Tywin Lannister’s day began before the sun.
While the eastern windows of the Tower of the Hand still held the dark blue of dawn, the documents that had arrived the night before were already sorted by kind upon his desk. Royal income and expenditures, disputes among the lords of the Crownlands, reports from the Westerlands and records of arrivals and departures at Blackwater Bay, the grain reserves of the royal storehouses, and letters of appointment requiring his approval. Some were worth reading. Others needed never be seen again once read.
Tywin disposed of the latter first.
A distant relative in the Westerlands had sent yet another letter asking that his second son be granted a royal office. The letter said the same thing it had said several months ago, and the answer had been sufficiently clear then. Having read it to the end, Tywin pushed it aside without even folding it.
"No reply is needed."
The scribe immediately bowed his head.
"Yes, my lord."
"Next."
A new document was set before him.
Tywin read swiftly, but never carelessly. If a single figure failed to match the previous month’s, it caught his eye. If a provincial lord lamented a decline in grain production yet listed revenue identical to the previous year’s, he remembered that as well.
A kingdom seemed to move by the words of men.
It did not.
What moved a kingdom was grain and gold, ships and horses, people and time. If what was needed did not arrive where it was needed, in the quantity required, no oath of loyalty could feed a hungry army, and no matter how splendid the decree, it could not fill an empty granary.
"The Blackwater port revenues, my lord," the scribe said.
Tywin took the next sheet.
The number of ships, customs duties, storage fees, confiscated contraband, and dockage fees had all been arranged on a single page. His finger stopped midway down the lines. The number of merchant vessels arriving over the previous half year had clearly increased, but the rise in customs revenue had not kept pace.
It was not surprising.
Merchants did not like taxes.
Officials liked gold.
Those two facts differed little anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. What mattered was not whether corruption existed, but when the cost of tolerating it grew greater than the cost of reducing it.
Tywin made a brief mark in the margin.
"Compare it to the same months over the past two years. Include their ports of departure, not merely the number of ships. Separate vessels from the Reach, Dorne, and the Free Cities."
The scribe’s quill moved quickly.
"Understood."
"And arrange the figures submitted by the harbor master beside those from the Master of Coin’s office."
The young scribe hesitated, just for an instant.
"Within the day, my lord?"
Tywin raised his head.
That was enough.
"I shall have it ready today, my lord."
"See that you do."
Just as he reached for the next document, he heard armor shifting beyond the door. A knight guarding the Tower of the Hand entered.
"My lord."
Tywin did not look up from his papers.
"Speak."
"His Grace has summoned the small council. He wishes you to come at once."
This time, Tywin lifted his eyes.
An unscheduled summons was nothing unusual in itself. Aerys was not a man who kept an idea to himself for long once it occurred to him. Good or bad, if it had seized his mind, someone needed to hear it soon.
Usually, that someone was the small council.
Tywin set down his quill.
There were still papers left on his desk, but he could return to them later.
There was no reason to make the king wait.
Least of all a king who disliked waiting.
The necessary men had already gathered in the small council chamber.
Grand Maester Pycelle was smoothing his beard with thick fingers. The Master of Coin, Qoren Celtigar, had opened a ledger and was checking something within it. Symond Staunton, Lucerys Velaryon, and Gerold Hightower were at their respective places as well.
The quiet conversation drifting through the room naturally faded when Tywin entered.
He demanded no greetings. Taking his seat, he swept his gaze over the table once, and immediately realized that this meeting differed from the usual sort.
There were no prepared documents.
No agenda drafted in advance by royal scribes, no special report brought by the Master of Coin, no proposed law.
The king has brought this himself.
Tywin waited.
He did not have to wait long.
The door opened, and Aerys entered.
His expression was bright—plainly so to anyone who had watched the king closely in recent years.
He was in a good mood.
He had been since receiving the northerners the day before.
Aerys had taken a liking to their visit.
Especially to the young lord of Seadrake.
It was not the sort of thing he could conceal even if he had tried. No—Aerys did not seem to see any reason to conceal it in the first place.
The king spoke as soon as he sat down.
"Yesterday, I gave the harbor some thought."
Tywin’s expression did not change.
The harbor.
"King’s Landing is the city of the Iron Throne. The furs of the North, the grain of the Reach, the wines of Dorne, silks and spices from across the Narrow Sea—all of it gathers here in the end."
Ser Qoren raised his head, and Lucerys looked to the king as well.
Aerys lightly tapped the table with one finger.
"Yet is it not absurd if the king cannot properly account for what enters the king’s own city?"
Thus far, this was the Aerys Tywin knew.
The Iron Throne.
The king’s city.
The king’s rights.
Aerys thought in such terms: what a king ought to possess, what a king ought to be able to see, what a king ought to enjoy.
But Tywin paid closer attention to the king’s next words.
"I have no thought of creating a new tax."
The Master of Coin’s eyes moved.
Aerys smiled.
"Not for now, at least."
A faint smile appeared on several faces.
"First, we ought properly collect the coin already owed to the Iron Throne. If goods entering through the harbor vanish from royal records between one dock and a warehouse, the problem is not that the tax rate is too low."
Qoren leaned slightly forward.
"You mean uncollected customs duties, Your Grace?"
"Smuggling as well. False declarations."
The king paused.
"And officials whose sight grows dim at the gleam of a few gold coins."
Qoren did not look offended. Instead, he bowed his head.
"That problem certainly exists."
It was an honest answer.
Seemingly pleased, Aerys continued.
"I would not have merchant ships arriving from distant seas with heavy cargoes unloading wherever they please."
Lucerys asked, "Would Your Grace direct every merchant vessel to assigned docks?"
"There is no need to line up every fisherman’s boat. The harbor itself would cease moving before long if we did."
Tywin’s gaze did not move.
But he remembered that answer too.
"But large merchant vessels bearing substantial cargo from distant seas can first pass through a few designated docks. Their captains declare what they carry and in what quantity; it is verified with the king’s scales, and they pay the appointed share. Then they receive the royal mark."
The king’s mouth curved slightly.
"And if foreign goods without that mark are found in a market or warehouse, their keeper must explain whence they entered."
Qoren said, "And if he cannot explain?"
"Then the goods have lost their owner."
A small smile appeared at Qoren’s lips.
"The king’s coffers do not refuse ownerless goods."
Aerys laughed aloud.
"So I thought."
The air in the chamber loosened somewhat.
Tywin did not smile.
He was considering only the substance.
Docks.
Declarations.
Weighing.
Payment.
Marks.
Enforcement afterward.
And the king had not yet finished.
"Nor need we trust one ledger alone. There will be the inventory first declared by the ship’s captain, the figures recorded by the king’s scales, and a separate record of coin received by the customs office."
Qoren nodded slowly.
"You mean that they should be compared against one another?"
"Why should they not be?" Aerys said, as if it were obvious. "If one differs, we investigate."
Tywin’s fingers stopped upon the table.
Strange.
It was not yet a conclusion.
He merely remembered.
The king continued.
"And some portion of the additional coin gathered in this fashion should be spent back upon the harbor."
Lucerys responded at once this time.
"A fleet, Your Grace?"
"Fleet is too grand a word. Great warships should not be needed to catch smugglers. A few small, quick vessels can patrol between the mouth of the Blackwater and the docks."
Lucerys considered that for a moment.
"Considering the winds and currents, shallow-draft craft would be better."
"That is for you, as Master of Ships, to judge."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Aerys turned his attention to Symond.
"We shall increase dock security as well. Reinforce the Gold Cloaks somewhat, if needed."
"You would increase the Gold Cloaks?"
"King’s Landing is the face of the Seven Kingdoms. If more gold enters through its harbor, yet warehouses are robbed nightly and sailors stabbed in the streets, that too would be absurd."
The king tapped the table slowly with his fingertip.
"A portion of the gold drawn from the city preserves the city’s order. Better order brings more merchants, and more merchants bring more gold."
The chamber fell silent.
Tywin began matching costs against effects in his mind, one by one.
There was no need to establish a new office. The Master of Coin already had customs officers, harbor masters, royal scales, and tallymen beneath him. What was needed was merely to designate docks, reassign officials, and standardize forms. The initial cost of creating a royal mark and securing several small patrol boats would be real, but not beyond bearing.
Revenue would likely rise. Smuggling would not disappear entirely. Wherever money was involved, someone always sought to evade the rules. But a fraud that ended once silver was pressed into one official’s hand became much costlier if declarations, scale records, tax ledgers, and market inspections all had to agree.
Most importantly, the result could be measured in numbers.
Arriving ships, declared cargo, actual duties, confiscations, and the cost of patrols and guards would remain in the ledgers. One could tell whether it succeeded or failed; and even if it went wrong, the experiment ended at a few docks in King’s Landing.
It could be altered again if necessary.
Tywin looked at the king.
And returned to his first thought.
Strange.
Aerys was not a fool.
Tywin had never mistaken him for one. They had grown up together, and young Aerys had been a quick-witted boy. He grasped the heart of new ideas swiftly, read the currents between people, and knew how to charm them. Those abilities had not vanished when he became king.
Had he been wholly incapable, he would have been easier to manage.
But Tywin had never considered his old friend more intelligent than himself.
There was no reason to.
Aerys possessed a quick mind.
Tywin possessed a quick mind, and the habit of following a thought to its end.
The difference between the two was not small.
Above all, Aerys’s ideas had long possessed a certain shape. They were always grand, dazzling, the sort that made those who heard them lift their heads.
He would subdue the Stepstones.
He would raise a new Wall beyond the Wall.
He would build cities.
He would raise a fleet greater than Braavos’s.
He would bring water into Dorne’s deserts and make forests there.
Aerys’s eyes shone when he spoke of such things.
They were dreams suited to a king.
Grand.
Magnificent.
Easy for later generations to tell tales about.
And the numbers, men, and coin required afterward were generally calculated by others.
In many cases, by Tywin himself.
But today’s proposal was different.
It was small.
Not in a bad sense.
Small in the precise sense.
At one harbor, designate several docks. Use existing officers and existing taxes to weigh, record, and compare different ledgers. Spend a portion of increased revenue on enforcement and security, observe whether it works, then determine the next step.
It connected from beginning to end.
It seemed less like a dream the king had conceived upon waking one morning than an idea someone had already turned over in hand.
Where did the coin come from?
Where was it spent?
Where did people cheat?
What needed recording?
Someone had already asked those questions.
At that moment, Aerys said, "Once it has settled in King’s Landing, we could use the same method at Dragonstone."
Tywin’s thoughts stopped.
The king was growing more pleased with himself.
"Then at the other ports of the Crownlands. In a few years, we might establish the same system at every major harbor."
"Your Grace."
Tywin interrupted for the first time.
Aerys looked at him.
The eyes of the others in the chamber naturally turned to the Hand as well.
Tywin’s voice was low.
"It would be best to implement it first in King’s Landing alone."
Some small measure of enjoyment left Aerys’s face.
"Why?"
"We can assess the first year’s results."
"A whole year?"
"A year will show seasonal changes in trade volume. We can learn how much revenue truly rises, what security costs, whether merchants divert their routes to other ports, and whether smuggling truly decreases."
Tywin spoke without wavering.
"If Your Grace expands it to other ports afterward, you will proceed already knowing which method leaves the greatest profit in your coffers."
Aerys looked at him without speaking.
Tywin did not look away.
It was a restraint.
But he had not told the king to stop.
He had only suggested that before going farther, they should first determine where to place their feet.
Aerys was intelligent enough to understand the difference.
After a moment, a smile returned to the king’s lips.
"Very well."
He tapped the table once.
"One year."
Tywin inclined his head slightly.
"A wise decision, Your Grace."
And inwardly, he thought:
Yes.
This is Aerys.
Once he grasped one good idea, he wished to enlarge it.
From one dock to one city.
From one city to a kingdom.
That inclination was familiar.
Which made the origin of this first idea all the more different.
The small council continued for some time afterward. Qoren Celtigar explained which docks could accommodate the king’s scales. Lucerys pointed out waters suitable for large merchant ships and routes better suited to small patrol vessels. Symond observed that overly vague confiscation provisions would only increase disputes among merchants, while Pycelle recalled several old cases of those punished for forging royal marks.
Tywin contributed only where needed, as Hand.
Too few docks would create bottlenecks; too many would scatter officials and blur the purpose of the system. There was no need to draft a new tax schedule from the outset. Merchants would take it for a tax increase the instant they did. Nor was there reason to greatly expand the Gold Cloaks or acquire patrol vessels before increased revenue had been confirmed. Lucerys should first identify ships already in his possession that could be reassigned.
One by one.
The king’s conception took the shape of reality.
And the closer it came to reality, the firmer Tywin’s certainty became.
There is someone.
He needed to know where this thought had begun.
No.
More precisely:
It had become worth knowing.
The meeting ended.
Aerys departed with a satisfied expression. Qoren already wore the look of a man calculating how many times the harbor ledgers would need to be rewritten. Lucerys and Symond continued exchanging opinions in low voices as they went through the door.
Pycelle paused briefly at Tywin’s side.
"A rather interesting proposal."
Tywin answered shortly.
"So it is."
Pycelle seemed about to add something, then studied Tywin’s expression and closed his mouth. The old man had sat on the small council for many years; he knew, at least, when to speak and when not to.
"Then I shall see you later, my lord."
Tywin gave a brief nod, and Pycelle withdrew.
The door closed.
Several scribes remained in the room.
"Leave."
They all departed.
Now he was alone.
Tywin looked down at the notes left on the table.
Designated docks.
Arrival declarations.
The king’s scales.
Tax marks.
Ledger comparisons.
Patrol vessels.
Harbor guards.
Simple.
Simple ideas were generally harder to make than people believed.
Because one had to discard what was unnecessary.
This did not mean Aerys had failed to understand the idea. On the contrary, he had understood it well. The king had explained the original concept in his own words, realized for himself that accumulated ledgers could show not only taxes but the flow of goods into the capital, and had already considered expanding it to other ports.
Aerys was not stupid.
But it was difficult to believe he had constructed this from the beginning.
Then who had?
Tywin retraced the previous day.
Whom had the king met?
There had been the northerners’ formal audience, followed by a private meal.
He knew the attendees.
Aerys and Rhaella.
Rhaegar.
Rickard Stark and his two sons.
And Daemon Seadrake.
Tywin considered the possibilities one by one.
Rhaella was eliminated first. It was not that he thought little of the queen’s abilities, but she was not one to raise her voice at court, nor had she ever shown an interest likely to connect harbor trade and lost revenues in this fashion.
Rhaegar remained longer. The crown prince was intelligent and inclined to dwell on a single question. But his present interests lay closer to history, music, and ancient records. The notion of reducing lost customs duties by linking dock traffic with ledgers had a different character.
Brandon Stark required no prolonged thought.
He possessed vigor and appeared fearless. He might become a fine warrior.
Whether he would be a fine lord was not yet known.
But this was not his work.
Eddard was quieter than his brother, and had an eye for observing his surroundings. Those were not poor qualities in a lord.
Still, not him.
Two names remained.
Rickard Stark.
And Daemon Seadrake.
Tywin considered the Warden of the North first.
Rickard Stark was no fool.
Quite the contrary.
Tywin did not value men highly merely because they spoke little, nor did he dismiss them merely because they spoke much. He judged ability by results.
Rickard had results.
The North was vast.
So vast that many southern lords spoke of it as though it were a single holding without truly comprehending its immensity. To rule that broad land through great distances, harsh winters, and disparate vassals without grave disorder was itself enough to make Rickard worthy of estimation.
He did not flatter.
Yet neither was he so blunt as to offend the king.
He knew his station.
Even yesterday, Aerys had rather enjoyed speaking with Rickard.
So the possibility existed.
The king had spoken of his reign, and Rickard had offered one practical proposal.
There was nothing impossible about it.
But Tywin looked again at the notes.
Scales.
Ledgers.
Comparing separate records.
Existing institutions.
Leakage.
Measurable results.
No.
Not because it was impossible.
Its character was different.
Then only one name remained.
Daemon Seadrake.
Tywin did not immediately draw his conclusion.
First, he divided what he knew.
Fact.
Rumor.
Conjecture.
The three should never be mixed.
Tywin disliked rumors. Men liked to fill spaces they did not know with stories, and the more entertaining the story, the faster they believed it. Let a child read early and they called him a genius. Let him wield a sword tolerably well and they named him a talent greater than the Dragonknight. Let him produce a few unusual ideas and, within years, they believed the child had achieved far more than he truly had alone.
Thus Tywin placed no value on phrases such as "the North’s genius" or "a rare prodigy."
Rumors were cheap.
They cost nothing to speak.
Results were different.
Glass from the North was truly being sold across Westeros and had shaken the market enough that Myr had complained to the Crown on several occasions. The heating system had spread little by little beyond the North into southern castles and manors, while Campbell had become a liquor Aerys requested personally.
The last was evidence especially difficult to dispute.
Reports also continued to arrive that Sea Dragon Point was no longer as it had been only a few years earlier. Roads had been built, a harbor and workshops established, and even the method by which glassmaking was shared with other northern lords was no mere favor. They paid a price to learn the craft, built workshops upon their own lands, and as a result gained revenue in their own domains.
And yesterday.
The king had summoned Rickard Stark and Daemon Seadrake.
They had not been the only ones to come to King’s Landing.
Members of several northern houses had traveled south as well: Manderly, Mormont, Ryswell, Umber, and others. There was no reason to think they had all come for Daemon alone. Each would have had business in the south.
But it was clear enough that they did not regard the boy as an outsider detached from themselves.
That too was a result.
Tywin recalled the moment in the great hall when he had properly seen the boy for the first time.
Twelve years old.
A build that made one look again even after knowing his age.
But such things did not matter.
Being tall did not make a man intelligent.
What mattered was the king’s response.
Aerys had taken to the boy quickly.
Excessively so.
Even while discussing the Myrish envoy, he had spoken Seadrake’s name with pleasure, sent an invitation himself, and repeated his questions in the great hall. He had even spoken aloud of what it might have been like had he possessed a daughter.
Tywin knew that Aerys himself likely attached no great meaning to that remark.
It did not matter.
The king’s favor did not become slight merely because the king bestowed it lightly.
The king’s mood was part of politics as well.
It was enough that, seeing the child, Aerys had for even a moment considered him someone fit to stand near his own family.
That was why Tywin had looked at the boy once more.
When the king asked the meaning of his hair colors, Daemon had answered admirably.
But what followed had been more interesting.
When Aerys asked whether he had dyed his hair with that meaning in mind from the first, the boy had said no.
At first, he had chosen it simply because the two colors looked good together.
Though he had been given a chance to claim as his own the story the king had already liked, he did not take it.
Most courtiers did the opposite.
Once the king granted meaning to their words, they claimed that meaning had been theirs from the beginning. The more clever among them added loyalty and destiny to it as well.
The boy had not.
Yet neither had he soured the king’s mood.
At the time, Tywin had thought only that he possessed considerable wit for one his age.
Nothing more.
Until now.
If the idea Aerys had brought this morning had come from Daemon Seadrake as well, matters changed.
A twelve-year-old saw the flow of cargo through a harbor and thought of lost customs revenue. He sent goods through limited channels, kept records through scales and multiple documents, and compared them. He used the increased revenue to cover part of enforcement costs.
That alone was excessively clever.
But the truly interesting part lay elsewhere.
The king did not name the source.
Aerys was not one to hide another’s entertaining story without cause.
Especially when he was in high spirits.
If Rickard had conceived the idea, all he needed to say was, "Stark said something interesting." If Daemon had said it, he might have taken even greater pleasure in telling it.
"That young lord had this thought."
Aerys could easily have said as much.
Yet the king had not named the source from beginning to end.
Why?
There were several possibilities.
Aerys might simply have taken credit for it himself. He was king. Who would question him?
But for the Aerys Tywin knew, there was little reason to do so.
There was another possibility.
The speaker had asked for his name to be omitted.
Tywin tapped the table once with his finger.
Last night’s meal had been private.
The king had decreed it so himself.
There had been no scribes.
It had not been formal counsel.
The words exchanged there did not yet belong to the court.
Then:
A promise.
Or some similar line.
If Daemon Seadrake had offered the king that idea and yet had the fact that he said it remain buried at the table, then what the twelve-year-old had shown was not mere intelligence.
He knew his thoughts had value.
He knew the king would like them.
Yet he did not demand credit.
Why?
Had he judged that he did not need to attach his own name in order to gain the king’s favor?
Or had he calculated that the attention gained by attaching his name would cost more than it was worth?
Neither possibility could be lightly dismissed.
Tywin made a very soft sound.
"Hm."
He did not believe rumors.
Still.
He did not believe the word genius.
Not yet.
But the question had changed.
Was Daemon Seadrake truly a genius?
Rather:
How much does he know?
About himself.
About people.
About power.
And:
How well can he conceal it?
All reasoning remained hypothesis until tested.
Tywin despised those who mistook hypotheses born in their own minds for facts.
So he would verify it.
Personally.
He rose, and opened the door.
The knight outside straightened.
"Send for a scribe."
A young scribe entered shortly afterward.
"You summoned me, my lord?"
"What is Lord Seadrake’s schedule today?"
"As far as I know, he has no formal appointments. The other northern lords have engagements of their own, but Lord Seadrake—"
"Confirm it."
"Yes, my lord."
When the scribe returned not long afterward, his face was slightly troubled.
"My lord."
"Speak."
"It seems Lord Seadrake has already left the castle."
Tywin’s eyes rose slightly.
"When?"
"Early this morning."
"Where?"
"It appears he went down into the city."
Tywin was silent for a moment.
Having no formal schedule and having no schedule at all did not mean the same thing.
"Tell him when he returns."
The scribe raised his quill.
"Shall I tell him to come to the Tower of the Hand?"
"No," Tywin said. "Tell him he is invited."
"Yes."
A beat.
"He is the king’s guest."
"Understood."
"If he asks what I wish to discuss—"
Tywin returned to his desk.
"Tell him to use his judgment."
The scribe bowed and departed.
Tywin reopened the harbor report he had marked that morning.
Ship numbers had increased.
Customs revenue had not increased by the same measure.
He looked down at the paper.
Interesting.
To Tywin, interesting was not the same as pleasing.
Usually, it meant something had become worth examining more closely.
# *
That same morning, Daemon Seadrake was reaching an entirely different conclusion.
This will not do.
Lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling for several seconds.
The plan he had devised before sleeping last night.
The ultimate skill of a Korean Army sergeant honorably discharged at the end of his service.
Cloaking.
If the king did not summon him, he would not go near the king.
Keep far from the Hand.
If he saw the crown prince, greet him and pass on.
To court nobles: yes, no, I do not know.
Three phrases were enough.
Before he slept, he had thought it a perfect plan.
But after waking and thinking with a clearer mind, he found one fatal problem.
I already stood out like fucking mad.
The king had invited him personally and showered him with questions in the great hall. His red-and-black hair had led to talk of Blackfyre, Aerys liked Campbell, and Myr had even sent envoys over glass he had made. Northern lords had come south in droves. Last night, he had even shared a private meal with the royal family.
And there, he had gone and tossed out an idea for no reason.
Daemon sat upright.
How the hell am I supposed to cloak now?
A young lord with red-and-black hair and a build no twelve-year-old ought to have, walking through the heart of the Red Keep while claiming to be invisible.
Even in the army, camouflage worked only when one blended into one’s surroundings.
That left one method.
If I’m not in the Red Keep, problem solved.
It was an entirely reasonable conclusion.
If cloaking was impossible, he only had to move beyond detection range. It was not wholly incorrect by the standards of modern military science, either.
King’s Landing was large.
It had many people.
And one thing he had definitely confirmed while walking the Street of Steel the previous day:
There was a fucking lot of stuff.
Daemon needed more of it.
Right.
I just need to stay out of the castle all day.
If the king sought him?
Not there.
If a noble sought him?
Not there.
If the crown prince came out for a walk?
Even less there.
The Hand?
One of the busiest men in the Seven Kingdoms was hardly going to chase him all the way to the market.
Daemon’s mood improved slightly.
Perfect.
And twenty minutes later, Raymund stood before his door, staring at him in disbelief.
"Chew."
"Mm."
"I said chew what is in your mouth."
Instead of replying, Daemon worked the bread in his mouth. He still held two more pieces in one hand.
He had no intention of sitting at a table and leisurely eating breakfast.
Wash.
Dress.
Take coin and notes.
Grab bread.
Done.
Daemon swallowed his last bite.
"There’s no time."
Raymund looked out the window once.
The sun had only just begun to rise.
"Is someone chasing you?"
"I’m running before they do."
"From whom?"
Daemon looked at Raymund for a moment.
"Everyone."
Raymund did not answer.
He only looked at him as if to say:
Here we go again.
Daemon also assigned several soldiers he had brought from Sea Dragon Point to accompany him. No matter how smart he was, he would die if someone drove a blade into his belly. A young lord carrying money through the alleys of King’s Landing with only one guard was not a good idea.
Thus, before the morning sun fully lit the walls of the Red Keep, Daemon Seadrake vanished beyond the castle.
He assessed it as:
Operation successful.
A few hours later, Daemon understood a little better why King’s Landing was the capital.
It was filthy.
It stank.
It was loud.
The streets were narrow and the people numerous, while carts, wagons, horses, and men all moved as if the same road belonged to them alone.
But it had things.
An insane amount of things.
White Harbor was a large port as well, but this was different in scale. Southern goods came north, northern goods went south, and items unloaded from ships crossing the Narrow Sea passed through the hands of yet more merchants. Luxuries fit only for consumption in the capital mingled with miscellaneous wares whose purpose was difficult even to guess, all within a handful of alleys.
In front of one row of shops, Daemon finally muttered:
"Wow."
One of the soldiers looked at him.
Daemon swept his gaze over the shops lined before him.
"There’s fucking loads of it."
Raymund asked, "Loads of what?"
"Everything."
Spices and oils, resins and dyes, dried herbs and unfamiliar nuts, fragments of ore and strangely colored stones, foreign knives and tools, pottery and dried fruits, bark and roots, even powders of unknown nature.
No internet.
No catalogs.
No search bar.
Yet goods from all over the world were mixed through the alleys.
Daemon recalled a familiar feeling from his previous life.
...It’s AliExpress.
No quality guarantee.
Origins difficult to verify.
Scammers present.
You had to handle delivery yourself.
Medieval AliExpress.
Still, he liked it.
From then on, Daemon practically began scattering money through the market. He purchased small amounts of scented wood, dyes, resins, herbs, unfamiliar seeds and tubers, even items whose use merchants themselves could not properly explain.
Raymund finally asked, unable to bear it any longer, "Why in the world are you buying things like that?"
"I don’t know."
The old man narrowed his eyes.
Daemon was serious.
"I’m buying them because I don’t know. Buying something when you know its use is procurement. Buying it because you do not know what it is but it might have potential is research."
Raymund stared at him for a moment.
"If you are confident enough to say that exact thing before your mother once we return, I will not stop you."
Daemon’s hand stopped.
Wait.
"...It’s procurement."
Raymund did not even snort. He merely gestured for a soldier to take the goods.
Then Daemon stopped before a grain merchant.
Several sacks lay there.
Wheat and barley.
Beans.
And beside them—
Daemon reached out and placed several white grains in his palm.
They were long.
Too familiar.
When he stared in silence for some time, the merchant cautiously asked, "Do they please you, my lord?"
Daemon did not answer.
Rice.
It was real.
Fuck.
It’s rice.
He had lived nearly thirty years as a Korean in his previous life.
He had eaten bread.
He had eaten porridge.
He ate oats and barley well enough.
But plain white rice was different.
Even on an ordinary day, rice with an egg, soy sauce, and kimchi made a meal.
No kimchi, though.
Wait.
I need to find chili peppers.
Another objective had been added.
Daemon looked at the grains in his palm again.
Long and slender.
Looks like indica.
He was no agronomist.
But he was Korean.
And in his previous life, there had been a time when he read alternate-history novels like a madman. It was an era when agricultural reforms, new crops, rice paddies and irrigation, potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, and chili peppers appeared as regularly as if writers would fall ill without them.
He thought he now understood why.
Daemon rolled the rice grains between his fingers.
Well.
I can make fried rice.
Long-grain rice had its uses too.
"Do you have other kinds of this?"
The merchant blinked.
"You mean rice, my lord?"
"Yes. Shorter kinds, rounder kinds, different colors."
"Isn’t all rice much the same?"
Daemon looked at the merchant for a moment.
Right.
My mistake for asking you.
"Where are the other grain merchants?"
That, the merchant knew well. No one doing business in King’s Landing could fail to know where his competitors were.
Daemon visited two shops, then three, then four.
Raymund asked, "Do you intend to scour the entire city to buy one grain?"
"It’s important. I need several varieties."
At the fifth shop, Daemon stopped.
This kind was short and slightly rounder.
His eyes lit up.
Oh.
This looks like japonica.
He could not know whether it truly belonged to the same classification. There was no assurance that plants in this world followed precisely the same lineages as those of his old one.
It did not matter.
If they were similar, he could test them.
The long kind.
The short, round kind.
Different colors.
Different claimed origins.
He bought small quantities of as many types as he could.
He did not bother separating what he would eat from what he would plant. What grew well and what people wished to eat were entirely separate matters. Even a high-yield crop would be difficult to spread widely if it tasted terrible, stored poorly, or demanded too much labor.
It needed to grow well.
Yield abundantly.
Taste decent.
Store well.
And be cultivable with labor people could afford.
Several of those conditions had to be met before it became a useful crop.
And he needed grains still viable as seed.
After searching several more places, he found rice still enclosed in husks. Daemon picked up a handful and stripped away a hull.
The familiar grain appeared within.
"Found it."
Raymund asked, "What?"
Daemon answered seriously.
"Future meals."
"..."
"It’s important."
Sea Dragon Point had many marshes and damp lowlands. There was no reason to plant rice in soil well suited to wheat, but if rice could make use of land presently of little value because of water, matters changed.
That was a new productive region.
If it works, it’ll be huge.
If not, I just lose a little.
It was no different from how he always worked.
Plant small plots.
Keep records.
Multiply whatever survives.
After rice came heat.
"Something spicy."
The spice merchant cocked his head.
"Pardon?"
"Something that makes your tongue sting and sends heat rushing through you when you eat it."
"Pepper, my lord?"
"Not that."
He bought black pepper.
He bought something resembling long pepper too.
He bought mustard seeds, and pungent roots that cleared his nose the moment he smelled them.
Raymund asked, "What exactly are you looking for?"
Daemon could not answer at once.
Chili peppers.
Chili powder.
Kimchi.
Spicy pork stir-fry.
Spicy braised chicken.
Spicy mixed noodles.
Gochujang.
A basic civilizational right.
"A fruit."
"What sort of fruit?"
"It might be red or green."
"There are many fruits like that."
"It’s very spicy when you eat it."
One merchant showed him a dried red fruit. He tasted it and found it sour.
Not it.
The next small black fruit numbed his tongue.
That’s just pepper.
In the end, he did not find chili peppers.
More precisely, he could not be certain whether he had found them or not.
So he bought small quantities of seeds and fruits claimed to be similarly hot.
If they’re there, jackpot.
If not, I learn they aren’t.
Roots and bulbs were much the same. He passed over what he knew, such as turnips, carrots, parsnips, and beets, and bought a little of whatever he had never seen before.
Potatoes.
Sweet potatoes.
Or something similarly rich in starch and high yielding.
He did not know whether they existed in this world, or where they might be if they did.
Then he would test unfamiliar things one by one.
Seeds, tubers, bulbs, and roots began piling upon the cart.
Eventually, when even three soldiers could no longer manage it all, one of them cautiously said:
"My lord."
"Hm?"
"We no longer have enough hands to carry it."
Daemon turned to look behind him.
Grain and seeds, spices and roots, tools and unidentified pieces of wood formed a small mountain.
He thought for a moment.
"Buy a cart."
Raymund said, "Why not hire porters?"
"I’ll use it again tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"I’m going to look at animals."
Raymund looked at him.
Daemon folded down fingers as he listed them.
"Pigs, cattle, sheep, goats, chickens, horses."
Wait.
"And strange breeds too, if there are any."
Raymund asked, "Do you intend to return to the castle?"
Daemon answered as if it were obvious.
"In the evening."
So far, the operation was perfect.
The problem was his stomach.
By afternoon, the bread he had crammed down that morning could no longer do its work.
Growl.
Daemon ignored it.
Shortly afterward:
Grrrrowl.
Raymund said from beside him, "Eat."
"I’m fine."
"Your stomach does not seem to agree."
Daemon looked toward the roadside.
Then he hesitated.
A brown broth bubbled in a pot. Something that looked like meat floated within.
It was probably meat.
He did not know what kind.
The owner wiped his brow once with the back of a sweat-soaked hand, then grasped the ladle with that same hand. Several flies worked industriously nearby, while water he did not wish to identify pooled upon the ground.
Daemon stopped.
...
Every sort of street-food video he had watched countless times on the internet in his old life came flooding back at once.
Bare hands.
Unknown water.
Oil that might have been reused any number of times.
Flies.
The comment section.
Daemon turned away.
No.
I still want to live.
This was not the modern world.
There were no antidiarrheals, and certainly no antibiotics.
One bad case of diarrhea could genuinely kill him.
Raymund asked, "What about a meal?"
"I’m not hungry."
Growl.
Raymund looked down.
Daemon said expressionlessly, "It was nothing."
"I asked nothing."
"Yes. I know."
"Do not regret it later. Eat something."
"I’ll handle it myself, so stop meddling."
Raymund said nothing for a moment.
"As you please."
"I will."
The smells of food continued to follow him afterward. Fresh-baked bread, meat skewers, things fried in oil, fish, and pies all looked delicious for a moment.
Then he saw the hands preparing them, and the urge gradually faded.
Let’s eat at the Red Keep.
It was already well into afternoon.
He had wandered enough today.
He had bought many necessary things.
He had even found rice.
Tomorrow would be livestock.
Daemon looked toward the Red Keep.
This should be enough.
The king would have his own schedule.
Rickard would have engagements, and the northern lords their own business.
The Hand:
He’s the busiest man in the Seven Kingdoms, so of course he’ll be working.
The crown prince would probably be reading.
Daemon was satisfied.
Cloaking successful.
Excellent work for the first day.
The traditions of the Korean Army had worked even in another world.
Thus, wearing a slightly proud expression, he returned to the Red Keep.
And before he could even pass the castle gates and return to the area assigned to his party, a servant approached as though he had been waiting.
"Lord Seadrake."
Daemon stopped.
...Why?
That title had begun to feel ominous.
"Yes?"
"We have been looking for you."
Who?
The king?
The queen?
The crown prince?
Surely not.
"What is it?"
The servant held out a sealed note in both hands.
"The Hand has sent for you."
Daemon did not move.
One beat.
Two beats.
"...The Hand?"
"Lord Tywin Lannister."
Silence.
Daemon slowly accepted the note.
Red wax.
Neat.
Elegant.
Ominous.
He broke the seal.
The contents were brief and excessively courteous.
The Hand wished to exchange greetings with the king’s valued guest.
Once he returned, if time permitted, the Hand would like to speak briefly with him at the Tower of the Hand.
There was not one coercive word.
Daemon read it to the end.
Read it again.
Once more.
Raymund asked, "What does it say?"
"An invitation."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
Raymund held out his hand.
Daemon gave him the note.
The old man read it once and returned it.
"It says invitation."
"I can read too."
"Then it is an invitation."
Daemon looked at Raymund.
"Old man."
"What?"
"Do you think I can refuse this?"
This time, Raymund did not answer immediately. He looked over the note once more before saying:
"If you think you can."
Daemon narrowed his eyes.
"That tone is fucking ominous."
"I said nothing."
Daemon looked at the letter again.
If time permits.
Translated from the language of important people:
Come.
Daemon folded the letter.
"...How is this an invitation?"
"It is an invitation."
"There’s no choice."
"That is your affair."
Daemon closed his eyes.
The brilliant cloaking technique of a Korean Army sergeant honorably discharged at the end of his service.
The first day of operations.
"Failed."
"What?"
"Nothing."
His stomach rumbled again.
Growl.
He had not even eaten properly yet.
Daemon returned to his quarters, washed away the market dust, and changed clothes. After hurriedly eating several pieces of bread, he headed for the Tower of the Hand.
Briefly.
Politely.
Do not say anything unnecessary.
Get out quickly.
It was a very simple plan.
Daemon had already experienced sufficiently well just how faithfully such plans were observed in King’s Landing.
The Tower of the Hand was quiet.
Daemon did not like that fact.
He usually liked quiet places.
The problem was that this was Tywin Lannister’s Tower of the Hand.
Daemon sat in a chair and looked opposite him.
More precisely, at Tywin Lannister, who had summoned him and was now looking only at papers.
Scratch.
A quill scraped over paper.
Tywin read one document to the end, signed it, and pushed it aside. He read several lines of the next before his finger stopped and moved back upward.
Soon a bell rang.
A scribe entered.
"This number differs from last month’s report."
"I shall verify it, my lord."
"Verify it and bring it back."
"Yes."
The scribe left.
The quill moved again.
For the first ten minutes, Tywin said absolutely nothing.
At first, Daemon wondered whether this was an intimidating interview.
Then he changed his mind.
Two more scribes entered and left, while a lengthy petition submitted by some noble ended in a one-line order.
"Refuse it."
That was all.
Maybe not.
He looked as though he was truly working.
No.
He truly was working.
He was not pretending to read papers merely to make Daemon wait. He simply had a fucking enormous amount of work.
After thinking about it, Daemon relaxed somewhat.
Well.
He summoned me.
Tywin would speak when he had business. There was no reason for Daemon to open his mouth first and surrender another piece of information.
Daemon began organizing the goods he had purchased in his mind.
Rice.
Seeds.
Root crops.
Spices.
Tools.
Tomorrow, livestock.
What should he look at first?
Pigs?
Cattle?
Chickens?
Going to spend more money again.
He would need to sort his accounts when he returned. Why he had bought each thing, where it would be used, what should be tested first. If he recklessly started everything at once and conditions became entangled, it would be difficult to interpret the results.
Procurement.
Good.
It was procurement.
Then his stomach gave a quiet rumble.
Grrrrowl.
Daemon did not change expression.
Shut up.
There was no response from across the table.
He could not tell whether Tywin had heard it or not.
That made it more burdensome.
At last, Tywin signed the final document and set down his quill. Only after wiping his fingertips and arranging the papers neatly did he raise his head.
Green eyes turned toward Daemon.
His expression was almost blank.
Yet the sense of being watched was strong.
It felt less as though Tywin were looking at his face than measuring what lay inside.
Is he an interviewer or what, fuck.
Tywin opened his mouth.
"I made you wait."
Daemon inclined his head slightly.
"It is all right, my lord."
"You have deep patience for a twelve-year-old."
Not actually.
He could not say it aloud, naturally.
Daemon smiled suitably.
"I am accustomed to waiting."
"So it appears."
One of Tywin’s fingers rested still upon the desk.
"If I had not spoken to you, how long did you intend to sit there?"
Daemon considered for a moment.
It did not seem like a trap.
Probably.
"You invited me, my lord. I thought it proper courtesy for a guest to wait until you had finished the matter requiring your attention."
"Even an hour?"
"If you required it."
"Two hours?"
"Two hours."
Tywin tilted his head very slightly.
"Until sunset?"
This time Daemon considered a moment longer.
"I might have asked for supper."
For a moment, Daemon could not be certain whether Tywin’s mouth had moved.
"At least you did not intend to wait until you starved to death."
"I possess that much judgment."
"So you do."
It was a short exchange.
Yet Daemon was already tired.
Why does every question from this man feel like a test?
Tywin immediately moved on.
"I heard you left the castle at a rather early hour today."
Daemon’s eyes shifted slightly.
Of course he knows that too.
It was not surprising.
He was hard to conceal.
Red-and-black hair.
A body too large for twelve.
Northern soldiers.
Raymund.
Later, even a cart.
Far from cloaking, he had practically marched through the markets of King’s Landing.
"Yes."
"May I ask why?"
Courteous.
The kind of sentence that sounded as though one might not need to answer.
But Daemon had learned something since yesterday.
When an important person in King’s Landing asked, "May I ask?" they had generally already asked.
So he answered honestly.
"Yesterday, I received more attention than I expected. It was an honor beyond my station that His Grace summoned me personally and invited me to the royal table, but—"
He chose his words for a moment.
"To speak honestly, it was somewhat overwhelming."
Tywin’s eyes changed by an almost imperceptible degree.
"Overwhelming."
"Yes. In the end, I am only a young lord entrusted with one holding in the North. It is an honor that members of the royal family should show interest in me, but it is not the kind of attention to which I am accustomed."
The underlying meaning:
It was fucking exhausting.
"So I thought I would be more at ease spending this one day outside the castle, doing what I had originally meant to do."
"Walking through markets?"
"Yes."
"You bought quite a lot, I hear."
Daemon’s words paused for the briefest instant.
How much does he know?
Tywin was calm.
"It is not difficult to discover when a conspicuous foreign lord such as yourself walks the markets for hours with soldiers, then eventually drags a cart along behind him."
Yes.
Now that I think about it, that makes sense.
Daemon nodded.
"I suppose so."
"Grain and seeds, roots and tubers, spices and tools. I heard you even bought several things whose use the merchants themselves could not explain precisely."
Daemon thought inwardly:
Even that.
"A rather unusual selection for a twelve-year-old lord granted a free day in King’s Landing."
"There are many things difficult to obtain outside King’s Landing."
"And no interest in jewels or silks?"
Daemon thought briefly.
"If I buy a jewel, I may feel pleased personally."
Tywin listened.
"If a seed survives, perhaps my smallfolk may be pleased."
After saying it, Daemon reconsidered his own answer for a moment.
I didn’t say something weird, did I?
Tywin offered no judgment. He merely asked the next question.
"I heard you bought several kinds of a grain called rice."
This time Daemon grew a little tense.
Rice.
It would be troublesome to explain the reason badly.
He knew rice.
Rather well.
He had lived nearly thirty years as a Korean, and there had been that period when he read alternate-history novels like mad.
I know rice well because I was Korean in my previous life.
He could not say that.
He would be judged insane.
End of story.
So he brought out the shield he had prepared.
Yi Ti.
The great empire at the far eastern end of the world.
An emperor and broad farmlands.
An ancient civilization.
From the first time he had read books related to it, he had thought:
Isn’t this just fantasy China?
It was not entirely a lie.
He really had read books concerning Yi Ti and the East, and they had mentioned rice and agriculture as well.
He simply knew far more than those books had written.
"I read several books that came from Yi Ti."
Tywin asked, "Agricultural treatises?"
"They were closer to travel accounts or geographies. There was some discussion of farming as well."
There was some.
The rest was already in my head.
"They said rice is a grain that makes great use of water. I thought it might suit my domain’s conditions."
Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"Your domain?"
"There are a fair number of marshes and damp lowlands there."
Daemon did not need to hesitate over this part.
He had walked and ridden across Sea Dragon Point countless times. He had studied maps and heard reports; he knew where water pooled, which land turned muddy every spring, where drainage ditches were needed, and which places did not truly need drying.
"Even now, some of it is difficult to use as farmland."
"Could you not drain it?"
Daemon nodded.
"That is possible. But creating drainage and drying land to suit existing crops costs coin, men, and time as well."
A moment.
"Conversely, if there is a crop that grows well in waterlogged land, we can use conditions already present."
Land suited to wheat should remain planted with wheat.
If rice truly adapted, land hitherto of low value would become a new productive region.
That was the heart of it.
Tywin asked, "Is that why you bought so many varieties?"
"Because I do not know which will suit it."
The answer came at once.
"Is not all rice the same rice?"
"Even wheat differs from variety to variety, does it not?"
Tywin said nothing.
Daemon chose his words carefully, so as not to seem too knowledgeable.
"The growing season, resistance to cold, quantity of water required, yield, and resistance to disease may all differ. I think it dangerous to assume crops are wholly identical merely because they share one name."
Only this much.
In his mind swirled every scrap of knowledge about japonica and indica, long grain and short grain, stickiness and climate adaptation.
There was no need to say it all.
"Thus, I bought small quantities of those that appeared different and those said to come from different places."
"Will you plant all of them?"
"Some."
"And the rest?"
"I intend to eat them."
Tywin’s eyes moved.
"You?"
"I will eat them, and have various others eat them as well."
"Why?"
Daemon found the question rather strange.
"Because they are crops my people would eat."
Tywin waited quietly.
"What grows well and what people wish to eat are different matters, are they not?"
"If a lord commands it, they may eat it."
"They may."
Daemon conceded readily.
"In a famine, they might have to eat it even if they disliked it. But in times when there is no need for that, I see no reason to force people to grow and eat a crop they hate."
Daemon lightly touched the desk with a finger.
"Suppose there are three varieties. One yields the most; one yields a little less but people prefer it greatly; and the last has low yield but withstands cold. What is planted where would differ."
Short sticky rice for plain rice.
Long, dry rice for fried rice.
Oil and eggs, meat and vegetables.
I need to figure out soy sauce somehow too.
And chili peppers.
He had not found them today.
I’ll find them someday.
Daemon pressed down the Korean appetite trying to burst free in his mind.
"So I do not intend to look only at yield. We must also see whether people like it, how best to prepare it, whether it stores well, and how much labor and water it requires, in order to know whether it is truly a useful crop."
Tywin asked, "Do you do all this yourself?"
"No."
The response was immediate.
This time, Tywin’s eyes certainly moved, just a little.
"If I sat beside a field every day watching only the water level, who would perform my duties as lord? I am, after all, a lord too."
Daemon continued.
"I divide the test plots and conditions, decide what must be recorded, and leave the actual farming to people who know agriculture. Then I review the results."
"If it succeeds?"
"I expand it and recommend it."
"If it fails?"
"First I learn why it failed. If it is worth another attempt, I alter the conditions and try again."
Daemon lowered his shoulders a little.
"If it is not worth it, I discard it."
Tywin said nothing.
Daemon thought inwardly:
Why is he looking at me like that again?
"And the roots and bulbs are for the same reason?"
"Yes."
"What are you seeking?"
"I do not know precisely myself."
Potatoes.
Sweet potatoes.
Starchy tubers.
The staple cheat codes of alternate-history fiction—things that grew well even in cold land, yielded greatly, and saved people during famine.
But whether they were in this world.
Where they were.
He did not know.
"I thought it would be good to find a crop that grows in poor soil, yields reasonably well, and stores easily."
"So you bought even roots whose names you do not know."
"That is right."
"It may be wasteful."
"It may."
Daemon admitted it without concern.
"That is why I bought only small amounts, no more than I can bear."
Tywin narrowed his eyes.
"And the spices?"
Daemon paused briefly.
He asks about that too.
"That is half personal preference."
"Preference?"
"I am looking for a spicy fruit."
"What use would you make of it?"
Kimchi, spicy pork stir-fry, spicy braised chicken, spicy mixed noodles, gochujang, and ramen passed through Daemon’s mind in order.
The last was too much to hope for.
"I wish to eat it."
Tywin looked at Daemon for a moment.
"I see."
He asked no further question.
A brief silence.
Then the atmosphere changed.
"His Grace summoned the small council this morning."
Something clicked into place in Daemon’s mind.
Ah.
Here it comes.
"It concerned the harbor of King’s Landing."
Oh, fuck.
Daemon kept his face still.
Tywin explained piece by piece. Large merchant ships would first pass through assigned docks, submit cargo lists, and use the king’s scales. Tax records and marks would be left, and different ledgers compared. A portion of the additional revenue would be used for harbor security and anti-smuggling enforcement, while Aerys had even considered small patrol boats and a partial reinforcement of the Gold Cloaks.
Daemon merely listened.
It got that big already.
Of course. Throw something to a king, and he expanded it in his own fashion.
Tywin said, "It was a good proposal."
Daemon answered cautiously.
"His Grace has made an excellent judgment."
"Indeed."
He agreed too easily.
Ominous.
Tywin looked at Daemon for a moment before speaking.
"I have known the king for a long time."
A beat.
"Aerys."
Daemon thought:
I’m fucked.
"His Grace is not a foolish man. He is intelligent, and he has a charm that draws men to him."
Tywin did not disparage the king.
Rather, he stated it plainly.
"But every person has a different way of thinking."
Daemon kept his mouth closed.
"The notion His Grace presented this morning differed somewhat from the shape of thoughts he produces himself from the beginning."
Why is he so fucking quick to notice?
Daemon clicked his tongue inwardly.
Tywin did not speak around it any longer.
"Was it your idea?"
A direct strike.
Daemon briefly considered denying it.
The ending would not be good.
This man was not asking because he did not know.
He had come to verify it.
"Among the things I spoke of with His Grace yesterday, there was something similar."
"Something similar."
"Because what His Grace spoke of today includes things I did not say."
"Harbor security."
"Yes."
"The Gold Cloaks."
"That as well."
Tywin thought for a moment.
Then asked very briefly:
"Why did you hide it?"
Ah.
Oh, fuck.
Daemon cursed inwardly.
Yesterday, he had dressed it all up neatly with talk of trust with the king, a private table, and the king’s will, then buried it completely.
The king understood.
Rickard understood.
One day.
Not even one full day.
The Hand had uncovered it alone.
Why are secrets like this?
No one had leaked anything.
Tywin had simply noticed.
That was even more troublesome.
Daemon chose his words for a moment before answering.
"I do not think I hid it."
Tywin’s eyes deepened slightly.
"Then what?"
"I merely gave my opinion."
"Is there a difference?"
"I think there is."
This time Daemon grew a little serious as well.
"I can offer His Grace one direction. Whether to hear it, whether to use it, how to change it, and whom to entrust with it are decisions for His Grace."
Tywin’s face did not change.
Daemon continued.
"A ruler cannot know every matter in the world alone, nor think of every good idea himself. Is that not why he keeps people near him, hears what they know, chooses what is useful, and entrusts it to those most capable of doing it?"
Daemon looked at Tywin.
"And then moves men and coin to make a result real."
A beat.
"I think that too is a ruler’s ability."
Silence.
Daemon tried to read Tywin’s face.
Impossible, as always.
Put some UI on this man’s face, would you?
Tywin asked, "So if His Grace implements that idea, it becomes his?"
"More precisely, it becomes His Grace’s policy."
"And your credit?"
Daemon’s words stopped briefly.
"My credit?"
"You thought it. The king uses it. Revenue rises and the city changes."
Tywin’s voice was low.
"Yet your name does not remain."
Hearing the question, Daemon briefly recalled his previous life.
Papers.
Author order.
Patents.
Presentations.
Kim Jaebong.
Others taking his research, his labor, his career.
He had hated that.
Nothing had changed now.
"If it were glass I created, I would hate it."
Tywin’s eyes moved by a fraction.
"Campbell as well. If it were a technique created after spending coin in my workshops, assigning men to it, and testing it many times, I would demand my share."
My patent.
My copyright.
My money.
He would not concede that.
"But what I spoke of yesterday is different."
"How?"
"I merely offered an idea. I am not the one who calculates whether it is possible, places officials, changes laws, acquires ships, and spends the coin."
And most importantly:
It isn’t work I have to do myself.
He emphasized that only inwardly.
"If I claimed all the credit merely because the result went well, would that not be stranger?"
Tywin remained silent for some time.
"Then you seek no credit?"
This time Daemon thought a little longer.
Credit.
How could a man seek none at all?
Praise was good.
Favor was good.
Coin was better.
But there were limits.
And Daemon already knew what he had received.
"I think I have already received more from the realm than my share."
Tywin’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"Much."
"Yes."
Daemon nodded.
"I was recognized as a lord at a very young age. I was given land to rule in my own name, and a station that made me responsible for the people living upon it."
It was not a matter of course.
Four years old.
A child who could do nothing.
Yet White Harbor had accepted him, Winterfell had acknowledged him, and the royal family had ultimately recognized him as lord of Sea Dragon Point.
That was how the Sea Dragon Point of today had come to exist.
"How well I preserve that station is something I must keep proving hereafter. But I have already been given the chance."
Tywin listened without speaking.
"I have land for which I am responsible, and people who suffer if my judgments are wrong. If I do not do my work properly, there are people who endure winter more harshly."
Daemon paused to draw breath.
"And if I do my work well, there are people who may live a little more comfortably."
He did not need to call any particular face to mind.
There were people who supported him.
And people who relied on him.
That was enough.
"I have much to do merely to become the lord those people need."
Tywin’s gaze did not move.
"So I do not know that my name becoming a little more famous in King’s Landing would gain me anything I truly need."
"Even the king’s favor?"
Daemon thought a moment.
"The king’s favor is precious."
He could not deny it.
It was dangerous, too.
"That is why I do not regard it lightly. Yet I think I have already received great favor merely because His Grace heard my words once. If there comes another time when I have something to say to His Grace—"
A moment.
"If he considers it worth hearing once, that too would be great reward for me."
Tywin asked, "And fame?"
Daemon thought of the previous day.
The audience.
Aerys.
Nobles.
The royal table.
Rhaegar.
Today.
Tywin.
Fame.
Fucking exhausting.
A small, weary smile touched Daemon’s lips.
He could have fashioned a plausible answer.
Loyalty.
Honor.
His house’s name.
The glory of the North.
But if he gave Tywin such words, the man seemed likely to strip away the wrapping first.
So he simply spoke what he truly wanted.
"I would like most people to think of me as merely a twelve-year-old young lord."
Tywin’s eyes narrowed a little.
"One who makes somewhat unusual things, has a little talent for earning money, and meddles in various matters out of curiosity."
A moment.
"That is enough."
"Why?"
A short question.
Daemon thought.
Because it’s tiring.
That was the most honest reason.
But it was not the only one.
"Once people begin to expect things of someone, they begin to believe he will satisfy those expectations again."
Tywin listened.
"If one makes glass well, they think the next glass will be good too. If one improves a heating system, they believe he can solve other problems. If one holding improves somewhat, they think he can change every other place in the same fashion."
Daemon let out a soundless breath.
"But there is far more that I do not know."
That was sincere.
He possessed knowledge from his previous life.
That did not make him omniscient.
Reading many alternate-history novels did not make one an agronomist, and studying mechanical engineering did not mean one knew every technology in the world.
Most of this world’s history, politics, and culture were things he had only newly learned as well.
"If people begin to think I know more than I truly do—"
Daemon spoke slowly.
"Might I not one day begin believing it myself?"
Tywin’s gaze changed slightly.
As Daemon spoke, he considered the words anew himself.
He was right a few times.
People praised him.
He was right again.
If it accumulated so, the sense that he might be wrong would dull.
"And when I am wrong, the first people to pay the price will generally not be me."
A beat.
"They will be the people who trust and follow my judgment."
Silence.
Daemon looked down at his own hands once, then looked back at Tywin.
"So I wish to know as much as the people who rely on me need me to know, and to be as capable as they need me to be."
A moment.
"But I do not wish to make everyone in the world believe I am an extraordinary man."
That was unmistakably sincere.
"Just a twelve-year-old young lord."
Daemon breathed out slightly.
"It is more comfortable for me to remain that much."
Tywin’s face still barely moved.
Yet the weight of the silence was slightly different from before.
After a long while, he asked:
"Do you consider yourself intelligent?"
Daemon blinked once.
Wow.
I fucking hate this question.
Say no.
A lie.
Say he was a genius.
A madman.
He considered it for several seconds.
"In some matters."
Tywin waited.
Daemon finally admitted it.
"I do."
"Honest."
"Saying otherwise would be a lie."
"Then why conceal it?"
Daemon tilted his head slightly.
"Concealing something and—"
A moment.
"—not showing it to everyone without cause are different things, I think."
Tywin remained silent.
"The people for whom I am responsible need to know what sort of person I am. They must trust my judgment. They need to know what I can do and what I cannot. If they misunderstand me, I cannot do my work."
But:
"There is no reason every noble in King’s Landing needs to know precisely how intelligent I am, is there?"
The underlying meaning:
Please do not know.
"Whether someone talks over wine about whether I am a genius does not make one more sack of grain appear in my lands."
After saying it:
Was that too much?
But Tywin did not become angry.
Instead, he looked at Daemon for a very long time.
That gaze felt heavier than before.
Then, at that very moment:
Grrrrowl.
His stomach rumbled.
Silence.
Daemon’s eyelids lowered slightly.
Ah.
Fuck.
Of all times.
Tywin asked, "Have you not eaten properly yet?"
"I ate bread."
"When?"
"After I returned to the castle."
"Before that?"
A brief silence.
"This morning."
"Nothing since?"
"No."
"Why?"
Daemon recalled what he had seen in the market today.
Brown broth.
Something that might or might not have been meat.
Flies.
Hands.
Unknown water.
All the street-food videos he had watched countless times on the internet in his previous life.
How was he supposed to explain this?
Daemon spoke with great care.
"The food in the market—"
A beat.
"—appeared somewhat adventurous."
Tywin paused for a moment.
Daemon was serious.
"I judged that my stomach need not travel as far as King’s Landing."
This time, Tywin’s mouth definitely moved by the slightest measure.
Truly only a little.
Daemon pretended not to see it.
Tywin rang the bell beside his desk.
A servant entered.
"Bring a simple meal."
Daemon hurriedly said, "My lord, that is not necessary."
Tywin’s eyes turned to him.
"Speaking at length with a hungry person is inefficient."
Daemon closed his mouth.
...Rational.
That makes it scarier.
"Thank you."
The servant departed.
Tywin looked at Daemon again.
Questions still remained in that gaze.
Daemon noticed as well.
Ah.
Giving me food wasn’t the end of it.
Yesterday had been Aerys and Rhaegar.
Today, Tywin.
Daemon sighed long and deeply within himself.
He had certainly fled the castle to escape people’s attention.
Yet before the day had even ended, he was sitting before the Hand of the Seven Kingdoms, explaining everything from rice cultivation to the duties of a ruler, and confessing what sort of lord he wished to remain.
The cloaking of a Korean Army sergeant honorably discharged at the end of his service was, thus far, failing miserably.
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