The Tenfold Lord
Chapter 3: Seeds of Change
The new rations had worked a change on Stonecreek. It was not a dramatic transformation, but a subtle, yet palpable, shift in the holdfast's atmosphere. The pervasive lethargy that had clung to the people like a shroud had begun to lift. There was more movement in the bailey, the sounds of work were less grudging, and in the evenings, Kaelan could sometimes hear the thin, reedy notes of a pipe or the murmur of conversation that went beyond weary complaints. The initial shock of the doubled rations had given way to a fragile, burgeoning hope.
To Alex Vance, the calculating mind inhabiting Kaelan Coldwater's body, this was an expected, if minor, return on his initial investment. He had injected capital into the system—capital created from nothing—and the result was a marginal increase in workforce morale and productivity. It was a positive outcome, but it was treating a symptom, not the disease. The underlying business model of Stonecreek was still fundamentally broken.
Their survival depended on a system of subsistence agriculture that was, by his 21st-century standards, catastrophically inefficient. They were at the mercy of a short growing season, poor soil, and the ever-present threat of a winter that could last for years. [1] His daily "miracles" could supplement their food stores, but they couldn't replace a functioning agricultural base. To truly secure his position and build a foundation for growth, he needed to revolutionize their means of production. He needed to change the very earth they stood on.
He spent two days in a self-imposed strategic retreat, sequestered in his chamber with Maester Aethan. Using his "fever-addled memory" as a pretext, he grilled the old man relentlessly. He was not just a lord seeking knowledge; he was a corporate analyst conducting market research. [2, 3] He learned about the soil composition—thin and stony. He learned about the crops—mostly hardy oats and barley, with some turnips and other root vegetables that could survive the chill. He learned about their methods, which were as ancient as the stones of the keep itself. They planted the same crops in the same fields, year after year, until the soil was exhausted and gave up little more than weeds. Then, they would let the field lie fallow for a year, sometimes two, before starting the cycle anew. It was a system based on tradition and desperation, with yields that were pitifully low.
On the third morning, having confirmed the full extent of their operational deficiencies, he summoned his castellan. Harlon arrived with the same stony expression he'd worn since Kaelan's recovery, a mask of duty barely concealing a deep-seated suspicion.
"Harlon," Kaelan began without preamble, gesturing to a crude map of Stonecreek's lands he'd had the maester draw on a piece of cured hide. "We are changing the way we farm. Effective this day."
Harlon's gaze flickered to the map, then back to Kaelan. "My lord?"
"Our current methods are inefficient. We bleed the soil dry and then abandon it. It's wasteful," Kaelan stated, his tone crisp and final. He was a CEO announcing a corporate restructuring, not a lord seeking consensus. "From now on, we will implement a three-field system. All arable land will be divided into three sections."
He tapped the map with a finger. "Section one, we will plant with oats this spring. Section two, with turnips and peas. Section three will lie fallow. The following year, we rotate. The oat field will lie fallow. The turnip field will be planted with oats. The fallow field will be planted with turnips and peas. And so on, every year."
Maester Aethan, who had been standing quietly by the hearth, shuffled forward. "My lord, if I may… the three-field system is known, yes. It is practiced in the Reach and parts of the Riverlands. But here… in the North… the growing season is too short. The soil is too poor. To leave a third of our precious land unplanted every year… it is a risk we cannot afford. A single failed harvest could mean the end of us all."
Harlon nodded in grim agreement, his first sign of accord with anyone since Kaelan's awakening. "The maester speaks wisely, my lord. These are Northern lands. They have their own ways. Ways that have kept the people of Stonecreek alive for a thousand years. To abandon them now, on a whim born of fever…" He let the implication hang in the air.
Kaelan met his castellan's gaze, his own eyes as cold and hard as grey stone. He had anticipated this resistance. It was the classic "we've always done it this way" argument, the death knell of innovation in any organization. He would not debate it. He would crush it with the absolute weight of his authority.
"Your caution is noted, Harlon. Your history lesson, Maester, is appreciated. But you are both mistaken," Kaelan said, his voice dangerously soft. "You see this as a risk. I see it as a calculated investment in our future productivity. The legumes—the peas—will return nutrients to the soil that the grains take out. The fallow field will recover its strength. In three years, our yields from two fields will be greater than what we currently get from all of them. It is not a whim. It is mathematics."
"It is a southron fancy," Harlon countered, his voice tight with defiance. "It will not work here."
"It will work because I command it to work," Kaelan snapped, his patience evaporating. He stood up, looming over the two older men. "I am your lord. My word is the only law that matters within these walls and on these lands. [4, 5] You will not question my commands. You will not debate my decisions. You will execute them without hesitation or complaint. I am not asking for your opinion. I am giving you an order. Is that clear?"
The silence that followed was absolute. Harlon's face was a mask of granite, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. He was a man of pride and experience, being dictated to by a boy he believed to be half-mad from sickness. But the feudal structure was inviolable. [6] Kaelan was the lord, and Harlon was his man. To refuse a direct order was treason.
Slowly, deliberately, Harlon lowered his head. "Aye, my lord. It is clear."
"Good," Kaelan said, his tone returning to one of cool efficiency. He would not, however, be a reckless tyrant. A failed pilot program was better than a catastrophic system-wide failure. He was an autocrat, but a pragmatic one. "We will not risk everything at once. Designate the western fields, the ten acres closest to the stream, as the test plot. That is where we will implement the new system. The rest of the lands will be farmed in the old way for now. I will prove the method's worth. You will provide the men and the tools."
He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, turning back to the map. The meeting was over. He had asserted his dominance and laid the groundwork for his first major project. But he knew that reluctant compliance was not enough. He needed to win them over, not with words, but with results. And to get those results, he needed to upgrade their technology.
Later that day, he made his way to the smithy. It was a small, soot-stained building, little more than a shed with a forge and an anvil. The blacksmith, a man named Torbert with arms like tree-trunks but a face gaunt from hunger, was hammering a bent piece of iron, trying to fashion it into a crude nail. The air was thick with the smell of coal smoke and hot metal.
"Torbert," Kaelan said, his voice cutting through the clang of the hammer.
The smith started, turning and bowing low. "My lord."
"Show me your best axe," Kaelan commanded.
Torbert wiped his sweaty hands on his leather apron and shuffled to a corner, returning with a wood-cutting axe. It was a pathetic thing. The head was pitted iron, its edge dull and chipped. The handle was rough, ill-fitted wood. It was a tool designed for a life of back-breaking, inefficient labor.
"This is the best we have?" Kaelan asked, his disappointment evident.
"Iron is dear, my lord. And good steel… we have not seen a steel axe head in Stonecreek in my lifetime," Torbert admitted.
"What of the armory?" Kaelan pressed.
"A few old swords, some rusted mail, spearheads… nothing of great worth, my lord," Harlon's voice rumbled from behind him. The castellan had followed him, his presence a silent, watchful shadow.
"I will see for myself," Kaelan said, striding towards the keep.
The armory was a small, windowless room in the base of the main tower, smelling of rust and old leather. Racks held a pitiful collection of weapons: spears with iron heads, dented round shields, a few short swords of mediocre quality. It was the arsenal of a house on the verge of extinction.
Kaelan ran his hand along the weapons, his mind assessing assets. Then he saw it. Hanging alone on a wooden plaque, clearly an object of some reverence, was a battle-axe. It was old, the haft of dark, polished wood, but the head… the head was different. It was not the dull, pitted grey of iron. It was a darker, cleaner metal, with a faint, swirling pattern visible on its surface. It was steel. Not true Valyrian steel, but a high-quality castle-forged steel that was worlds beyond the crude iron of their tools.
"Where did this come from?" Kaelan asked, his voice hushed with something akin to reverence.
"It was your grandfather's, my lord," Harlon supplied, his tone softening for the first time. "He carried it in the last Blackfyre Rebellion. A prize from a fallen knight."
Kaelan took the axe from the wall. It had a satisfying heft, a perfect balance. He ran a thumb gingerly over the edge. It was still sharp enough to shave with. This was not just a weapon; it was a piece of high technology. An artifact from a more prosperous time.
It was the perfect template.
"I will be conducting an inventory of the armory," Kaelan announced, turning to Harlon. "Alone. Ensure I am not disturbed."
Harlon's eyes narrowed. Another secret tally. Another demand for solitude. The castellan's suspicion was a palpable thing, but he was bound by his lord's command. He gave a stiff nod and closed the heavy oak door, leaving Kaelan alone in the gloom.
The moment the bolt slid home, Kaelan placed the battle-axe on a wooden table. He had ten uses for the day. He had already used one to duplicate a silver stag from the treasury, a coin he was slowly accumulating in a hidden loose stone in his chamber, building his seed capital for future trade. He had nine uses left.
He placed his hand on the cool, smooth steel of the axe head. He ignored the haft, focusing his entire intent on the metal itself. He pictured it in his mind, every curve, every swirl in the steel, the keenness of its edge. He pushed with his will. Ten.
With a solid, metallic thump, a perfect copy of the axe head appeared on the table beside the original. It was flawless, an exact replica of his grandfather's prized possession.
He felt a surge of triumph. This was the key. Food would keep his people from starving. But tools… tools would allow them to build, to create, to claw their way out of this primitive squalor.
He worked quickly, his movements economical. Eight more times he laid his hand on the original axe head. Eight more times he pushed with his will. Eight more times, a perfect steel copy appeared on the table. When he was done, ten identical steel axe heads lay gleaming in the dim light of the single torch. His power for the day was spent.
He left the original battle-axe on its plaque and gathered the ten copies in a heavy burlap sack. When he emerged from the armory, Harlon was still there, his arms crossed, his face a stony question.
Kaelan simply walked past him, heading back towards the smithy. "Come," he commanded over his shoulder.
He found Torbert still at his forge. Kaelan upended the sack, and the ten steel axe heads clattered onto the dirt floor, the sound a sharp, clear ring that was utterly different from the dull thud of iron.
The blacksmith stared, his mouth agape. Harlon, standing in the doorway, froze, his eyes wide with disbelief. Ten perfect, high-quality steel axe heads. It was a treasure. More steel than Stonecreek had seen in a generation.
"Where… by the gods, my lord… where did you get these?" Torbert stammered, reaching out a trembling hand to touch one.
"I found them," Kaelan said, his voice flat and dismissive of any questions. "In a forgotten crate in the armory. Your lord provides. Now, get to work. I want ten sturdy axe hafts made, of our best ash wood. I want them fitted perfectly. And I want it done by tomorrow."
He turned and left without another word, leaving the blacksmith and the castellan staring at the impossible wealth of steel on the smithy floor. He had given them no room for questions, only a task to complete. His word was law, and his law was now backed by tangible, miraculous results.
The next day, the ten new axes were ready. They were beautiful, functional things. The dark, patterned steel gleamed, fitted to smooth, strong ash hafts. Kaelan summoned the holdfast's ten most able-bodied men, the ones designated as woodcutters. He led them to the edge of the wolfswood, the vast, dark forest that was both a threat and Stonecreek's greatest untapped resource.
He handed an axe to each man. They took them with a sense of awe, running their hands over the smooth wood, testing the impossible sharpness of the blades.
"The western fields must be cleared for planting," Kaelan announced. "And the keep is in need of repair. We need timber. We need firewood for the winter. These tools will make your work faster. I expect your output to double. Do not disappoint me."
He watched as the first woodcutter swung his new axe. The blade bit deep into the trunk of a pine tree, sinking a good hand's breadth into the wood with a single, clean stroke. A gasp went through the other men. With their old iron axes, it would have taken three or four chops to get that deep.
A new energy surged through the small group. They attacked the trees with a vigor Kaelan had not seen before. The forest echoed with the sharp, efficient sound of steel biting into wood. They were no longer just working out of duty; they were working with a sense of power, of effectiveness.
Kaelan stood back, observing his work. He had introduced agricultural innovation and a technological upgrade in the span of a few days. He had faced skepticism and overcome it not with persuasion, but with absolute authority and undeniable results. He was dragging his destitute corner of the North, kicking and screaming, into a new age of prosperity.
His word was law. And his law was profitable. The seeds of change had been planted. Now, he just had to make sure they grew.