Taking deep root

The fever had passed.

Those who had drunk the herbal medicine improved day by day. They were still weak, but they could sit up and talk, feed themselves, and smile again.

Loomis's medicine chest was packed full.

The three large bundles of herbs the team had brought back were sorted, dried, and stored. He labeled each packet with charcoal: fever reduction, relief from vomiting, inflammation treatment. His handwriting was as neat as if he were writing a paper at the Citadel.

"Young master," he told Leon, "this will last a while. But if anyone else falls ill..."

Leon understood.

More than a hundred people were crowded onto this beach. Poor sanitation, little food, limited fresh water. The fever was only the first hurdle. There would be dysentery, malaria, diseases they could not name.

They needed a steady food supply. Their living conditions had to improve. He had to keep these people alive.

He stood on high ground, gazing out to sea.

"Norman."

Norman Hightower had grown darker in the sun these past few days, and the creases in his face looked as though they held grains of salt. He was in excellent spirits, his eyes brighter than seemed possible at his age.

"My lord?"

"This sea." Leon pointed toward the water. "Can we catch fish here?"

Norman narrowed his eyes. The sea breeze tousled his yellowing hair, and he drew a deep breath.

"Yes," he said. "More than fish. The water's dark, and there are undercurrents. There should be a trench below. Fish gather thickly around trenches. My ancestor's sailing log mentioned schools of tuna off the eastern coast of the Summer Isles. The big ones are as long as a man."

Leon raised an eyebrow. "Your ancestor recorded even that?"

"He recorded everything." Norman grinned. "Wind directions, ocean currents, schools of fish, reefs. Even which islands had pretty women. That log of mine is thicker than the Citadel's geographical records."

The corner of Leon's mouth twitched.

"Take some men and try. Fishing boats, nets, harpoons-bring anything useful. Give the catch to the sick and the workers first."

Norman nodded and turned to choose his men.

That day, three small fishing boats sailed out of Northwatch Harbor.

Leon stood on the pier, watching the boats grow smaller until they vanished between sea and sky.

The gathering team at the edge of the Rainwood was busy too.

Kojo led several islanders along the boundary Leon had marked out, carefully searching for edible plants. They carried machetes and wicker baskets, their eyes fixed on the depths of the forest and their ears pricked.

He parted the leaves of a shrub, revealing purplish-red fruit beneath. He picked one, sniffed it, and touched it with the tip of his tongue.

"Edible," he said. "Sweet, a little astringent. Not poisonous."

The islanders immediately set to work. They had seen this fruit on Jhala Island. It was called purpleberry, and could be dried for storage or boiled in water to treat diarrhea.

Elsewhere, Oswell led several older islanders in search of vines and timber. Goldenheart made good tools: hard, rot-resistant, and impervious to insects. They cut down several trunks as thick as an arm, preparing to drag them back to make pick and axe handles.

An old Westerosi sellsword followed them. He hacked clumsily for a long time, sweating profusely before he finally severed a thumb-thick vine. An islander beside him could not stand watching any longer and came over, gesturing to show him how to apply his strength.

After practicing for some time, the old sellsword finally cut through a decent-sized one. He grinned, wiped his sweat with his sleeve, and nodded to the islander.

Kojo watched from a distance, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.

The old sellsword was named Harold. The same man who had argued with him before.

As the sun sank westward, the gathering team returned laden with supplies.

Purpleberries, wild yams, ferns, several bundles of vines, and two pieces of goldenheart suitable for pick handles. Kojo had also discovered a wild coconut tree and sent someone up to pick more than a dozen coconuts.

"These are good," he told Leon. "You can eat the flesh, drink the water, and make bowls from the shells. One tree will serve us for years."

Leon looked at the coconuts and nodded.

"Record it," he told Maester Loomis. "From now on, mark every useful resource on the map."

As dusk fell, Norman's fleet returned.

All three fishing boats came back fully laden. Silver fish lay heaped like little mountains in their holds, some still flopping. The largest tuna was as long as a man and took two people to lift.

The camp erupted. Everyone gathered around to look, talking over one another. Some discussed how to eat them, some said they could dry them, and others said the bones could be made into harpoons.

Norman jumped off his boat, soaked through and beaming.

"My lord!" he shouted to Leon. "We've struck it rich! There are more fish in this sea than we could ever catch!"

He pointed out to sea. "Five li east, in that deep water, the schools are packed together! Every cast fills the net! Enough for us to eat fish every day!"

Looking at the fish, Leon felt a weight lift from his heart.

Meat. With food, people could survive.

"Roast some tonight and make soup with the rest. Everyone gets some."

The crowd cheered.

Bonfires blazed, and the tuna were spread open, their fat sizzling. Several large pots were set up, and cleaned fish were tossed in with fresh water and a little salt.

Leon had produced this fine salt by evaporating seawater in the sun. When he made it, everyone's eyes had filled with admiration. This dwarf lord seemed able to do anything.

The aroma filled the entire camp.

Rhaenys crouched in front of a pot, gazing longingly at the bubbling fish soup. Thea crouched beside her, stirring gently with a spoon.

"Almost ready. Just a little longer."

Rhaenys nodded, staring at the pot without blinking.

Leon watched from a short distance away.

Harold crouched beside Kojo with a bowl of fish soup, the two laboriously communicating through gestures. Harold pointed to the fish in his bowl and said a Westerosi word, which Kojo repeated. Then Kojo pointed at the fish and said an island word, which Harold clumsily tried to imitate. Several veterans nearby watched and laughed.

Leon walked to the shore.

Arthur stood there, gazing at the sea in the darkness.

"What are you thinking about?"

Arthur was silent for a few seconds.

"Gerold. If he were still alive, he would probably like it here."

Leon said nothing.

"He spent his whole life fighting, protecting others. He never saw a sea like this, fish like these, peace like this."

He turned to Leon. "He chose a different ending."

Leon shook his head. "That was his own wish."

Laughter rose from the distant camp. Someone had told a joke, setting a whole group laughing. Rhaenys's laughter was among theirs, clear as silver bells.

Jhala Island.

The palace in Red Flower Vale was brightly lit.

Jalabhar sat in the seat of honor, several parchment scrolls spread before him. Taxes, trade, territorial disputes-each required his signature and seal. He rubbed his temples and sighed.

"Your Highness," a voice came from the doorway. "Do you need help?"

Jalabhar looked up. Korio stood in the doorway.

His younger brother. The man who had betrayed him, exiled him, and nearly killed him.

Korio had grown thinner. The sinister expressions on his face had almost vanished, replaced by a cautious gentleness. He wore a plain linen robe, his hair neatly trimmed.

"Come in."

Korio entered and sat opposite him. Looking at the pile of parchments on the table, he said quietly:

"There are problems with the taxes from several northern villages. Their overseers claim the harvest was poor and want reductions. But I sent people to look. Their granaries are full."

Jalabhar looked at him with complicated eyes.

"How did you know?"

Korio lowered his head. "I had people investigate."

Jalabhar was silent for several seconds.

Three months ago, this man had still been his mortal enemy. He had been locked in the dungeons, given only a bowl of porridge and a piece of flatbread each day. Jalabhar had intended to keep him imprisoned for six months or a year, then exile him from the island.

But Korio had changed. After leaving the dungeons, he neither fled nor resisted, merely helping quietly around the palace. Cleaning, organizing, running errands-he did whatever work there was. The hatred was gone from his eyes when he looked at Jalabhar, replaced by something hard to describe. Something like awe and gratitude.

Jalabhar did not know what had happened. But he knew that Korio now truly wanted to help him.

"You visited those villages?"

Korio nodded.

"What did you find?"

Korio took a sheet of paper from inside his robe. A simple map of the villages was drawn on it, marked with the locations of granaries, the number of villagers, and the approximate harvest.

Looking at the paper, Jalabhar felt a complicated emotion rise within him.

This younger brother had once known nothing but killing and burning. Now he could draw maps.

"Well done."

Korio's eyes brightened briefly, but he quickly lowered them again.

"Your Highness, one more thing. That merchant from Oldtown who came with Leon, Pudding Face, is leaving tomorrow to deliver supplies to Omboru Island. He would like to see you."

"Have him come."

Korio rose, then stopped at the doorway.

"Brother," he said softly.

Jalabhar froze. Korio had not called him brother in a long time.

"Yes?"

Korio did not turn around. With his back to Jalabhar, he spoke very softly:

"Thank you for giving me a chance."

With that, he opened the door and left.

Jalabhar remained seated, not moving for a long time.

Early the next morning, Pudding Face came to take his leave.

He wore a loose island-style robe and had grown considerably darker, but his eyes were as shrewd as ever. Like a rat hiding in the grass, he saw everything and let nothing slip past.

"Your Highness." He bowed. "Thank you for your hospitality during my stay. I'm taking a shipment of supplies to Omboru Island. The young master needs replenishments."

Jalabhar nodded. "Give Leon my regards. Tell him he is always welcome back on Jhala Island."

Pudding Face smiled. "I certainly will."

Jalabhar smiled and nodded, yet an indescribable feeling stirred within him.

Leon. That dwarf. He was clearing land and settling on Omboru Island. Word was that he had already established a foothold, found food, brought disease under control, and even begun building permanent homes.

Jalabhar should have been happy for him. After all, Leon was his benefactor, the man who had helped him reclaim his throne.

But a voice in his heart kept saying: If he really builds a city on Omboru Island, then takes Walano Island someday... he would hold two of the Summer Isles' three great islands. What would that make me?

Jalabhar shook his head and suppressed the thought.

"Your Highness."

Korio's voice came from behind him. Jalabhar turned. His younger brother stood at the terrace doorway, holding a cup of chilled drink.

"You've been standing for a long time. Have something to drink."

Korio approached and handed him the cup.

Jalabhar accepted it and took a sip. Sweet-and-sour fruit juice slid down his throat with a hint of coolness.

"Pudding Face has left."

"I know."

Korio's expression was calm. His once sinister eyes were as clear as a child's.

"What do you think of Leon?" Jalabhar suddenly asked.

Korio paused. He lowered his head, remained silent for several seconds, then said, "He is a benefactor."

"Only a benefactor?"

Korio raised his head and looked at Jalabhar. "Brother, what are you trying to say?"

Jalabhar stared at him for a long time. Then he smiled and patted Korio's shoulder.

"Nothing. Go on. I still have plenty of affairs of state to attend to."

Korio nodded, turned, and walked out of the palace.

Jalabhar failed to notice the faint, fleeting smile at the corner of Korio's mouth as he turned.

A small boat was waiting for him at the pier.

Pudding Face stood beside it and gave a slight nod when he saw him.

The two boarded. The boatman untied the mooring rope, and the little boat slowly pulled away from the pier.

Only when Jhala Island's coastline had receded into the distance did Korio speak.

"The letter?"

Pudding Face took a small oilcloth packet from inside his robe and handed it over.

Korio accepted it and opened it. Inside was a thin sheet of parchment bearing only a few lines in Leon's handwriting.

"Very well done. Please continue."

Korio stared at those words for a long time. Then he held the letter to a candle flame and watched it turn to ash.

The ashes drifted into the sea and were swallowed by the water.

Pudding Face watched him without asking anything. He merely sighed softly, then looked northwest.

That was the direction of Omboru Island.

Two months later. Northwatch Harbor.

For the first time, the sound of hoes breaking earth rang through the camp.

The open ground chosen downstream of the creek had been cleared, a full sixty mu of land. The weeds had been removed, the stones picked out, and the soil turned until it was soft.

Norman Hightower crouched at the edge of the field, pinched up a handful of black soil, and held it beneath his nose to sniff.

"Good soil." His eyebrows rose as he spoke. "My ancestor's log said the soil of the Summer Isles could grow crops taller than a man. If we have the seeds to match..."

"Your ancestor again..."

Leon rubbed his head.

"I seem to have heard someone say they needed good seeds!"

The voice came from behind them. Norman turned and saw Pudding Face approaching from the pier, followed by a group of islanders carrying sacks.

"Young master!" He walked up to Leon and set the bundle on his shoulder down on the ground. "I've brought everything you wanted."

Leon looked at the bulging sacks.

"What seeds do we have?"

"Wheat, barley, and oats, two sacks each. There are also bean seeds, radish seeds, and a few fruit saplings brought back from Oldtown-lemon, orange, and fig. Willas said they could all survive in the tropics."

Leon nodded, his gaze shifting behind Pudding Face.

"Some of these people lost their homes after the rebellion, and others were recruited in Oldtown. After I persuaded them, they were all willing to come serve you, my lord."

"Wonderful! I was just worrying we didn't have enough people." Norman was so happy he nearly jumped.

The seeds went into the ground that very day.

Harold swung a hoe up ahead, digging holes, while Kojo crouched behind him sowing seeds. The two worked together with growing coordination, occasionally exchanging a few words in halting Common Tongue, helped along by gestures.

"This... what?" Kojo pointed at a round bean seed.

"Bean. Cook it and eat it. Tasty," Harold said, gesturing.

Kojo nodded and continued sowing.

A few rows over, several island women were planting fruit saplings. Their movements were gentle, as though they feared hurting the tender roots. Rhaenys crouched beside them, watching, her little hand clutching a small trowel, wanting to help too. One of the island women smiled and handed her a sapling, teaching her how to dig a hole and cover it with soil. The little girl learned earnestly, too busy even to wipe the dirt off the tip of her nose.

In the distance, Norman was building a fence with several old soldiers. Stakes cut from goldenheart wood were driven into the ground, then vines were woven into a lattice. The fence was low and could not keep out wild beasts, but it could stop the rabbits and little rodents that ran everywhere.

"Once the crops grow," Loomis told Leon, "this land will be our granary. Enough to feed several hundred people."

Leon stood at the edge of the field, watching the busy figures.

Hoes rose and fell, seeds went into the ground, and fresh soil was turned over. Sunlight poured down from overhead, pressing everyone's shadow short.

He suddenly thought of the Wendwater. Of Old Tom crouching on a field ridge, teaching him to tell wheat seedlings from weeds. Of Little Tom chasing after him, holding up that crooked wooden lion. Of the bright light in the farmers' eyes when they first received the new wheat seeds.

He had only been eight then. Tyrion had still been by his side.

He reached inside his clothes and took out a letter Pudding Face had just given him. It was wrapped tightly in oilcloth, and the wax seal bore the lion sigil of Casterly Rock.

Beside the wax seal was a tiny, almost invisible scratch.

It was the secret sign Leon and Tyrion had agreed on as children: safe and trustworthy.

Leon took the letter back to his tent.

The candle flame flickered. He broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment.

Tyrion's handwriting met his eyes, crooked as the tracks of crawling insects, but every word was pressed so hard it nearly cut through the parchment.

"Leon,

Pudding Face told me you were still alive. That's good.

This letter is going through Pudding Face's channels. First to Oldtown, then onto a ship. By the time it reaches you, about three months will have passed. I don't know whether you'll have died in those three months, fallen ill, or been eaten by wild beasts. But since you can still receive this letter, that means you're alive.

That's good, then.

Business first. I had Pudding Face bring you a shipment of iron ore. Not much. But in the Summer Isles, it should be worth more than gold. I asked a few sailors, and they said the islanders use shells as money. Copper goods are rare, and iron goods are treasures.

Those two hundred men of yours need their swords repaired, farming tools made, and walls built. Without iron, nothing can be done. The ore is hidden in a warehouse in Oldtown. Pudding Face will bring it to you in batches. Don't take it all at once. It'll draw attention.

Also, I've made some headway looking into the gold mines. It's not that the Summer Isles have no mines, but that no one knows how to mine them. There are traces of copper, iron, gold, and silver deposits on the small islands nearby. The islanders don't know how to prospect, so they just leave them there. If you can establish yourself, this could be useful later.

There's something else you probably already know. Our sister Cersei is now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The wedding was held in King's Landing, a grand affair that cost over a hundred thousand gold dragons. Robert got blind drunk and threw up three times, giving the Small Council quite a fright.

But the truly interesting part was the wedding night. I heard this through various channels, so don't go spreading it around. Robert was blind drunk that night and had to be carried into the bridal chamber. Cersei was wearing the most expensive Lysene nightdress, waiting for her royal husband. And what happened? Robert lay on top of her, thrusting away while calling another woman's name.

Lyanna. Lyanna Stark. Dead for almost a year.

Can you imagine our sister's face? Just hearing about it made me laugh so hard I fell out of my chair. But after I finished laughing, I felt a little cold. You know Cersei better than I do. She holds grudges. That one cry from Robert will be enough for her to remember for a lifetime. There'll be plenty of trouble in the years ahead.

There's one more thing that should make you happy. Jaime won the tourney in King's Landing. The first grand tourney held after Robert's coronation, with knights from all Seven Kingdoms attending. If Arthur Dayne knew, he would probably be proud of him. But Jaime himself wasn't very happy. They say he didn't attend the feast after winning, but sat drinking alone in a corner. Someone asked what was wrong, and he said, 'What good is winning? I'm still the Kingslayer.'

I felt a little sad when I heard that. But there's nothing to be done. He chose his own path.

Back to you. What are the Summer Isles really like? Are there many wild beasts? How many people have died of sickness? Is that Old Men of the Red Forest real, or just a legend? If you're alive, have Pudding Face bring a message next time. Even one word, 'Alive,' will do.

As for me, Father still curses me a few times every day, frowning whenever he sees me, as though my being alive were the greatest insult to him. But I'm used to it. He can curse all he likes; I'll keep living my life. The day you return, I'll show you just how much this dwarf has put away.

Take care. Don't die.

Tyrion

At Casterly Rock"

Leon stared at the letter for a long time.

The candle flame flickered, melted wax pooling beneath it.

He lifted the tent flap and walked out.

Leon went to the shore and stood on the rock where he often stood. Moonlight dyed the sea silver-white.

"Alive," he said softly.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Arthur came to his side without speaking, simply gazing north with him.

After a long while, Leon spoke.

"Arthur."

"Yes?"

"How long would it take an ordinary person to build a city?"

"I don't know. But I do know that a city someone builds in a year might be washed away by a single rainstorm. A city someone spends ten years building can withstand a hundred years of wind and rain."

Yes, it was the same with how you lived and how you did things...

Leon said nothing and walked back to camp.

As he passed the newly sown fields, he stopped. In the moonlight, the turned soil gleamed dark and oily. The seeds were already buried, waiting for the rainy season to pass, waiting to sprout.

The way those farmers on the Wendwater had looked at him appeared in his mind again.

Now, these people were the same.