That morning, Daemon was reminded that Raymund was not the sort of man who made allowances for another person’s circumstances.
He had stayed up all night.
He had replaced candle after candle while reading Maester Osric’s records on weights and measures.
Surely it would be all right to miss one morning’s training.
That was what Daemon thought.
Raymund did not.
"Your back."
Daemon, who had been dozing atop his horse, opened his eyes.
"I’m keeping it straight."
"It is bent."
"Because I’m sleepy."
"That is not a posture."
"I was up all night."
"Did I tell you to be?"
There was no answer to that.
That made it more irritating.
The horse ambled around the yard. Daemon was not even at the stage of riding alone yet. He merely sat atop a little horse suited to his size, walking wherever the reins in Raymund’s hand led it.
Ordinarily, it would have been nothing.
Today, his eyelids were the problem.
His head drooped again and again.
Each time, Daemon startled awake and straightened his back.
By the third time, Raymund spoke.
"Get down."
For a moment, life returned to Daemon’s eyes.
"Finished?"
"Sleep."
The life vanished from them.
"I have things to do."
"Do them this afternoon."
"I can do them now."
"No."
"Why?"
Rather than explain, Raymund slid his hands beneath Daemon’s arms.
He lifted him bodily from the horse.
"Hey."
"You look likely to fall before you reach your room."
"I won’t fall."
A yawn escaped him.
Daemon and Raymund met each other’s eyes.
"...That was an accident."
Not long after those last words, he truly did fall asleep.
*
He woke well past noon.
He was in a foul mood.
His body felt thoroughly refreshed.
That made his mood worse.
It meant Raymund had been right.
Daemon sat on his bed for some time before returning to the book he had left open the day before.
After making a standard measuring rod, he had thought he had resolved the question of units—at least for use in his own construction work.
His people would use the same ruler.
If different units came in from outside, he would convert them.
It would be tiresome, but not impossible.
He had thought that would be enough to build one stove.
Until he read a little further into Osric’s book.
Daemon’s finger stopped on one sentence.
The standard of length guaranteed by the crown during the reign of Jaehaerys II.
Beneath it were values comparing it to the royal standard under the previous king.
They were a little different.
Very little.
Little enough that a rough comparison by eye might have passed over it.
But the numbers differed.
Daemon narrowed his eyes.
He read it again.
He had not been mistaken.
He turned back through the pages.
The previous king.
A different value.
He found an older record.
Different again.
Daemon stared down at the book for some time.
Then he said, "Fuck."
The nap had accomplished nothing.
His mind was clear now, which meant he understood the situation more precisely.
That made it even more fucking awful.
Daemon was honestly furious.
He had been reincarnated in an unfamiliar world.
He had accepted that.
There was no internet.
He had endured it.
There were no mobile phones, no refrigerators, and no water when one turned a tap. He had accepted that too.
He had even grown somewhat accustomed to living without electricity.
The insane laws of nature by which winters lasted years were not something he could fix, so he had put them aside for the time being.
But did weights and measures have to be like this as well?
Why did he have to encounter a monster resembling the imperial system again in his second life?
And in an even more vicious form than in his former one.
At least the modern imperial system had fixed values in the age Daemon had lived in.
Twelve inches made a foot.
Three feet made a yard.
One thousand seven hundred and sixty yards made a mile.
Sixteen ounces made a pound.
Fourteen pounds made a stone.
Anyone encountering those units for the first time might ask the same question at least once.
Why?
Why twelve rather than ten?
Why, after twelve, did it suddenly become three?
And what grudge did the next conversion bear to become one thousand seven hundred and sixty?
Why did weight use sixteen, only for fourteen to leap out afterward?
When it came to volume, pints, quarts, and gallons formed an entirely separate lineage among themselves.
The reason was simple.
They had not been devised as a single system from the start.
Since ancient times, people had used their bodies and the objects around them as measures.
The width of a finger.
A palm.
A foot.
The length from elbow to fingertip.
A person’s stride.
The vessel used to hold grain.
The distance familiar when plowing a field.
Measures born in different regions for different reasons had survived as the years accumulated.
Then came units left behind by ancient empires, the customs of cities, and the conveniences of merchants and craftsmen.
Each had its own reason.
The problem was for the person who had to encounter all those centuries-old reasons in a single calculation.
Someone like an engineer.
Multiply by twelve.
Divide by three.
Suddenly, one thousand seven hundred and sixty appeared.
When he needed to measure weight, he had to use sixteen.
When he moved to another unit, fourteen waited for him.
The numbers themselves were not difficult.
The problem was that there was no governing principle.
More precisely, each had its own principle, but they were not the same principle.
Even so, modern yards and pounds were practically civilized.
At least a modern foot did not grow longer in London and shorter in New York.
Premodern times were different.
Cross one city boundary, and a unit with the same name might differ subtly.
The same pound could mean a different weight depending on what it measured.
There were cases where systems for precious metals and ordinary goods were separate, while grain was often traded by volume altogether.
Even the size of the vessels used to hold grain differed by region.
The king had royal rods and weights.
A city had the market’s rod.
Guilds maintained their own standards.
Lords did not readily abandon the old customs by which they calculated taxes and rents.
Westeros was not greatly different.
From Daemon’s perspective, there was one additional complication.
The king.
When the reigning king changed, the crown’s guaranteed standards were set anew as well.
Not every new king overturned every unit upon taking the throne. Some simply approved their predecessor’s standards as they were.
But when new standard rods and weights were made and certified, minute differences could arise. Some standards could also be adjusted when taxes or market systems were reformed.
The problem came afterward.
Just because the crown declared a new standard did not mean the whole realm appeared on the same day carrying the same ruler.
Royal documents in King’s Landing used the new standard.
Old contracts remained under the standard of dead kings.
The harbor at White Harbor used the measures to which the harbor was accustomed.
And a craftsman in the northern interior had the ruler used by his father and grandfather.
All of them existed at once in the same age.
Daemon looked down at the pages.
Dead kings.
Living kings.
Harbors.
Carpenters.
Masons.
Merchants.
Under the single name of a foot, value after value was listed.
"When a king dies, do they hold a funeral for the ruler too?"
It was not an exact historical expression.
But it perfectly conveyed how he felt.
In that respect, the metric system had not simply created one new ruler.
It had been a remarkably radical proposal hurled at thousands of years of human custom.
Let us just use one system.
And calculate in tens.
Tenfold.
A hundredfold.
A thousandfold.
Or, in reverse, one tenth.
One hundredth.
One thousandth.
There was no need to remember twelve, three, and one thousand seven hundred and sixty every time one changed units of length.
One merely repeated the same prefixes atop the decimal system.
It was also important that it sought to detach units from the human body or the authority of some king and bind them to a universal standard found in nature.
The early meter had sought its standard in the dimensions of the Earth itself.
It had not been a perfect attempt.
There had been errors in the surveying, and the definition had changed several times afterward.
But the idea was powerful.
There was no need to ask how many inches someone’s foot was.
It did not matter which king had died.
People and dynasties could change, and the standard remained.
Above all, calculation was easy.
For an engineer, that alone was civilization’s grace.
In his former life, Daemon had used the metric system without once considering it a special invention.
It was simply there.
To change millimeters into meters, he moved the decimal point.
Between kilograms and grams, all he needed to think of was a thousand.
It had been so obvious that he had never even needed to be grateful for it.
Now things were different.
As he converted the feet of dead kings one by one, he suddenly found himself respecting the nameless people of the French Revolution.
They had not only replaced a king’s head.
They had sought to overturn the entire lineage of rulers.
‘Revolution really was not for just anyone.’
Daemon thought it sincerely.
Then he looked down at the book again.
The previous king’s foot.
Jaehaerys II’s foot.
The White Harbor harbor foot.
The old northern foot.
"Fuck."
Civilization was far away.
And he was three years old.
Daemon took the book and went to find Valena.
She was writing a letter in a small receiving room.
"Mother."
"Did you sleep well?"
"When a king dies, does the ruler change too?"
Her pen stopped.
Valena slowly raised her head.
"What ruler?"
Daemon opened the book and pushed it across the table.
"This one."
Valena scanned the figures.
"The royal measure?"
"Yes."
"They are a little different."
Daemon’s expression hardened at once.
"A little?"
"Yes."
"Mother."
"What is it?"
"Do you know what happens if the two sides of a bridge are made just a little differently?"
Valena thought for a moment.
"They will not meet?"
"Then why call it a little?"
Valena finally laughed.
Daemon was truly angry, which made him dislike her laughter even more.
"Do not laugh."
"Sorry."
She did not look sorry in the least.
Valena drew the book a little closer to herself.
"The rods and weights used by the crown are not only for making things. They are used to assess taxes, when the crown buys goods, and as the standard if disputes arise in great contracts."
Daemon nodded.
"So when the king changes, they confirm them again?"
"Yes. They sometimes make new ones and send them out."
"Why make new ones?"
"Because a new king has been crowned."
Daemon stared at his mother for a long while.
It was an exceedingly premodern answer.
He understood the logic behind it.
He did not accept it.
"Can’t they just pass down the throne?"
Valena laughed again.
"You mean, why must they meddle with the ruler too?"
"Is that really something to be angry about?"
"Yes."
The answer came at once.
"Very."
Valena saw her son’s face and could no longer hold back her laughter.
Daemon gave up and asked something else.
"Then what do merchants do?"
"They confirm it from the beginning."
"Confirm what?"
"Whose standard it is. Which king’s reign it comes from. What is being measured."
Daemon’s eyes narrowed.
It was exactly what he had hammered into his own mind while making the standard rod yesterday.
Which foot.
Which region.
What was being measured.
And now there was one more.
Which king’s reign.
"For a large transaction, do they put that in the contract too?"
"Of course."
"What if they do not?"
"They fight."
"Then what?"
"They look for old contracts, bring out the rods and weights kept by the market, and if that still settles nothing, they go before an official or a lord."
"..."
"Why?"
"Because it is horrible."
Valena smiled and took up her pen again.
"That is why merchants confirm it first."
Daemon climbed onto a chair and sat down.
"Doesn’t it annoy you?"
"It does."
"Then how do you stand it?"
"You cannot refuse money merely because it annoys you."
Perfect.
She was a merchant’s daughter.
In the end, Daemon decided to make Jaehaerys II’s royal standard the center of his own records.
Not because it was the finest unit.
It was the one currently used by the crown, and its latest records had the best-organized comparative values.
If a craftsman from White Harbor used another ruler, he would convert it.
When he saw an old contract, he would check which king’s reign it came from.
Within his designs and workshop, he would use a single standard rod.
That was all.
For now, at least.
On one side of a slate, he made a simple conversion table.
Lengths commonly used in White Harbor.
Old northern measures.
The current royal standards.
Several weights and volumes needed for construction.
After finishing the calculations, Daemon wrote across the top of the slate.
Which region?
Which king’s reign?
What is being measured?
After thinking a moment, he added another.
Whose ruler is it?
He read it over.
It put him in a foul mood.
At the bottom of the slate, he wrote in small letters:
Fix this later.
Beside it, he wrote:
Decimal system.
He stared at it for a long time.
There was no need to restore a length exactly identical to one meter from his former life.
Daemon had no means of surveying the Earth’s meridian again.
What mattered was the structure, not the name.
Set one standard.
Divide it into ten.
Divide it into ten again.
Raise larger units by factors of ten as well.
Make the same standard used everywhere.
And if possible, connect not only length, but weight and volume as well.
The very thought cleared his head.
‘Someday.’
By then, he might have money.
People.
People who would buy the things he made.
He could even sell rulers together with his goods.
To make this object, use this ruler.
To fit these parts together, use this standard.
If he could make craftsmen accept it because it was convenient, perhaps he would not need to wait for a royal decree.
Daemon stopped at that thought.
The dimensions for the stove were still written on the slate.
"..."
There was a reality he needed to resolve before the metric revolution.
One stove.
Beside “decimal system,” Daemon wrote in small letters:
Later.
Then below it, in large letters, he wrote:
Reproduce prototype.
"Do not get ahead of yourself."
A three-year-old needed priorities.
*
The first prototype worked.
Even after the fire went out, the stone retained heat for some time.
The smoke escaped through the chimney, and after several trials and errors, backdrafts had nearly disappeared.
Even so, Daemon did not immediately call it a finished product.
Something that worked once had only worked once.
The conditions might have happened to align well.
The portions the mason had adjusted little by little through experience might have determined the actual performance. There might have been small differences Daemon himself had not recorded.
In his former life, a single good set of data had often made him more uneasy than relieved.
It had to appear again when repeated.
If possible, on another day.
With different materials.
Even when made again.
Only if similar results emerged then could one begin the next discussion.
Making one good object and being able to keep making the same object were different abilities.
The first was closer to invention.
From the second onward, it was production.
So he decided to make a second prototype.
The mason and laborers who had worked on the first were summoned again.
This time, almost no one laughed as they had at the beginning.
Only days ago, some had regarded it as the strange play of a rich family’s young lord.
But they had stacked stones and built a fire exactly as that child instructed, and the stones had truly become warm.
That fact carried more force than expected.
Of course, Daemon’s appearance itself had not changed.
A thick coat.
A scarf.
Short legs.
Whenever he walked a little too quickly where snow had piled up, he waddled.
One of the laborers saw him and laughed despite himself.
Daemon’s head turned at once.
"Why are you laughing?"
The man flinched.
"I was not, my lord."
"You laughed."
A brief silence followed.
"Because you are adorable, my lord."
Daemon’s expression soured.
"...Fine."
He could not forbid that.
"Work."
Someone behind him swallowed a laugh.
Daemon pretended not to hear.
This time, they built while recording everything from the beginning.
They standardized the rulers as well.
Every standard rod brought to the site had been copied from the same original.
One for the mason.
One for the carpenter.
One for Daemon to check with.
The last was kept in reserve in case one was damaged.
The work proceeded faster than the first time.
The people already understood the structure.
That did not mean everything moved exactly as Daemon wished.
As one mason laid bricks, he spoke.
"It would be better to make this part a little thicker."
Daemon looked at the plans and the standard rod.
"Then it will differ from the one we made before."
"Only on the outside."
"Why?"
The mason pointed to one side of the first prototype.
"Look here."
Daemon came closer.
There was a fine crack in a section where the clay had dried.
"It may widen further when the cold comes. This side catches much wind as well."
Daemon ran a finger over the gap.
It was small.
But it was there.
The mason continued.
"If we reinforce the wall a little more, it will last longer."
Daemon did not answer immediately.
If the amount of material storing heat increased, the speed at which it heated would change too.
On the other hand, if the structure cracked apart, thermal efficiency would mean nothing.
"What about the size inside the flue?"
"I will leave that as it is."
"Then only make the outside a little thicker."
"Yes."
"How much?"
The mason indicated a thickness with his fingers.
Daemon brought over a ruler.
"Not your fingers. Use this."
The mason smiled faintly.
"Understood."
That was enough.
Daemon understood engineering.
The mason understood stone.
They were not people who knew the same things.
Daemon thought about heat transfer and flow, but he had not experienced how stone and clay cracked after freezing and thawing in the North for decades.
The mason could not calculate the flow of combustion gases, but he knew by touch how a stone would split.
It had been the same in his former life.
A doctor in a design office could draw blueprints.
That did not mean he could weld better than someone who had welded all his life in the field.
The trouble began when each side believed it understood the other’s domain as well.
Daemon knew that.
Sometimes he forgot, and that was the problem.
"There. Again."
The mason stopped his hand.
"What is wrong, my lord?"
"You crossed the guide line."
"This much is all right."
Daemon immediately held out the ruler.
"We are trying to make them the same, aren’t we?"
"We are."
"Then why change it as you please?"
The mason’s face grew a little stiff.
"Stone does not all fit the same merely because it has been measured with a ruler."
"I know that too."
"Then—"
"Then tell me if it must differ because the shape of the stone does not fit. But do not simply wave it away because you think it is close enough."
The mason looked at Daemon for a moment.
Daemon did not look away.
After several moments, the mason nodded.
"Understood."
Strangely, after that, the work became easier.
If the mason wanted to change something, he said so first.
Daemon heard his reasons.
If a change was necessary, he recorded it.
If it was merely an attempt to cut corners out of convenience, he had it redone.
That was all.
The problem was the laborers.
"Why did you put those bricks there again?"
One man stopped.
"I only set them down for a moment."
"That is where people walk."
"I meant to move them shortly."
The words leapt from Daemon’s mouth almost by reflex.
"Do I have to tell you every single thing?"
Then he stopped.
It sounded familiar.
Far too familiar.
A voice from his former life followed in his memory.
Kim Jaebong.
You are in a doctoral program now. You should know this much on your own.
Must I tell you every little thing?
You need to take more initiative.
And when he did it on his own:
Why did you do it without consulting me?
Daemon’s face hardened for an instant.
‘Fuck.’
He did not want this.
He truly did not.
The laborer before him was watching his expression nervously.
Daemon closed his mouth, then spoke again.
"...Do not put things in the passageway next time. Someone could trip and get hurt."
"Yes, my lord."
"And if you are tired, you may rest."
The man looked more confused than before.
"I am all right."
"Even so, drink water."
"Yes."
Daemon turned away.
After walking several paces, he muttered inwardly.
‘That was close.’
There were times when commanding people made work go quickly.
He gave an order.
People moved.
The shape he wanted became real.
It felt good.
There were moments when he thought he could understand, just a little, why the professors in his former life had ground people down so relentlessly.
Whenever that happened, Daemon stopped himself.
At the end of that road stood Kim Jaebong.
It was not a direction he could take.
Daemon set standards of his own.
Point out mistakes.
Make people do work again if needed.
But do not humiliate them.
If they need rest, let them rest.
Pay them according to the work they do.
At the very least, he had to be different from the man he had hated so fiercely.
Of course, Valena was the one paying them.
He decided to forget that point for the moment.
*
The second prototype took shape much faster than the first.
It was not exactly the same object.
It incorporated the mason’s proposed reinforcement, and one bend in the flue that had been made more convoluted than necessary in the first test was simplified a little.
But every change was recorded.
What had been changed.
Why it had been changed.
Which dimensions had been used.
What Daemon wanted was not a copy.
It was reproducibility.
Not an identical outward shape, but similar results when built according to the same principles and standards.
There was a small problem when they lit the first fire.
A thin wisp of smoke leaked from one joint.
They put the fire out and sealed it again.
Once it had dried, they lit it again.
This time it was fine.
One area of stone near the firebox heated a little too quickly, but by checking the width of the flue again with the standard rod, they found the cause.
There was a section that had narrowed slightly.
They fixed it.
Afterward, nothing remarkable occurred.
That was important instead.
Engineering trial and error was not always dramatic.
Often, it ended with sealing a single gap.
Widening something a little.
Applying clay again.
Correcting one record.
Those small revisions accumulated until they became an object.
Several days later, the second stove was lit properly as well.
Valena came out to observe the test.
Only Raymund, several masons, and the servants responsible for firewood joined her.
Daemon did not build up the fire.
He put in an amount of firewood similar to what he had used for the first prototype.
The smoke was drawn naturally into the flue.
After a while, a slender stream of smoke rose from the chimney.
They waited.
The stones slowly grew warm.
Daemon touched locations similar to those he had checked on the first prototype, one by one.
There was no thermometer.
A human hand was not a good measuring instrument either.
It could not be called an exact comparison.
Still, he could tell whether there was a marked difference.
There was not.
They were similar.
He reduced the fire.
They waited longer.
Even when the flames inside the firebox had nearly vanished, warmth remained in the heat-storage mass.
Valena laid a hand on it.
After a moment, she went to the first prototype beside it and touched the same place.
"They are similar."
"Yes."
"Not exactly the same?"
"To know that, I would have to make a thermometer first."
Valena laughed.
"Now there is something else for you to make."
Daemon’s expression stiffened at once.
"Do not say that."
"Why?"
"The old man says it all the time too."
It was impossible to know whether Raymund, standing some distance away, had heard.
Valena touched the warm stone again.
"This one looks better."
Daemon nodded.
"The first one was to see whether it could work."
He placed his own palm on the stone.
"This one was to see whether it could work again when remade."
Valena’s expression changed slightly.
To Daemon, it was a matter of experiment.
To her, it was also a matter of merchandise.
One object that happened to turn out well could not be sold.
If every customer received a different result, there would be no business in it.
But if the same materials and method produced similar results, that was another matter.
Valena asked, "Could another mason make it?"
Daemon considered.
"If he learned how."
"Without you there?"
He understood what she meant.
Daemon did not answer at once.
"If there are plans and a standard rod, and he is taught the method properly."
Valena’s eyes became entirely those of a merchant.
"Then we can sell it."
This time Daemon smiled as well.
"I think so."
"We will have to see more clearly how much firewood it saves."
"We need to compare it."
"Still, there cannot be many people in the North who dislike warmth."
Daemon nodded at that for a moment.
It was a remarkably powerful market survey.
This was a land where winter lasted years.
There was no need to worry that demand for heating would disappear.
And then another problem arose.
Greed.
Daemon looked at the warming stove, then at the main house.
Until now, what he had done was store heat in a single mass of stone.
He ran combustion gases through a longer path.
He fed their heat into stone and brick.
When the fire went out, the heat-storage mass slowly released warmth.
It had worked twice.
Then did the heat-storage mass truly need to stand in one corner of a room?
It could be spread wide.
Beneath the floor.
Something familiar rose in Daemon’s mind.
[Ondol].
He did not know the exact designs of traditional ondol systems.
He did not know how many branches the flues of a particular era had, how far apart the floor stones were laid, or the ideal difference in height between the firebox and chimney.
Daemon was not an expert in vernacular architecture.
He had simply lived in Korea.
In winter, he had lain on warm floors.
Even after returning from military service, whenever he went home on a cold day, he had naturally sought out the floor.
It was so familiar that he had never even thought of it as technology.
But he already knew the principle.
And on a small scale, he had verified it himself.
Run combustion gases beneath the floor.
Transfer heat to stone.
Make a broad area into a heat-storage mass.
Then warmth would rise from beneath one’s feet.
Daemon called to Valena.
"Mother."
"Yes?"
"Can I tear up my room?"
Valena’s hand stopped.
Raymund slowly turned his head.
The masons stopped moving as well.
"What?"
"The floor."
Daemon pointed at the main house.
"Let us tear it up a little."
"How much is a little?"
"One room."
"Is that little?"
"Compared to the whole house."
He was not wrong.
Valena pressed one temple.
"First tell me why it needs to be torn up."
This time, Daemon explained calmly.
Rather than storing heat in one mass like the stove, he would send the flue broadly beneath the floor and heat the stones above it.
Then, rather than only one side of the room growing hot, the entire floor would become a heat-storage mass.
The heat might spread over a broader area even after the fire was extinguished.
Of course, the work would be far larger.
If it failed, the floor would have to be torn up again.
Valena listened to the end.
Then she asked, "What about the cost?"
"It will cost more than this."
"How much more?"
"I do not know."
"How long will it take?"
"I will only know after trying that too."
Valena sighed.
"There is much you do not know."
"I know the principle."
"That, I believe now."
Daemon paused for a moment.
It pleased him.
He did not show it.
Valena looked between the two stoves.
Several days earlier, she might not have permitted it.
Now, there were results beside her.
"One room."
Daemon’s eyes widened.
"Really?"
"Start with your room."
"Good."
As Daemon turned at once to leave, Valena caught him by the collar.
"It is not over yet."
Some of the joy left Daemon’s face.
"What is it?"
"Do not stay up all night."
"...All right."
"I understand that the laborers anger you, but do not curse at them."
Daemon avoided her eyes.
"I have been doing it less lately."
Raymund spoke from beside them.
"He has, in fact, done it less."
"Be quiet, old man."
Valena looked at Daemon.
Daemon sighed.
"All right."
"And do not drive people too hard."
"They still have to work."
"Making people work and tormenting them are different things."
He could not refute that immediately.
Kim Jaebong came to mind again.
Daemon pursed his lips.
"...I know."
"Do you really?"
"I do not want to become like that bastard either."
Valena raised an eyebrow.
"Who?"
"A very bad person."
"I see."
She did not ask further.
Instead, she stroked her son’s head once.
"Then go and do it."
Daemon’s face brightened again.
"I will fetch my slate first."
He soon vanished into the main house.
A moment later, his voice rang out.
"Mara!"
"Yes, my lord!"
"Where is my slate?"
"You were holding it only a moment ago!"
A brief silence.
"...Oh."
Outside, Valena laughed.
*
The laughter did not last long.
As the laborers put away their tools and drifted off one by one, Raymund remained beside the still-warm stove.
Valena did not go inside immediately either.
For a while, both watched the door through which Daemon had disappeared.
Valena spoke first.
"I know what you are going to say."
"Then perhaps I need not say it."
"You will in the end."
Raymund did not deny it.
Valena laid her hand on the stove.
The fire had nearly vanished already, yet the stones were warm.
"At first, you thought it was a child’s game, did you not?"
"Yes."
"So did I."
"Not now."
"Neither do I."
It was a short exchange.
Then neither spoke for a time.
Raymund had known the Blackfyres since his youth.
He had taught them the sword.
He had heard talk of the throne.
And he had seen countless people die because of that name.
Valena asked quietly, "Among the Blackfyres you knew, was there anyone like him?"
"What do you mean by someone like him?"
"Someone who fixes what he does not like."
Raymund did not answer at once.
A very slight smile touched Valena’s lips.
"I suppose there was not."
"They are not people who can be spoken of so simply."
"I know."
Her fingers moved slowly across the warm stone.
"I always thought people with dragon blood burned things."
Raymund looked at her.
"You judge all dragons by one man."
Valena gave a quiet snort of laughter.
"One was enough."
He did not ask whom she meant.
There was no need.
They both knew Maelys.
One of them had been his wife.
The other had taught him the sword for a long time.
"When they dislike something, they destroy it," Valena said.
"And if it is not theirs, they try to take it."
The stone beneath her palm was still warm.
"But Daemon built a stove because he was cold."
The corner of Raymund’s mouth moved very slightly.
"The laborers suffered a good deal in the process."
"That must be corrected."
"Certainly."
Valena nodded.
"Still, he made it."
Something that had not existed before.
Instead of destroying.
Instead of taking.
Valena liked that difference.
"I am glad he does not say he wants to be king."
Raymund did not answer.
"And I am glad he does not say he wants to kill anyone."
"He is still three."
"That is why I am even more glad."
This time Raymund spoke directly.
"And that is why he must know at least a little now."
Valena’s expression hardened.
"That again."
"The reason is different from before."
"How so?"
"Before, I too believed he should know because he is the last heir of the Blackfyres."
Valena’s hand stopped.
Raymund continued.
"Now, I believe he must know in order to survive."
She could not reply at once.
Raymund looked toward the main house.
"Daemon now speaks with people beyond this household. He employs craftsmen, makes things, and even thinks of earning money."
"That is why we are keeping him from attracting notice."
"How long can that continue when he himself does not know what he must hide?"
The laughter disappeared from Valena’s face.
"Are you saying we should tell him everything?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"That there may be people who recognize his name."
He paused.
"Why his hair is hidden."
At those words, Valena’s gaze wavered as well.
"He needs to know at least that much."
"He is three."
"I know."
"Being clever does not make him less afraid."
"I know that too."
Because Raymund did not argue, Valena found herself unable to say what came next.
She had still told Daemon nothing.
Maelys.
The Blackfyres.
The Iron Throne.
Why they had fled Tyrosh.
Why she dyed his hair black.
And the dark red egg hidden somewhere in the house.
Tell him one thing, and the next question would come.
Answer that question, and another would follow.
At the end of them all stood Daemon’s father.
Valena did not yet want to give that story to her son.
Raymund said quietly, "If we wait too long, he will hear it first from someone else."
This time, she could not refute him.
It was not a problem that would vanish merely because she avoided it out of fear.
Valena’s eyes naturally turned toward the main house.
At that moment, something toppled inside.
Thump.
A moment later, Daemon’s voice burst out.
"It did not break!"
Mara’s voice immediately came back.
"I did not even ask whether it broke, my lord!"
Valena closed her eyes.
Raymund listened for a moment before speaking.
"For now, it seems all right."
Valena slowly looked at him.
"You were just saying we needed to tell him soon."
"He will grow quickly, but—"
Another voice came from inside the main house.
"Mara!"
"What is it this time?"
"Is there anything to eat?"
The rigidity left Valena’s face little by little.
Raymund said no more.
He had not meant to press for an answer today.
Valena lifted her hand from the stove.
Warmth remained in her palm.
Only days ago, it had been cold stone.
Daemon had disliked that.
So he had fixed it.
As that child came to know more of the world, there would be more things he disliked.
What would he try to fix each time?
Who would welcome it?
Who would fear it?
There was no way to know yet.
After a long while, Valena spoke.
"A little longer."
Raymund looked at her.
"Let him be a child a little longer."
The old man was silent for a while.
He did not look as though he wholly agreed.
Still, at last he nodded.
It meant he would wait.
Inside the main house, Daemon and Mara were once again bickering over what sort of snack to have.
Valena listened to them.
For now.
Truly, for now.
That was enough.
Comments (0)
Please log in to leave a comment. Login or Register