Tywin stared at his son.
A dwarf he had branded a "curse" and kept confined in isolation had not only entered the Small Council.
Right under his nose, using means he did not yet fully understand, he had also completed a precisely calculated exchange of interests with the Master of Coin.
He had pried a small but intact tax domain from the king's hands.
This went beyond "demonstrating his value."
This was veering off course.
After the meeting ended, Tywin did not leave with his two sons.
He remained where he was and exchanged a few quiet words with Varys, but his gaze weighed like a cold scale weight on Leon's back as he walked toward the door.
The Tower of the Hand in the Red Keep, on the eve of Leon's departure for the Wendwater.
Tywin's summons came abruptly, but not unexpectedly.
Few candles had been lit in the study. Half the room lay submerged in shadow, and Tywin sat on the boundary between light and darkness, like a golden lion statue half concealed within layers of rock.
"The Wendwater basin." Tywin spoke in a flat voice that betrayed no emotion. "Thirty-seven barren farmsteads and one dilapidated wharf. Even squeezed dry, they would yield no more than eight hundred gold dragons a year.
What did you trade it for? Qarlton Chelsted's approval, or a passing moment of the king's attention?"
Leon stood before the desk in a respectful posture. "A starting point, Father. A foothold where I can build legally without excessive scrutiny. The taxes are the surface of it. The wharf and warehouses are the key."
"For those 'stones' you dug out of that fool's mouth?" Tywin cut straight to the heart of it.
There were no absolute secrets in the Red Keep, especially after Varys had "happened" to let certain pieces of information reach his ears.
"Though I wouldn't put stock in a fool's words, that is one possibility." Leon did not deny it. "My main purpose is to find a new outlet to the sea and a trading foothold for the Westerlands.
The mouth of the Wendwater is secluded and close to Essos. It is suitable for certain ventures that need to be near King's Landing but cannot be conducted openly in Lannisport."
After a flicker of surprise, Tywin fell silent, his fingers tapping slowly against the smooth desktop.
The sound was especially distinct in the silence, like a countdown.
"I will have Maester Loomis support you."
He spoke suddenly, every word carrying the weight of iron chains. "The necessary craftsmen and initial funds. But remember, Lannister wealth can pave your road, but that road must end somewhere beneficial to the family."
He paused, his gaze gouging into Leon's eyes like a blade.
"Do not cross the line, Leon. You know the price of doing so."
This was an exchange. The support was real, and so was the warning.
And it was colder than any words.
"As for Tyrion..." Tywin's gaze shifted to the son who had stood silently just behind Leon to one side. "He will remain in King's Landing."
Tyrion's head snapped up.
"Your 'alchemical toys' and connections with those craftsmen's guilds are more useful in King's Landing than in the mud of the Wendwater."
Tywin's tone allowed no argument. "I need you to get to the bottom of the Alchemists' Guild's affairs, especially the true scale of their wildfire production for the king and where they store it.
Furthermore, keep an eye on Earl Qarlton. Make sure every entry in the accounts for his 'pearl glaze' business can be clearly traced. If necessary, let it develop a few 'harmless' problems. We need more leverage."
A complicated emotion crossed Tyrion's face...
The excitement of being entrusted with an independent assignment, and the unease of being forced to part with Leon and carry out a dangerous task.
But he quickly reined it in and raised his chin slightly.
"As you wish, Father. I'll make the green fire in those jars as 'transparent' as His Lordship's ledgers."
Tywin frowned slightly. "Do not call me Father. First prove that you possess the value expected of a Lannister."
He tossed a small iron key engraved with a relief of Casterly Rock onto the desk, where it slid in front of Tyrion.
"There is an old archive room beneath the courtyard in the noble district. What is inside may be useful to you. Do not disappoint me."
This was both the provision of tools and the setting of boundaries.
Tyrion clenched the key, feeling beneath the cold touch of the metal that infinitesimal weight called "trust" or "use."
The Lannister courtyard in the noble district, on the day of departure.
As the convoy finished its preparations, two figures in snow-white cloaks and gleaming armor appeared before it.
The Kingsguard.
They were not merely escorts, but an extension of the king's will and a deterrent.
One was the older Barristan Ser Selmy, solemn in expression, his every movement carrying a textbook sense of honor.
His very presence was an endorsement of this "mission personally bestowed by the king."
The other's eyes were as sharp as a hawk's, with a barely perceptible smile at the corners of his mouth.
Ser Oswell Whent, renowned for his valor and somewhat humorous disposition.
His white cloak was brand-new, but the way he held his sword spoke of practical combat experience.
Ser Barristan Selmy gave Leon a slight nod. "By His Grace's command, we are to escort you safely to the Wendwater and assist you in establishing order during the initial stages." His wording was precise and beyond reproach.
Ser Oswell merely glanced at Leon, his gaze lingering for a moment on Leon's unusual height and face, then rode away laughing toward the convoy, as though assessing gaps in its defenses.
Thea silently rested her hand on her sword hilt and took a position half a step ahead of Leon to one side.
Sandor Clegane was like a vicious hound on a leash, his eyes roving between the two Kingsguard as a low growl rumbled in his throat.
Leon accepted it all calmly.
The Kingsguard's arrival had been expected. They were a halo, a protective umbrella, and a warning light.
At the Wendwater, he would have to face not only impoverished farmers and the potential hostility of local nobles, but also carry out his true plans under the eyes of these two royal observers.
"Thank you, sers."
Beside Leon, Maester Loomis spoke evenly. "The reforms at the Wendwater concern both His Grace's tax revenues and the stability of the realm. With your swords bearing witness, they will surely proceed smoothly."
Leon did not board the carriage immediately.
He turned and looked toward the courtyard's third floor.
Tyrion stood motionless in the shadow of a colonnade.
The brothers looked at each other across half the courtyard for a moment.
Then Tyrion stepped out.
He strode across the courtyard and came to stand before Leon.
He tilted his head up, his mismatched eyes showing none of their usual mockery, only an emotion difficult to name.
"Don't die," Tyrion said quietly, his voice hoarse. "I'm still waiting for you to come back and teach me to read those damned Valyrian squiggles."
Leon looked at him, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "You too. Keep an eye on that green fire, and don't burn yourself."
Tyrion held out his hand.
Leon clasped it. Two small hands, one slender and pale, the other short and strong, gripped each other tightly for a moment.
"Take care, big brother."
"Take care, little brother."
Tyrion let go and stepped back, quickly wiped the corner of his eye, then turned and walked back into the colonnade's shadow. He did not look back.
Leon climbed into the carriage.
Thea closed the carriage door and swung onto her horse.
The convoy set off, guarded by one Kingsguard at the front and the other at the rear, passing through the Iron Gate toward the Kingswood on the far side of the Blackwater Rush.
King's Landing's clamor and intrigues were left behind for the moment: his father's assessing gaze, Tyrion's actions in the shadows, the Kingsguard's silent surveillance, and the Mad King's burning anticipation deep within the palace...
All these threads were tied to that barren stretch of land along the Wendwater, and to this "cursed son" who had only just gained his first foothold.
And his first step would be to truly possess it under everyone's gaze.
Two days later, spring was coming particularly slowly to the mouth of the Wendwater.
Repeatedly soaked by winter snowmelt and continuous spring rain, the muddy ground at the edge of the Kingswood had become a black mire stretching for miles.
When the carriage wheels sank into the mud for the third time, Ser Oswell Whent finally could not hold back a curse.
"Seven Hells! This damned place doesn't even have a decent road!"
Barristan Ser Selmy simply dismounted in silence, tucked the hem of his cloak into his belt, and pushed the carriage alongside the driver.
His white cloak was soon spattered with mud, but his movements remained steady.
Leon sat inside the carriage, his [Eye of Insight] scanning the surroundings at low load.
Streams of data flowed in silently:
The soil's water content was too high, but there was a clay substrate underneath, suitable for firing bricks.
There was a limestone outcrop three hundred yards to the northeast.
The riverbank vegetation consisted mainly of willows and reeds. Another half mile west lay large stands of oak and birch.
"Stop a moment." Leon pushed open the carriage door and, ignoring Thea's attempts to dissuade him, jumped into the ankle-deep muddy water.
He walked toward a clump of dark green plants with broad leaves beside the road, crouched down, and worked the soil loose with his fingers to inspect the roots.
The tubers were thick and muddy, giving off a faint, pungent scent.
"Wild ginger." Leon looked up at Barristan as he approached. "This whole patch is full of it. The wetlands at the edge of the Kingswood suit it well. Dried and ground into powder, it can be used as seasoning, and it also has medicinal value."
Oswell scoffed from horseback. "So our lord tax collector plans to change trades and become an herb peddler?"
Leon stood and gave him a calm look. "Taxes do not come only from grain and livestock, ser. Undiscovered resources are uncollected taxes."
He returned to the carriage, took a leather notebook and charcoal pencil from his baggage, and quickly sketched the extent of the wild ginger patch.
By the time they reached the central farmstead of the Wendwater, it was the afternoon of the third day.
The so-called "manor house" was merely a two-story stone building slightly larger than the surrounding farmhouses, its plaster peeling and its roof sparsely thatched.
On the crooked wooden sign by the entrance, the words "Tax Office" had almost been worn away by wind and rain.
Representatives from the thirty-seven farmsteads had already gathered in the open space before the house.
Most were men, their faces deeply furrowed by toil and deprivation.
They stood silently, their eyes holding a mixture of numbness, suspicion, and an exceedingly faint hope they dared not kindle.
Leon did not enter the house.
He had Thea bring over a wobbly wooden table and climbed onto it so that everyone could see him clearly.
"I am Leon Lannister, the tax collector His Grace has appointed for this district." His clear voice carried through the faint chill of the early spring air. "From this day forward, the Wendwater's taxes will be paid only once!"
He unfurled the parchment decree so that those in the front could clearly see the royal seal and the Small Council's countersignatures.
The crowd stirred for a moment. Murmurs passed through it like wind through dry grass.
One bold old man stepped half a pace forward, his voice rough. "My lord... how are we to pay? Still three bushels of wheat per acre? But with last year's blight, plenty of fields didn't even yield enough to recover the seed..."
"Not by acreage," Leon said. "By the actual harvest. One bushel for every ten."
Sharp intakes of breath rose one after another. "One in ten?!" someone repeated incredulously.
"Furthermore," Leon raised his voice, "all adult men and women must perform ten days of labor for the Crown each year. But here..."
He pointed to the muddy road and dilapidated wharf. "Repairing roads, building warehouses, and reinforcing the wharf. During your service, you will receive two meals a day, with meat. Good work will earn an additional copper star allowance."
This time, even Ser Barristan Selmy glanced sideways.
A tithe was an extremely low tax rate, and turning labor service into local construction was even more unheard of.
Usually, labor service meant traveling somewhere far away to build walls or mine, with life and death left to fate.
"Why... should we believe you?"
A young man with a scarred face asked from the crowd. He was missing two fingers, cut off the previous year when he had tried to resist the tax farmer's men.
Leon did not answer directly.
He turned to Maester Loomis. "Bring out the first batch of seed."
Several Lannister guards carried more than a dozen coarse burlap sacks from the back of a wagon and untied them.
Golden grains of wheat poured out in the sunlight.
"This is cold-resistant winter wheat seed. It yields thirty percent more than the variety you currently use."
Leon scooped up a handful of grain and let it slip between his fingers. "Collect it by household. After the autumn harvest, simply return an equal amount of new grain. No interest."
Silence.
Then the first old man shakily dropped to his knees, followed by the second and the third.
It was not out of reverence, but the humility of those who, after too long in despair, suddenly saw a straw and had no choice but to clutch it.
"Everyone, get up! No kneeling!"
Leon jumped down from the table. "Register with Maester Loomis to collect your seed. At sunrise tomorrow, everyone able to work is to bring their tools. We'll repair the road first!
The road from the tax office to the wharf!"
Yet the spark of hope had barely been lit before reality doused it with cold water.
On the first day of roadwork, the spring rain poured down.
The freshly laid crushed-stone roadbed was washed into slurry.
On the second day, timber brought from the riverside with great difficulty became bogged down halfway along the muddy road, causing a delay of an entire afternoon.
"My lord, this cannot continue."
Maester Loomis wiped rainwater from his face. The figures on his parchment had blurred into a watery smear. "At this rate, we won't finish even a mile of road in a month.
And our timber reserves will last only five days. The nearest logging camp is deep in the Kingswood, but wagons cannot travel this stretch of road at all."
Leon stood beneath a hastily erected thatched shelter, looking at the mire of the worksite through the curtain of rain.
His [Eye of Insight] operated, analyzing everything around him:
The rate at which water seeped through the soil, the rises and falls of the terrain, and the limestone faintly visible on a distant hillside.
"Use woven mats as the base instead," he said suddenly. "There are plenty of reeds and willow branches along the river. Weave them into mats and lay them beneath the roadbed, then spread crushed stone on top. That will prevent seepage.
Use freshly felled timber instead. Divide the laborers into two teams, one to cut trees and one to build the road, to reduce transport."
Loomis paused, then quickly calculated on the parchment. "There are enough reeds and willow branches, but the manpower..."
"Extend the labor service to fifteen days."
Leon spoke decisively. "Tell the farmers that for the extra five days, they will receive two copper stars a day. The money will come from my private funds."
Beside him, Thea frowned. "Young master, your private funds..."
"We'll earn it back," Leon interrupted her, looking into the distance. "Provided we can stay alive long enough to finish."
On the fifth day, trouble came from another direction.
A mounted party galloped out of the Kingswood, their horses' hooves churning up the edges of the newly built roadbed.
At their head was a middle-aged knight in a gray-green coat, with three oak trees of different colors engraved on his breastplate.
It was the sigil of some minor noble downstream.
"Who is the tax collector here?" The knight reined in, his arrogant gaze sweeping across the worksite before finally settling on Leon.
A flicker of undisguised disgust crossed his eyes. "You? A... dwarf?"
Thea's hand was already on her sword hilt.
Ser Barristan Selmy took a quiet step forward.
Leon set down the wooden stake in his hands and brushed the dirt off them. "I am Leon Lannister, appointed tax collector of Wendwater by His Grace the King. What business do you have here, ser?"
The knight sneered. "I am Ham Wendwater, eldest son of House Wendwater. For generations, my family has collected royal taxes on three hundred qing of woodland along the lower Wendwater.
"Now you suddenly turn up and say our tax-farming rights are revoked? My father sent me to ask what fool with a death wish gave that order."
"His Grace the King," Leon said calmly, but every word was like a nail. "Approved by the Small Council and bearing the royal seal. If you doubt it, Ser Wendwater, you may go to King's Landing to verify it."
He drew the parchment decree from inside his clothes and unrolled it, letting the knight see the wax seal and the three-headed dragon emblem.
Ham Wendwater's expression changed.
But he gritted his teeth, unwilling to leave it at that. "Even with a royal decree, can a... can you alone manage all this land? My family has collected Wendwater's taxes for three generations. Those gleaners..."
He pointed his riding crop at the cowering peasants in the distance. "The money they owe our family isn't something you can simply write off!"
Hushed murmurs rose from the crowd.
Several peasants lowered their heads, not daring to meet the knight's eyes.
Leon took a step forward.
He stood only as tall as the belly of the knight's horse, yet when those pale violet eyes lifted, the horse actually took an uneasy step back.
"Ser Wendwater." Leon's voice was soft, yet so clear that every word seemed carved into the air. "I will not look into how much tax your family collected in the past.
"But from today onward, there is only one kind of tax in Wendwater. Tax paid to the king.
"The debts those gleaners owe you are a private matter between you and them, and no concern of mine. But after today, if you dare demand so much as another copper from them in the name of 'collecting taxes'..."
He paused.
"That will be defiance of the king's command. Your father should know the consequences well."
The knight's face turned the color of pig's liver.
His hand went to his sword hilt, but Ser Barristan Selmy had already moved silently to Leon's side, his callused hand resting casually on his own hilt.
"Ser Wendwater." Barristan's voice was as measured as a textbook example. "His Grace sent me to escort young Lord Leon and 'assist in establishing order.' If you have any questions, why not come with me to King's Landing and ask His Grace in person?"
Eddard Forrester stared fixedly at Barristan's white cloak, his chest heaving.
After a long moment, he sharply wheeled his horse around.
"Just you wait, dwarf," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Winter isn't over in Wendwater yet. Don't freeze to death."
The hoofbeats receded.
Leon stood where he was, watching the mounted party disappear at the edge of the Kingswood.
His palms were slick with cold sweat, but he did not wipe them.
Barristan turned his head toward him. "My lord, this is only the beginning."
"I know," Leon said.
He turned and walked toward the cowering peasants, his voice calm again. "Keep working. Until the road is finished, if anyone dares come here to cause trouble, I'll take responsibility."
In the crowd, the young man missing two fingers was the first to pick up his pickaxe and drive it hard into the muddy ground.
That evening, Leon sat in a room hastily put in order on the second floor of the tax office, spread out a sheet of parchment, and began to write letters.
The first was to Tyrion:
["How is King's Landing? Has the wildfire smoked you black yet? Wendwater's mud is even deeper than you described, but I've already found a way to deal with it.
"The people from the House of Wendwater came to pay their 'respects' today, and Ser Barristan Selmy turned them away. They won't let this rest. I need you to find out whether the House of Wendwater has any backers in King's Landing.
"Also, pass this matter on to Earl Qarlton for me. The pearl-glaze ore will arrive in half a month. Watch the unloading yourself for me, too.
"Take care. Wait for me to return."]
He folded the letter and sealed it with wax.
Outside the window, the Wendwater gleamed faintly in the moonlit darkness, and the torches at the worksite looked like a string of burning pearls.
He remembered Tywin's warning: "Do not cross the line."
What was the price of crossing the line?
He did not know.
But he knew he was already standing on that line.
His next step would either take him across it or bring him back.
He clenched his fists.
He would not retreat.