full of things he did not know.
But harbors were different.
First, see how deep the water was.
Even if the inner harbor was deep, large ships could not enter if the mouth was shallow.
He needed to know the difference between high and low tide.
Whether the bottom was rock, sand, or mud.
How far waves drove in storms.
Whether it froze in winter.
Whether fresh water could be had nearby.
Whether a road could be made to carry timber.
Whether there was room to haul ships up for repairs.
Soundings first.
Tie a weight to a line.
Repeat it at many points.
Record the times of the tides too.
Redraw the coastline, even roughly.
Ask local fishermen about seasonal winds and storms.
Then check things one at a time.
Without realizing it, Daemon leaned a little forward.
His face was wholly different from how it had looked while confronting agriculture in despair.
Valena saw the change but said nothing.
Then Daemon happened to look behind him.
A long procession followed.
Valena.
Raymund.
Guides and laborers sent by the Glovers.
Carpenters and masons.
Wagons and tools.
Supplies.
And spears, shields, bows, and armor.
Two hundred armed men.
Daemon still found that number a little strange.
His own soldiers.
In name, they were the first troops the Starks had granted Sea Dragon Point's new lord.
Of course, they had not entrusted a four-year-old with commanding two hundred men at once. Winterfell had attached a reliable commander and junior officers, and their immediate duties were clear.
Defend the frontier settlement.
Protect the reconstruction site of the fortress.
Secure roads and supply routes.
Respond to pirates and raiders.
And show all who would come to this land in the future:
This was no longer abandoned land.
One day, once Daemon was grown and had formed his own system of retainers, these soldiers could truly become his forces.
Daemon silently looked over the procession.
In his former life, he had been a graduate student.
Even when asking an undergraduate research assistant for something, he would say, 'If you have the time, could you look at this?'
Now:
Two hundred men.
The scale of this life change is too much.
Naturally, not every cost had been cast upon Daemon.
If it had, they would fail before surviving even the first winter.
Winterfell bore the greatest burden.
The Starks had agreed to take substantial responsibility for rebuilding the old fortress and further construction should it be needed, along with the soldiers' initial wages and food, arms, and basic tools.
They had made a new vassal with their own hands.
It meant they would at least let him take his first steps.
The neighboring houses contributed in whatever ways they could.
The Glovers' greatest contribution was not money but people and local knowledge. They had people who knew the Wolfswood's paths and logging sites, and the wagon tracks by which timber could be carried.
The Mormonts knew the western sea well. They agreed to send small ships, sailors, and fishermen, and to aid in coastal patrols.
And the Manderlys were helping in the most Manderly fashion possible.
Money.
Credit.
Ironwork.
Tools.
Merchants.
Craftsmen.
Anything that could be solved with money from White Harbor, they would solve as much as possible.
It appeared Wyman had no intention of entirely taking his hands off Daemon even as he sent him away.
When Daemon first heard the structure of this support, his mind organized it naturally.
Winterfell, majority shareholder.
Manderly finance.
Glover's contribution in kind.
Mormont maritime logistics.
He thought for a moment.
...Did I start a startup?
The difference was that here, if it failed, he could not simply post a notice that the service had ended and be done with it.
People would starve.
Soldiers would die.
Settlers would leave.
A village would vanish.
Thinking of that made the joke less amusing.
At his side, Valena asked:
"What are you thinking about?"
Daemon's mouth nearly opened automatically.
Rice.
Potatoes.
Farming.
Salt.
Fishing.
Shellfish.
Ironwood.
Harbors.
Soundings.
Drainage.
Roads.
There was much he wanted to say.
Then a corner of a room in Winterfell came to mind.
Knees.
Raised arms.
Mother.
Daemon closed his mouth.
"...Observing."
Valena's eyes narrowed a little.
"Observing?"
"Yes."
Daemon nodded very seriously.
"Only observing for now."
Raymund's low voice came from behind.
"As if."
Daemon slowly turned his head.
"Old man."
"What."
"I am really holding myself back right now."
Raymund looked at Daemon's face for a moment.
It was far too obvious from his expression that dozens of things were spinning through that little head.
"Keep holding back."
"..."
Daemon looked forward again.
Patience is a virtue.
That saying came to mind again.
Fuck.
That saying is really going to linger.
Still, this time he did not say it aloud.
Following the road a little farther, the land rose higher.
The damp scent of the wetlands faded somewhat, and traces of an old road began to appear between the trees.
At first, he thought it was natural stone.
Then he saw more of it.
Evenly spaced.
Stones touched by human hands.
A collapsed low wall.
A retaining wall half-swallowed by dirt and moss.
And as they rounded a hill—
Daemon stopped his horse.
An old fortress stood ahead.
More precisely:
What had once been a fortress.
Much of its walls had collapsed. Grass grew between the stones, and the top half of one tower had disappeared entirely. The opposite tower barely stood, its wall split wide.
Most of the portions that had been made of wood had left no trace at all.
Only the empty place where a gate had once stood remained.
And beyond it—
He saw the sea.
Gray.
Cold.
Vast.
Daemon said nothing for some time atop his horse.
This was his castle.
No.
The place that would become his castle.
The place Rickard Stark had told him to build himself.
Daemon's gaze moved very slowly.
The height of the ground where the fortress sat.
The distance to the sea.
The forest behind it.
The road leading down.
The coastal bay.
The direction in which water flowed.
The wind.
The stone.
The ruined walls.
The slope a wagon might ascend.
And the people.
Two hundred soldiers.
Craftsmen.
Laborers.
His mother.
Raymund.
They were all behind him.
Only then did it begin to feel real.
When he had heard in Winterfell that he would be given land.
When he had heard the crown permitted it.
It had somehow seemed like something written in a document.
Like reading another person's life.
But now it was before his eyes.
Broken stone walls.
Damp wind.
Mud.
Forest.
Sea.
People.
It was all real.
...Mine.
Once he thought it, the feeling was strange.
Whether it was good.
Whether it was frightening.
He did not know himself.
But one thing was certain.
His mind was beginning to race madly again.
How much of the walls could be saved?
He needed to inspect the foundations first.
Where had the stone come from?
Where were the nearby quarries?
Did any drainage channels remain?
A well?
A spring?
Was it right to repair the walls first?
No.
People needed to live first.
Storehouses.
A kitchen.
Barracks.
Workshops.
Places to put materials that must not get rained on.
Should the harbor be below the fortress?
Or was another bay they saw on the way here better?
Survey first.
Absolutely begin with surveying.
A smile slowly rose at the corner of Daemon's lips.
Valena saw it.
"Thinking again, are you?"
Daemon answered at once.
"Observing."
Valena's brow rose.
"Still?"
"Yes."
Behind him, Raymund gave a breath resembling a snort.
Daemon pretended not to hear.
He got down from his horse.
His little foot pressed into damp earth.
It was his first step upon his own land.
Daemon looked up at the ruined fortress.
There were far more things to repair than things intact.
The tasks ahead seemed endless.
He knew little about agriculture.
He needed to learn fishing too.
He needed to ask local people more about timber.
He needed to investigate the harbor himself.
The castle might need to be built nearly anew.
Roads were needed as well.
It would cost an enormous amount of money.
...This is insane.
But Daemon smiled.
Just a little.
Because, honestly—
This is going to be fun.
That was the first thought that came to him.
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