The Tenfold Lord
Chapter 2: The First Miracle
Dawn broke not as a glorious sunrise, but as a slow, grudging dilution of the darkness. A pale, watery grey seeped through the arrow-slit window, illuminating a room that was just as cold and grim as it had been the night before. For a moment, lying on the lumpy straw mattress, Alex Vance felt the crushing weight of his reality settle back onto him. The memories of his past life—of heated boardrooms, of the satisfying heft of a quarterly earnings report that exceeded all projections, of the sterile, air-conditioned comfort of his penthouse—felt like a phantom limb, an ache for something that was gone forever.
But despair was a luxury, an unproductive emotion he had long ago excised from his operational mindset. He was Kaelan Coldwater now, Lord of Stonecreek, CEO of a failing enterprise. And the first order of business was to verify his one and only competitive advantage.
He sat up, the coarse wool of his tunic scratching his skin. His eyes scanned the small, damp chamber. They landed on the single copper penny he had left on the table from last night's experiments. He picked it up, the metal cold against his fingertips. He closed his hand around it, shutting his eyes, and focused his will. It was a strange mental muscle to flex, a feeling of directed pressure, of pure intent. Ten.
He opened his hand. Lying in his palm were ten perfect copies of the worn copper penny, their edges smooth, the flayed man of the Boltons just as faint on each one. The mental well that had been dry last night was full again. The power reset with the dawn.
A cold, sharp clarity cut through the morning gloom. This was his new reality. Ten uses. Ten opportunities per day to generate capital from nothing. It was a pittance, a laughably small number, but in a world of absolute scarcity, it was a godlike power. He wasn't just a lord; he was a one-man production facility with zero raw material costs.
His mind, a machine built for optimization, immediately began to run scenarios. Food was the most pressing liability. The report from Harlon had been bleak: a month of rations, two if they embraced starvation with gusto. [1] This was not a sustainable business model. It was a death spiral. He had to reverse the trend, and he had to do it today.
He stood, his body still aching with the dregs of the fever, but his mind was sharp, energized by the confirmation of his power. He would not simply conjure food from thin air. That was the act of a magician, a sorcerer. It invited fear, superstition, and the kind of attention that got men burned. He was a businessman, a manager. His miracle would be one of logistics, of administration. It would be mundane, boring, and utterly unbelievable in its effectiveness.
"Harlon!" he called out, his voice stronger than it had been the day before. He did not shout, but his tone carried the crisp, undeniable weight of command. "Maester Aethan! To my chambers. Now."
There was a shuffling outside, the murmur of voices. The heavy wooden door creaked open. Harlon entered first, his expression a mask of wary deference. The castellan was a man accustomed to running the holdfast, to being the final word on all practical matters. [2, 3] This sudden resurgence of his lord, and a lord who was acting like a complete stranger, was a disruption to his established order. Maester Aethan followed, his face etched with a mixture of concern for Kaelan's health and scholarly curiosity.
Kaelan did not invite them to sit. He remained standing, creating a subtle but clear hierarchy in the small room. He was the lord, they were his subordinates. [4, 5]
"Yesterday's report was… insufficient," Kaelan began, his gaze fixed on Harlon. "Your assessment of our stores was based on hearsay and old counts. I will not lead my people into winter on the back of an assumption. Today, I will conduct a full audit of our food supplies. The granary, the larder, the root cellar. Everything."
Harlon's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "My lord, with respect, the counts are accurate. I oversaw them myself. There is no need for you to trouble yourself. You are still weak from the fever."
It was a challenge, wrapped in the guise of concern. A test of his resolve. Kaelan's eyes went cold. In his old life, he had dealt with dozens of insubordinate executives who thought they knew better. He had a standard procedure for it.
"Your concern for my health is noted, Harlon. Your questioning of my direct order is not," Kaelan said, his voice dropping to a low, quiet intensity that was far more menacing than a shout. "Let me be clear, so that no further confusion arises. I am the Lord of Stonecreek. My word in these lands is law. [6, 5] When I give a command, it is not a suggestion to be debated. It is a fact to be executed. You will assemble the guards, you will unseal the stores, and you will assist me in my audit. Is that understood?"
The air in the room grew thick. Maester Aethan looked from Kaelan to Harlon, his expression troubled. Harlon's weathered face was a stony mask, but Kaelan could see the flicker of resentment in his eyes. The castellan was a proud man, and he had just been dressed down like a raw recruit. But he was also a man who understood the structure of their world. He was the governor of the castle, but Kaelan was the king of it. [7, 8]
After a long, tense moment, Harlon gave a stiff, formal bow. "As you command, my lord."
"Good," Kaelan said, turning away as if the matter was already forgotten. "Let's begin with the granary."
The granary was a squat, stone building near the main keep, its door sealed with a thick wooden bar and a rusty iron lock. Two of Harlon's guards, men with the same gaunt, hungry look as everyone else, stood watch. At Harlon's command, they removed the bar and unlocked the door.
A wave of cool, dry air, thick with the scent of dust and grain, washed over them. The interior was dark and cramped. Sacks of oats, barley, and rye were stacked against the walls, but the stacks were pitifully small. This was the reality of the North's poor soil and harsh climate.
"My lord, as you can see…" Harlon began.
"I see what you have shown me," Kaelan cut him off. "Now, I will conduct my own tally. Harlon, you and your men will stand guard outside. No one is to enter or disturb me. I require absolute concentration to ensure the count is precise. Maester, you will wait with them. I may have questions about preservation methods."
It was a plausible command. A lord taking his duties seriously, ensuring no theft and no distractions. [9] Harlon's eyes narrowed again, the suspicion plain on his face, but he could not refuse a direct order regarding the security of the stores. He nodded curtly and stationed himself and his men by the door, their backs to the interior.
The moment he was alone, Kaelan's demeanor shifted. The mask of the stern lord fell away, replaced by the focused intensity of a man executing a delicate, high-stakes transaction. He had ten uses. He had to make them count.
He approached a sack of oats. It was half-full, weighing perhaps fifty pounds. He laid his hand flat against the rough burlap, the texture coarse beneath his palm. He closed his eyes, picturing the object in its entirety—the sack, the twine holding it shut, the thousands of individual grains within. He treated it as a single, conceptual unit: 'one sack of oats'. He pushed with his will. Ten.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, with a soft, muffled thump, a perfect duplicate of the sack appeared on the floor beside the original. It was an exact copy, down to the last frayed thread and water stain.
He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. It worked. His operating theory was correct. He didn't need to duplicate individual grains; he could duplicate the container and its contents as a single object. This was a game-changer in terms of efficiency.
He had nine uses left.
He moved with methodical speed. He didn't duplicate the copies; he always returned to the original items. It was a precaution, a variable he wanted to control. What if the copies of copies degraded? He had no data on that yet. Stick to the original assets. He duplicated the sack of oats four more times, using five of his ten daily charges. The small pile of sacks now looked substantially more respectable. Five new sacks, plus the original half-full one. He had effectively tripled their supply of oats in minutes.
Next, the larder. He had Harlon open it with the same instructions. Inside, the smell of salt and smoked fish was heavy in the air. Strings of dried, salted fish hung from the rafters, and barrels of salted mutton and pork lined the walls. This was the North's answer to winter: preservation through the most basic, brutal methods.
He chose a barrel of salted cod. It was heavy, the wood stained dark with brine. He placed his hands on it, the cold seeping through his tunic. Ten. A new barrel appeared beside it. He repeated the process twice more. Three new barrels of preserved fish. Eight charges used.
Finally, the root cellar. A trapdoor in the kitchen floor led down into the cold, earthy darkness. Here, bins held the meager autumn harvest: turnips, carrots, and hard, pale potatoes. He focused on a large bin of turnips. He couldn't duplicate the entire bin, it was part of the structure. But he could duplicate its contents. He grabbed a single, large turnip. Ten. A pile of identical turnips appeared at his feet. He repeated the process with a second, different-looking turnip. Ten. Twenty new turnips. His ten charges for the day were spent.
He took a moment, breathing in the damp, earthy air. He had not created a feast. He had not filled the storerooms to bursting. He had made a subtle, calculated increase. Enough to make a difference, but not enough to be overtly impossible. It was the difference between a rounding error and a miracle.
He emerged from the kitchens, his face a neutral mask. Harlon and the Maester were waiting, their expressions unreadable in the gloom of the bailey.
"The audit is complete," Kaelan announced, his voice echoing slightly in the enclosed yard. He looked directly at Harlon. "Your count was wrong."
Harlon's head snapped up. "My lord?"
"You told me we had a month's supply. My tally shows we have enough for nearly three, perhaps four if we remain careful. The grain sacks were packed more tightly than you accounted for. The barrels of fish were heavier. You neglected to count several crates in the back of the root cellar." He lied with the smooth, practiced ease of a CEO delivering a revised forecast to the board. He was providing a plausible explanation, shifting the blame from the supernatural to simple incompetence. It was a direct strike at Harlon's authority.
The castellan was speechless. He knew what was in those storerooms. He knew his count had been accurate. But he could not argue. To do so would be to call his lord a liar. His only option was to accept the rebuke. "I… I must have miscalculated, my lord. My apologies."
"See that you are more thorough in the future," Kaelan said dismissively. "Your primary duty is the management and defense of this keep. That includes an accurate accounting of our supplies. [2, 3] A lord cannot make sound strategic decisions with flawed data."
He then turned to the small crowd that had gathered—guards, servants, kitchen staff, all drawn by the unusual activity. Their faces were pinched with hunger and worry. They were his workforce, his primary assets. It was time for a morale boost.
"Effective immediately," Kaelan announced, his voice ringing with authority, "the daily ration for every man, woman, and child in Stonecreek is to be doubled. The bread will be thicker, the stew will have meat in it, and there will be no more watering of the ale."
A stunned silence fell over the bailey. Doubled rations? It was unthinkable. For weeks, they had been tightening their belts, preparing for the inevitable starvation of a long winter. [1] This was a reprieve they had not dared to dream of.
A murmur went through the crowd, a ripple of disbelief turning into a wave of hope. Eyes that had been dull with hunger now shone with a new light. They looked at their young lord, the boy who had been at death's door just days ago, and they saw not a frail youth, but a provider. A true lord, who cared for his people. [6, 5]
Maester Aethan stepped forward, his old face filled with wonder. "My lord… this is… a blessing. The gods are good."
Kaelan gave a slight, noncommittal nod. Let them think it was the gods. The Old Gods, the New, it didn't matter. Faith was a useful tool for managing morale, but he would not rely on it. He would rely on his own power, his own planning.
He watched as Harlon, his face a thundercloud of confusion and resentment, began barking orders to the kitchen staff to implement the new rationing. The castellan was a problem, a variable that needed to be controlled. But for now, he was neutralized.
Later that evening, Kaelan stood on the wall walk, looking down at his domain. The wind was cold, but he barely felt it. Below, the bailey was more animated than it had been the day before. There was laughter, the sound of a badly played lute. The smell of roasting meat, however scant, drifted up from the kitchens. It was the smell of hope.
He had fed his people. He had asserted his authority. He had taken the first, critical step in turning this bankrupt holding into a solvent enterprise. He looked at the pathetic fields, the crumbling walls, the vast, dark wolfswood beyond. He didn't see a bleak, dying land anymore. He saw untapped resources. He saw potential for growth. He saw a balance sheet waiting to be rewritten.
The first miracle of Stonecreek was not a gift from the gods. It was a carefully executed business decision. And it was only the beginning. Tomorrow, he had ten more uses. And the day after that, ten more. The power of compounding interest was about to be unleashed upon the North.