The Tenfold Lord
Chapter 4: Cautious Coin
The improvements at Stonecreek were tangible, yet fragile. The daily injection of duplicated food had banished the immediate specter of starvation, and the new steel axes echoed in the wolfswood, felling trees at a rate that promised warmth for the winter and timber for long-neglected repairs. Kaelan had stabilized the company's freefall. He had plugged the most critical holes in the hull, but the ship was still dead in the water. It was a closed system, a self-sustaining pocket of slightly-less-miserable poverty.
To truly grow, to build the foundation of a powerful house, he needed to engage with the wider world. He needed trade. And trade required capital. Real, spendable, universally accepted capital. He needed money.
His personal treasury, the iron-banded chest in his chamber, was a joke. After his initial experiments, he had painstakingly counted its contents. There were a few hundred copper pennies, tarnished and worn, and a meager twenty-seven silver stags. It was the petty cash box of a failing enterprise, not the treasury of a noble house. It was not enough to buy a single decent warhorse, let alone the resources he truly needed.
The temptation was immense. He could simply duplicate the silver stags. With his power, he could fill this chest to overflowing in three days. He could create a mountain of silver that would make the Manderlys' mines look like a child's sandbox. But Alex Vance's mind, a machine honed by navigating the treacherous waters of high finance and corporate espionage, screamed caution.
Wealth that appears from nowhere is a red flag. In his old world, it would trigger audits, investigations, and unwelcome questions from tax authorities. In this world, a world of superstition and sharp steel, it would invite far worse. A minor, impoverished lord suddenly flush with silver? It would attract bandits, jealous neighbors, and the scrutinizing gaze of his own liege lord in Winterfell. Unexplained wealth was a liability, not an asset, unless it was handled with surgical precision.
One evening, he locked the door to his chamber and began a serious test. He took a single silver stag from the chest. It was a coin of Aegon V's reign, the face of the Unlikely King worn smooth by countless transactions.[1] He placed it on the rough-hewn table, laid his hand upon it, and focused his will. Ten.
With a soft, magical clink, nine identical coins appeared beside the original. He lined them up under the flickering candlelight. The problem was immediately, glaringly obvious. They were not just similar; they were perfect, identical clones. Each coin bore the exact same scratch across the king's cheek, the same minuscule dent on the rim, the same faint pattern of tarnish on the stag's antlers. To a casual observer, they were just coins. To a suspicious merchant, a tax collector, or a rival lord, a purse full of these identical twins would be proof of forgery or sorcery.
He couldn't spend these. Not like this.
He needed to introduce chaos into the system, to artificially age his brand-new assets. He gathered the nine duplicates into a thick leather pouch, added a handful of sharp-edged pebbles from the hearth, and cinched it tight. For the next hour, he sat there, methodically shaking, rattling, and dropping the pouch. The grating sound was maddening, but necessary.
When he finally emptied the pouch onto the table, the coins were different. They were still identical in shape and weight, but their surfaces were now a randomized tapestry of scuffs, nicks, and scratches. He took one and tapped its edge against the stone floor, creating a unique flat spot. He bent another ever so slightly. He rubbed a third with soot from the fireplace to simulate the grime of circulation. It was tedious, painstaking work, the medieval equivalent of money laundering. He wasn't just creating coins; he was fabricating a plausible history for each one, a backstory of passing through a hundred different hands.
After three nights of this meticulous process, he had transformed his twenty-seven stags into a carefully curated collection of over two hundred, each one subtly unique in its artificial wear. He mixed them with the original, worn coins, creating a sum that was believable for a minor lord who had perhaps unearthed a hidden family cache. It was a start.
Now, he needed an agent. He couldn't go to market himself; a lord haggling over the price of books and livestock would be unseemly and attract attention. He needed a proxy, a man who could move through the world of trade without raising eyebrows. [2]
His choice fell upon a man named Eamon, a merchant who lived in the small village huddled outside Stonecreek's walls. Eamon was in his fifties, a man whose ambition had long been worn down by the harsh realities of Northern trade. He dealt mostly in wool and hides, making a meager living on the thin margins the North offered. He was known to be honest, but more importantly, he was hungry. He was a low-level employee with potential for growth, if given the right incentives.
Kaelan summoned him to the keep. Eamon arrived looking nervous, his best woolen cloak pulled tight against the evening chill, his eyes wide at being called into the lord's personal presence.
"Eamon," Kaelan began, getting straight to the point. He gestured to a chair, a small act of generosity to put the man at ease, but kept himself standing to maintain authority. "I have a task for you. A discreet task of great importance to the future of this house."
"Anything, my lord," Eamon said, his voice a little shaky.
"My father, and his father before him, were not… prudent men," Kaelan said, weaving a narrative that was both true and a useful fiction. "They let this holdfast fall into disrepair. But they were not entirely foolish. I have discovered a small reserve, a fund set aside for an emergency. That emergency is now."
He pushed a heavy leather purse across the table. It landed with a solid, satisfying clink. "There are two hundred silver stags in that bag. I need you to take them to White Harbor."
Eamon's eyes widened at the sum. It was more money than he had likely seen in one place in his entire life. White Harbor was the North's great trading hub, its gateway to the south and the wider world.
"I need you to purchase several things for me," Kaelan continued, his voice low and conspiratorial. "First, livestock. I want ten breeding pairs of sheep, the hardiest you can find. I want twenty laying hens and four cockerels. And I want two milk cows, young but proven, and a bull if the price is fair. They must be breeds suited to the cold. No delicate southron beasts." This was a critical investment in diversifying their food supply, moving beyond simple subsistence farming.
"It will be done, my lord," Eamon breathed, his mind already calculating transport costs and herd prices.
"Second, and more importantly," Kaelan said, leaning forward slightly. "I need books."
Eamon blinked. "Books, my lord?"
"Yes. I intend to rebuild the library of Stonecreek. My education was… interrupted by my fever. I wish to continue it." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I want histories. Histories of the Valyrian Freehold, of the Rhoynar, of the Andal invasions. I want treatises on architecture and stonemasonry from the master builders of the Vale. I want every volume you can find on animal husbandry and farming techniques, especially anything from the maesters of the Reach. I want almanacs, star charts, and any maps of the Seven Kingdoms you can acquire. Be discreet. Buy from different sellers. Do not appear too eager. Frame it as a young lord's folly, a sudden passion for learning."
This was the real prize. Livestock would feed their bodies, but books would feed his ambition. Knowledge of advanced engineering, of forgotten agricultural techniques, of political histories he only vaguely recalled from his past life—that was the data he needed to fuel his industrial revolution. He was outsourcing his research and development.
"And Eamon," Kaelan added, his eyes locking with the merchant's. "Your discretion is paramount. No one is to know the source of this coin. It is a private matter of House Coldwater. For your service, you may keep ten stags for yourself. If you perform this task well, with speed and secrecy, there will be more work. More coin. House Coldwater rewards loyalty and competence."
He had just offered the man a bonus worth more than a year of his usual profits. It was a powerful motivator. Eamon's eyes, which had been dull with years of struggle, now shone with a new light. He saw an opportunity, a path out of his meager existence.
"My lord," Eamon said, his voice thick with emotion as he stood and bowed low. "I will not fail you. I will guard this secret with my life."
"I know you will," Kaelan said simply. His word was law, and he had just made it very profitable for Eamon to obey it. [1]
The two weeks that Eamon was gone were a lesson in patience for Kaelan. He threw himself into the daily administration of his lands, a task he found both tedious and necessary. [3, 4] He oversaw the clearing of the western fields, using his daily power to duplicate the precious steel axe heads, ensuring the work never slowed. He sat in judgment over petty disputes among the smallfolk—a stolen chicken, a disputed property line—dispensing justice that was cold, swift, and ruthlessly fair. He was building a reputation as a hard but just lord, a man whose commands were absolute but whose rule was orderly.
Finally, a watchman on the wall called out. A small caravan was approaching from the south.
Kaelan stood on the wall walk, his hands clasped behind his back, a picture of calm authority. He watched as Eamon, looking tired but triumphant, led a small procession into the bailey. There were the sheep, their wool thick and shaggy. There were crates filled with clucking, protesting chickens. And there, led by a boy, were two broad-backed milk cows, their eyes placid and curious.
The people of Stonecreek gathered, their faces filled with wonder. More food. More wealth. Their lord, who had been on his deathbed a moon's turn ago, was proving to be a font of miracles.
But Kaelan's eyes were fixed on the last cart. On it, carefully wrapped in oilcloth, was a large, heavy wooden crate. Eamon saw his gaze and gave a slight, knowing nod.
Later, in the privacy of his chamber, Kaelan pried the lid off the crate with a small crowbar. The scent of old paper, leather, and ink filled the room. Inside, nestled in straw, were the books. There were nearly two dozen of them, their leather bindings worn, their pages thick with the spidery script of maesters and scribes.
He lifted the first one out. Its title was The Towers of the Vale: A Study in Mountain Fortification. He opened it to a random page and saw a detailed diagram of a cantilevered buttress. He picked up another: On the Husbandry of Beasts, by a maester from the Reach. A third was a history of the wars between Valyria and the Ghiscari Empire.
He had done it. He had converted his unique, supernatural power into tangible, useful assets. He had established a supply chain, however small. He had acquired the raw data for the next phase of his plan.
He looked around his bleak stone room. It was still a prison, a cage of primitive squalor. But now, it was also a library. It was a laboratory. It was the headquarters of a burgeoning corporation.
He still had no gold. The single gold dragon he'd asked Eamon to acquire—as a curiosity—felt heavy and potent in his hand. It was a symbol of the next tier of wealth, the next level of the game. He wasn't ready for that yet. First, he had to build.
A cold, satisfied smile touched his lips. He had achieved a degree of financial freedom. And with it, he would forge an empire.