Development

The first month of development began amid dirt, sweat, and doubt.

Leon divided the thirty-seven farmsteads into five districts, each with a "headman" elected by the farmers themselves.

The headmen were responsible for organizing labor in their districts, recording output, and reporting directly to Maester Loomis.

Roadbuilding began with the simplest tools:

The farmers' own hoes and shovels, flat stones gathered beside the river, mats woven from reeds, and the first batch of lime Leon had directed them to burn.

Leon directed the workers to deepen the drainage ditches on both sides of the road and lay down reed mats, mix the excavated earth with crushed limestone and river sand, then add a layer of gravel brought from the edge of the Kingswood and ram it solid with massive stones.

At first, Ser Oswell watched coldly with his arms folded, but when he saw the dwarf child pinpoint an inadequately angled section of compacted roadbed and predict that "it will collapse in the next heavy rain," his eyes narrowed.

Three days later, the spring rain arrived on schedule, and only the section reinforced according to Leon's instructions remained undamaged.

Ser Barristan Selmy took a more active part. He removed his white cloak, changed into coarse clothes, and personally demonstrated how to swing a pickaxe with less effort.

His sense of honor would not allow him to stand idle during this bout of "honest labor to improve the lives of the common people."

Thea and Sandor were Leon's shadows.

Thea stayed alert to anyone who approached, while Sandor's very presence served as a deterrent.

The silent giant of a boy could lift with one hand a stone that took two strong men to carry.

Before long, trouble came again.

At night, a batch of timber stacked beside the worksite.

Twenty fine oak logs, painstakingly hauled from the edge of the Kingswood, vanished.

Only a few broken branches and disordered footprints remained.

"Stolen." Maester Loomis's face was livid. "Worth at least forty silver stags."

Leon crouched to examine the footprints.

The [Eye of Insight] caught the details:

The footprints led southeast, disappearing into the woods downstream along the Wendwater. These were no ordinary farmers.

The boot soles were new and bore horseshoe marks.

"Nobles downstream." He stood. "People from House of Wendwater, or men they hired."

Oswell drew his sword. "I'll go get it back."

"You won't get it back." Leon shook his head. "They've already hidden the timber. But we can let them know that stealing comes at a price."

He turned to Loomis.

"Write a politely worded letter to the Earl of Wendwater: the Wendwater tax collector thanks his lordship for his 'interest' in the project, and encloses a list of the timber, asking whether he would like to purchase it at market price. If so, we can deliver it to his door.

"If not, we will ask the Kingsguard to assist in investigating the theft. After all, stealing supplies for a royal project is tantamount to treason."

Loomis's eyes lit up. "This letter will leave him squirming."

On the third day after the letter was sent, the timber quietly returned.

It was stacked beside the worksite, every log accounted for. A note was attached: "A misunderstanding. The servants did not know better. Please pursue the matter no further."

Leon handed the note to Oswell.

Oswell glanced at it and grinned. "You're even more ruthless than your father. You kill without drawing blood."

"This is only the beginning," Leon said.

On the twelfth day, the workers went on strike.

When Leon reached the worksite that morning, he found no one there.

Only tools lay scattered on the ground, and the firepit was still smoking.

Maester Loomis hurried over, his expression grave. "Young master, someone has been stirring them up. Several strangers were wandering around the villages last night, saying the meat and coppers you promised were all lies, and that once the road was finished, you would turn on them and make them work for nothing.

"They also said you were a dwarf, a child of curses, and that working for you would bring divine punishment."

Leon was silent for a moment, then said, "Go fetch all the headmen. Also, have Thea take some people to guard the village entrance. If anyone tries to flee, stop them, but hurt no one."

Half an hour later, the five headmen stood trembling outside the tax office.

They kept their heads lowered, afraid to look at Leon.

Leon walked up to them, his voice calm. "Do you believe what those people said?"

Silence.

The oldest headman, Old Tom, raised his head, his cloudy eyes filled with shame. "My lord, it's not that we wanted to stop... it was those threats... they said if we kept working, they would come burn our crops at the autumn harvest..."

"Who are they?"

"I... I daren't say."

Leon looked at him, his pale violet eyes utterly still.

"Old Tom, your thatched cottage leaks. Last winter, your grandson nearly froze to death.

"Tell me, are you willing to give up the chance to repair your home and eat your fill for those people hiding in the shadows?"

Old Tom opened his mouth but could find no words.

Leon turned to them all.

"There will be no work today, but your wages will still be paid. The meat will still be cooked. Go home and tell the people threatening you this.

"The Wendwater tax reform is the king's command, and I am the tax collector appointed by the king. Anyone who dares touch your crops is touching the king's taxes. The swords of the Kingsguard will teach them the consequences."

He paused.

"I'll still be waiting for you at the worksite at sunrise tomorrow. Everyone who comes will receive two extra coppers."

At sunrise the next day, everyone was there.

Old Tom knelt before Leon, tears streaming down his aged face. "My lord, we were blind... you truly want what's best for us."

Leon helped him up. "Don't kneel. Go to work."

In the crowd, that same young man missing two fingers was the first to pick up a pickaxe.

As the days passed, Oswell Whent's patience wore thinner.

He could not bear these slow, tedious days steeped in the smell of earth.

He began finding fault, criticizing the guards' stances and complaining about the coarse food.

"We're Kingsguard, not foremen!" he complained to Barristan after drinking one day. "Did His Grace send us here just to watch these workers move stones? I'd rather go into the Kingswood and cut down a few bandits!"

Barristan answered calmly, "There is more than one way to protect the realm, Oswell. When the people have enough to eat, the roads are clear, and taxes are fair, there are fewer sparks of rebellion."

Oswell scoffed, but said nothing more.

Yet whenever he passed the worksite, he deliberately rode over the newly built roadbed, leaving deep hoofprints.

Leon saw it and said nothing.

The next day, those hoofprints were filled in and tamped down again.

Oswell rode over it again, and Leon filled it again.

The fourth time, Oswell reined in his horse and looked down at the small figure. "Aren't you angry?"

Leon looked up, his pale violet eyes as calm as a well. "What you're damaging, ser, took my laborers time to build. Every time you ride over it, the dock's completion is delayed by a day.

"You're eager to return to King's Landing, ser. So am I. So keep riding over it, and I'll keep filling it in."

Oswell stared at him for a long time, then suddenly burst out laughing.

"Interesting." He dismounted and tossed the reins to Sandor. "I'm not riding today. I'll move stones with you."

After that, Oswell never rode over the roadbed again.

Late one night, two months later, Tyrion arrived.

Wrapped in a thick cloak, he rode in an inconspicuous freight wagon like a little thief sneaking out.

The brothers met on the second floor of the tax office, with Loomis keeping watch downstairs.

"King's Landing is like a pot about to boil."

Tyrion swallowed a large mouthful of wine and lowered his voice. "The Mad King is growing more and more obsessed with wildfire. The Alchemists' Guild is working day and night. Varys's Little Birds are everywhere, but our 'fool' has a few of his own now."

He drew a roll of closely written paper slips from inside his clothes.

The results of the intelligence network Pudding Face had established:

A minister's secret lover, an unusual increase in ships from Braavos, irregular spending from the royal treasury...

"Pudding Face is a genius."

Tyrion said, "He's now an 'invisible man' in half the Red Keep. But he needs more money."

Leon took a heavy leather pouch from a drawer. "Two months' surplus from the Wendwater. Not much, a hundred gold dragons. Tell him to focus on two people:

"Chelsted, the Master of Coin, and Prince Rhaegar."

Tyrion accepted the purse, his joking expression fading. "Are we really going to Harrenhal?"

"We have to." Leon looked out the window. "I have a feeling something momentous will happen there."

He turned to Tyrion. "Until spring begins (the seasons in the Ice and Fire setting are relatively long, especially during the long summer), I'm leaving King's Landing to you. Keep an eye on our 'fool,' and look after yourself too."

Tyrion grinned, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "Don't worry. You're the one who needs to be careful."

He swirled his wineglass. "Oh, how are things here? I heard there was a strike, and someone stole timber?"

"All resolved." The corners of Leon's mouth lifted slightly. "Now the villagers report strangers as soon as they see them. Yesterday, Old Tom even caught a spy from downstream, tied him up, and brought him to the door."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Bought their hearts?"

"Not bought," Leon said. "Made them believe they can eat their fill by following me."

Tyrion was silent for a moment, then suddenly said, "Father... his lordship hasn't been pleased with me this past month. Without you there, he always finds me displeasing. You should hear the vicious things he says..."

Leon looked at him and said softly, "Tyrion, you're braver than I am. You have to face him every day. All I have to face is dirt."

Tyrion froze for a moment, then laughed. "Are you trying to comfort me?"

"It's the truth."

That night, the brothers talked until well past midnight.

When Tyrion left, dawn had yet to break.

Leon stood at the window, watching the wagon disappear into the morning mist.

Thea said softly, "Young Master Tyrion asked me to tell you: 'Tyrion will always be Leon's elder brother. One day, he'll make everyone in the Seven Kingdoms know it.'"

Leon did not turn around. He merely gave a quiet "Mm."

In the second month, construction shifted its focus to the dock and warehouses.

The old dock had to be rebuilt entirely.

Leon spent an entire day crouched beside the river with the others, using the [Eye of Insight] at full strength to analyze the current, riverbed, and waterline.

Finally, he chose a stony beach a hundred yards upstream.

"The riverbed is harder, the current is gentle, and the hills behind it block the wind. We'll build the new dock here."

He designed the structure himself:

Two tiers of piles, with tar-soaked oak for the lower tier and lighter pine for the upper.

The platform extended twenty feet over the river, enough to berth river barges and small to medium-sized seagoing vessels.

The timber came from the Kingswood, but required the king's permission.

Leon wrote a carefully worded application, attaching comparative accounts of the labor saved through roadbuilding, and sent it to King's Landing after having Ser Barristan Selmy review it.

Three days later, the king's permission came back with astonishing speed.

It was not formal authorization to fell trees, but a vaguely worded "special dispensation for Leon Lannister to make reasonable use of unclaimed remnant timber on the fringes of the Kingswood for the needs of tax-related works."

Aerys added a note in his own hand:

"Once the dock is finished, tell Little Leon I want to hear whether there are stories of magic hidden in the growth rings of those remnants."

Leon stared at the parchment in silence for a long time.

The Mad King's "interest" was a double-edged sword, cutting through obstacles while binding him more tightly.

On the day the dock's foundations were laid, people from nearly every farmstead came to watch.

When the first massive oak pile was driven into the riverbed, cheers erupted from the crowd.

Old Tom squeezed his way to Leon, his voice choked. "My lord, I've lived fifty years, and this is the first time I'm about to build a dock with my own hands. Someday my grandson will be able to moor a boat here too..."

Leon patted his arm. "There will be more in the future."

Meanwhile, excavation had begun for the warehouse foundations. The limestone deposit Leon had discovered proved useful.

Earthen lime kilns were built on the riverbank, and when the first batch of quicklime was produced, Maester Loomis's ledger gained another entry for "potential sideline income."

But the real trouble was on the river.

It was a moonless night. Thea suddenly knocked at the door. "Young master, a suspicious vessel has been spotted by the river. It isn't a fishing boat. It has no lights and has been lingering outside the river mouth for half an hour."

Leon hurried to the dock with her.

Barristan and Oswell were already there.

"At least two people." Barristan crouched to examine the footprints. "Their boot soles are very new. They aren't locals. They looked at the dock's foundations, the location of the warehouses, and..."

He paused and looked at Leon.

"They also explored the direction in which you stand by the river looking out to sea every day."

Leon's heart tightened.

Oswell stared at him. "You want to go to sea. Why?"

Leon was silent for a moment, then chose a partial truth:

"If the Wendwater is to endure, it can't rely solely on farming and lime. I need to find new trade routes. Going to sea is only a matter of time."

"Now is not the time." Barristan shook his head. "The dock won't be usable for at least another two months. Besides, the Stepstones have been unsettled lately...

"There are reports that certain pirate ships are searching for something, and it isn't merchant ships."

Leon's breath caught slightly.

They're looking for dragon eggs.

But he suppressed the stirring within him and said calmly, "I understand. Going to sea can wait until after the autumn harvest."

That night, he added another mark to the sea chart. The waters where the suspicious vessel had appeared lay south of the wreck's location marked by Pudding Face.

Someone on the opposite shore was looking for the same thing.

In the third month, spring plowing began.

The newly introduced wheat seed from the Westerlands had been sown, with simple waterwheels in use.

Tyrion had helped design these.

It turned on a tributary of the Wendwater, channeling water up to the higher dry fields.

For the first time, the fields showed true greenery.

The last plank had been laid on the dock platform.

The warehouse had been roofed, and the first batch of lime had been bagged, ready to be shipped to King's Landing.

In Maester Loomis's ledger, the figures kept changing:

Previous average annual tax revenue: 120 gold dragons

Projected tax revenue this quarter: 200 gold dragons (taxes halved because road construction occupied the labor force)

Projected tax revenue after the autumn harvest: 500 gold dragons

Grain yield: up thirty percent from last year (new wheat variety)

Sideline income: lime, wild ginger powder, preserved game; projected annual income of 200 gold dragons

Local employment: 45 permanent hired hands, 120 seasonal laborers

Looking at these figures, Leon felt a trace of reassurance for the first time.

That evening, Old Tom came to the tax office with several village headmen.

They carried a whole roasted sheep and some poor-quality ale they had brewed themselves.

"My lord," Old Tom said, rubbing his hands uneasily, "we know you lack for nothing, but we raised this sheep ourselves and brewed the ale ourselves... We'd like you to do us the honor of celebrating the completion of the dock foundations."

Leon paused in surprise.

Behind him, Thea said softly, "Young master, this is their way of showing their appreciation."

Leon nodded and stepped out of the tax office.

A bonfire was already burning in the clearing.

Nearly everyone in the village had come.

Men, women, and children sat around the fire, wearing smiles he had never seen before.

The young man missing two fingers was the first to stand. He stammered, "My lord, I... I used to hate everyone who collected taxes. But you're different. You've given us enough to eat."

Old Tom's grandson, a little boy of six or seven.

He squeezed his way in front of Leon and looked up to ask, "My lord, can I go to sea with you when I grow up?"

Leon looked at him and suddenly smiled.

"You can," he said, "as long as you learn to read and do sums."

The little boy nodded vigorously.

That night, Leon sat beside the bonfire, eating coarse roast mutton unlike anything he had ever eaten and drinking sour, astringent ale.

Thea and Sandor sat beside him, and the villagers had drawn Barristan and Oswell over to sit down as well.

Oswell took a great swig of ale and suddenly said, "Hey, dwarf, I take back what I said before. This place is rather interesting."

Barristan inclined his head slightly. "You've accomplished what many others could not."

Leon did not answer.

He simply watched those smiling faces in the firelight, a feeling he had never known rising within him.

Not pride. Responsibility.

These people had placed their hopes in him.

He could not let them down.

On the third day after the celebration, Thea reported again: the suspicious ships had reappeared.

This time, there was not just one, but two.

They lingered outside the river mouth for a full two hours, then sailed southeast.

Leon stood on the newly built dock, gazing at the horizon.

Barristan came to his side. "My lord, are you hiding something from us?"

Leon was silent for a moment. "Ser, if someone wanted to find something that had sunk to the seabed, how would you look for it?"

Barristan frowned. "That depends on what it is. If it's treasure, hire divers. If it's something large, use a dragnet. But the waters around the Stepstones are deep, with strong currents. It wouldn't be easy to find."

"What if someone already knew its approximate location?"

Barristan looked at him, his gaze sharp. "Then it would depend on what he wanted to do with it."

Leon did not answer.

In the distance, the last trace of sail on the sea vanished beyond the horizon.

He recalled the intelligence Tyrion had brought:

An unusual increase in ships from Braavos. He recalled the Mad King's obsession. Recalled the red circle Pudding Face had drawn.

The game had already begun.

And he had to have everything ready before the autumn harvest.