Kapitel 87: 18
Chapter Eighteen
Mid 59AC
Eastwood
Lord's Solar
I sat once again in my solar, my fingers idly rubbing the head of my faithful feline friend. It would take a blind man not to see the growing parallels between me and the stereotypical movie villains in my previous life.
I was awaiting Serwyn for our first meeting with him since his return from his tenure as the Mayor of Stormtower following the death of Owen to the Shivers. Owen and his wife had been among the first victims of the damned plague and their loss was felt keenly in the town. A town where he had served as Mayor for over three decades and as such, there had been no apparent successor to replace him.
I'd tasked Serwyn with the responsibility. As one of my most capable advisors, and more importantly as someone keenly aware of the protocols to be used to combat the Shivers, he had been the natural choice for the position. While I had implemented my health reforms across my lands, I needed reliable men to actually implement them in each town and village..
My meeting with Serwyn was much overdue. He had arrived from Stormtower a few days ago and since then had spent much of his time with Elena and the children. After spending a year as interim Mayor of Stormtower, a small break was well deserved. Crisis management had never been something that Serwyn had much experience with, nor had he much experience with ruling independently, his tenure in Stormtower being the such experience for my goodbrother. Yet he had performed admirably.
I had big plans for Stormtower once Winter ended. Weeping Town had been hit hard by the plague. Unlike Stormtower and Tarth, it received a lot of trade from Essos, where the plague had originated. Thousands had succumbed to the disease there and while it was tragic, it was also an opportunity for Aelon.
If I was able to capitalise on the opportunity soon enough, I might be able to breach the southern routes over which the Whiteheads had held dominion for centuries. Southwood and Daegon's Valley were also on my mind for the future. Southwood's thriving lumber, charcoal and concrete industry made it an economic hub and that was with him just using concrete for his own roads.
With my roads having stood up to the test of the infamous autumn storms of the Stormlands, there was now some demand for the miracle product that I'd developed. With applications in housing as well, there was much that I had planned in the future. Mayor Monfryd was a competent man, an experienced administrator even though he lacked vision, but that was fine for I did not need visionaries in my bureaucracy.
On the topic of Mayors, a new Mayor for Stormtower had been appointed recently. An experienced harbourmaster named Waldon, who had served as a right hand of sorts to Serwyn during his tenure as Mayor. Serwyn had naught but praise for him and I trusted him enough that I had taken his endorsement at face value and appointed Waldon as Mayor when Serywn had deemed him ready. He seemed a capable man and was doing an admirable job combating the plague and dealing with Winter.
But even so, despite all the reforms, measures and protocols put in place to prevent the spread of infection, it was expected that many would still die. And many had. The past year had been exacting. The Shivers had ravaged Westeros, indiscriminately and ruthlessly. Many in my lands had succumbed, but from what reports I had read, not as much as elsewhere.
Fortunately, due to my foreknowledge, I had already begun the process of mitigating the spread of the infection a good year or so before it hit, which gave me a significant advantage. One that I had leveraged for the betterment of both House Eastwood and its people. The results were now showing as Winter was slowly coming to an end and the Shivers was being driven from Westeros. Even the Maesters had conceded, we were in the endgame now.
There was a knock on the door followed by the entry of my goodbrother, "Aelon," the Tarth nodded at me. The young man looked older and more haggard, a commonality shared by most in these trying times. But even so I was glad to see him again. Over the years, I had come to care deeply for the Tarth. Not only was he intelligent and competent, but he was also family and my children adored him.
"Serwyn, it's good to see you. I am glad that you have returned. I hope that your appointment was not too much trouble." My cat jumped off me and flicked his tail angrily at the intruder, causing me to smile lightly. Between worlds, people might change, but cats never do.
"It was not. Stormtower is somewhat smaller than Eastwood and therefore easier to manage. Or it would be were it not for the outbreak," Serwyn looked understandably sad at this. The shocking and brutal death of town inhabitants was a scary thing. All the more when you understand how close you are to joining them each time someone in your close proximity falls ill.
"I can't say it will get easier as it likely won't. I also have little experience in this type of disaster, which I'd count as a good thing really. This is the type of crisis I'd hope to only deal with once in my life," I found myself rambling nervously.
"Aye, Aelon. The damned plague was bad enough, and while we may have avoided a famine, the rest of Westeros has not been as lucky. I can't even imagine dealing with starvation and sickness at the same time," replied Serwyn as he shook his head in commiseration.
"Aye. This past year has been hard on the realm. Fred sent word from Oldtown a few sennights past. It seems that the plague has taken a quarter of the city's population."
"A quarter?!" exclaimed Serwyn as his eyebrows disappeared below his hairline.
"Aye," I said grimly, "and not just that, but it seems that nearly a third of the Maesters, Novices and Acolytes at the Citadel succumbed as well alongside twoscore of the Most Devout, the High Septon and Lord Hightower."
It was a testament to the sheer amount of death that we had seen over the past year that Serwyn took my words in his stride. A year ago, news like this would have caused the young man to keel over in anxiety. Today, he barely flinched. The plague had struck high and low. Not even the Royal Family had been spared. Word had come from the capital a few weeks ago that Princess Daenerys had succumbed to the Shivers.
"The plague does not discriminate. Man or woman. Highborn or smallfolk. Everyone dies," said the Tarth morosely.
"I am sorry for your loss brother. Edmund was a good man. He was taken too early," I said as I walked across my desk and laid a hand on his shoulder. To his credit, Serwyn held his calm as he acknowledged my condolences.
When word had arrived a couple of turns of the moon ago that Ser Edmund Tarth, Elena and Serwyn's father, had succumbed to the plague, Elena had been inconsolable. It was only made worse by the fact that we could not travel to Tarth to attend his funeral.
Larissa had written soon after, asking if she could take permanent residence in our household once winter ended. My heart went out to her. With her husband dead so soon after her sister, she had little left for her in Tarth. I had replied to her immediately that she was more than welcome in our household and that the children missed her dearly.
It seemed that Serwyn didn't wish to dwell in the past as he decided to change the topic, "Well, we should get to the point of the meeting. Deaths within our lands stand at about seven hundred. Whilst unfortunate for those involved, this is actually rather low when compared to the lordships around us."
I hummed, "Seven hundred people not around to care for their families and seven hundred fewer workers. This situation is going to be difficult to turn around when The Shivers and Winter finally abate."
"Is there any plan in place to provide aid when winter ends?" asked Serwyn.
"Aye. You can take the specific details from Warren or Armon, but we have already developed a comprehensive redevelopment plan. The focus is primarily on restarting business operations and bolstering trade. Warren has even outlined a proposal for developing a metalworks district in the town. I agree with him. The blacksmiths of Eastwood have for decades contributed greatly to the economy and we have done little to support them since my ennoblement," I replied.
"That's a good idea. The iron mine runs deep and has barely been touched. With the influx of smallfolk from Buckler lands, most of whom have settled around the mine, we should be able to scale up production very quickly," agreed Serwyn as he took down some notes.
"I have recently provided Armon with some sketches for a modified furnace powered by a water wheel. It's an idea that I have been playing around with for the past few turns of the moon, but both Armon and I have hit a wall. And to be honest, with the plague, we've not had much time to devote to it either. Maybe you can have a look?" I said hoping that he would be able to make some headway where I had found myself stalled.
A blast furnace powered by a water wheel seemed like it was not all that difficult a concept. But the actual development had been a nightmare and I had found myself pulling at my hair in frustration.
"It'll be interesting at the very least. You come up with the most curious ideas brother."
I grinned, "Well if you can make it work, it will be more than just interesting."
Serwyn quickly nodded and continued by stating, "The King has yet to decide an official course for King's Landing and the Crownlands in general, but we expect that announcement to be made in the coming sennight. Unfortunately, it seems knowledge of our new practices here has yet to reach higher up. Though considering it has been over a year, as with Lord Baratheon, it is more likely that they have been disregarded by those set in their ways."
That was a serious point of frustration for all of us here in Eastwood. Whilst everyone close by had realised that things were working better than anywhere else, with many such as Errol, Tarth and Connington even adopting the said practices, it was simply the human condition to disbelieve that which couldn't be seen by one's own eyes. In this case that meant hundreds of thousands more deaths than would otherwise be the case.
After my meeting with Lord Rogar almost a year ago, we had written out a proper list of my initial edicts for implementation in Storm's End and even the Stormlands in general, but from what Ser Bruce had said, it seemed that the Maester in Storm's End had termed it as "insipid and moronic" and had convinced the Baratheons to disregard the advice. Never in my life had I wanted to commit murder than I had at that point.
I sighed deeply as was becoming a habit, "Speaking of Lord Baratheon, what is the current status of our grain stores?."
There was a grimace on my goodbrother's face as he responded, "Well, Armon would be able to furnish you with the exact numbers, but we have enough to last us comfortably for another half a year. If we ration, we can probably stretch that by a few more turns of the moon, but considering that we are seeing signs of winter ending soon, that may not be necessary."
"It was a gamble agreeing to Lord Rogar's terms. But if Winter ends soon, it will have paid off."
"Aye," replied Serwyn, "Elena had written to me about your and Lord Errol's deal with Baratheon. It was a good decision. The tax cuts on whiskey alone will recoup our losses within five years and the increased cash flows will allow us to increase expenditures across various industries substantially."
It was at times like this that I really appreciated Serwyn. Speaking to him was like speaking to someone from the modern world. Unlike the rest of my council, he was the one who had not only understood the modern economic and business principles that I implemented across my holdings, but he had taken it a step further and applied it in his own approach as well.
"Although I must say," continued Serwyn, "making shipments of grain to Lords of the Stormlands we have good relations with before the others was a risky move. Undoubtedly the Bucklers, Fells and Trants will feel slighted."
I raised a brow at that. It had been a calculated move on my end. I had dispatched the grain as instructed by Storm's End. But the grain shipments, west of Eastwood had been "delayed" due to "logistical issues". This had little actual impact, no one had gone hungry, nor had any additional grain needed to be imported, but it had been a clear political statement that conveyed my displeasure at the Bucklers, Fells and Trants. There had been some risk of Lord Rogar being angered, but ultimately I had followed his instructions. Most of those uninvolved would understand my decision perfectly.
While some may consider my ploy with the Bucklers needlessly antagonistic, it was a necessary statement. While I was not a traditional lord, I needed the other Lords of the Stormlands to know that I was not to be trifled with. Despite this, I was not stupid. War was on the horizon and Rogar would be marching off to fight the Vulture King in the Marches soon.
While it was extremely unlikely that I would be called upon to march with him as well, after all, the Vulture King was just a glorified bandit, it would still mean that my Lord Paramount would be away and distracted for quite some time. Something that Bryce Buckler was likely to take advantage of. I needed to be prepared. Once Winter ended, I would need to make provisions for greater investment in my military.
On the brighter side, Eastwood and Errol grain had been very well received in the Stormlands. Errol more so than Eastwood as they had provided the lion's share. Even though my lands were more productive, Errol's holdings still dwarfed mine. Haystack Hall accounted for nearly seventy percent of our agricultural exports in the past year.
The past few turns of the moon had been both difficult and beneficial to House Errol. While they had gained great prestige in the Stormlands due to the exports of grain and their betrothal to Mya Baratheon, but the very same had been marred by the death of Horras Errol, who had been betrothed to her in the first place.
My heart had gone out to young Jon when we had received the news. The lad had been distraught at his elder brother's death. We had done our best to be there for the young lad but dealing with death at such a young age was never easy. Ned had been beside himself with worry during those days. The two lads had grown close over the past year and I was proud of the way in which my eldest had been there for his foster brother during the ordeal.
Even so, Ned as well as little Aethan had been heartbroken when a few weeks later, I had received a letter from Lord Errol, requesting for Jon to return to Haystack Hall once Winter ended. After all, Jon was now heir, and he needed to be raised accordingly.
But even so, regardless of the death and destruction that plagued Westeros, there was a silver lining. The star of Eastwood was on the rise. In comparison to others lords, I had survived the winter and plague relatively unscathed, and with the tax cuts from Storm's End, thousands of barrels of whiskey that had been maturing in my storehouses for the past two years, and a burgeoning soap industry, I was now in the perfect position to leverage this goodwill to drive my businesses faster than ever before.
"Now, we need to see what further measures we can put in place for our own people's safety-" At that moment a guard burst through the door with a pant.
"Ser Morden has fallen gravely ill."
Mid 59AC
Eastwood
Morden's Chambers
Morden POV
Eight and Thirty years. That's how long Morden had been fighting. Ever since he was but a boy of nine when his father had thrust a wooden sword in his hand in the yard. He had fought in skirmishes, duels and wars. He had distinguished himself as a knight of rare skill and had gained a formidable reputation amongst his peers. It had not been easy. But ever since he was a lad, he had fought tooth and nail to survive.
Morden was a hard and often harsh man. Life had a way of teaching one how to roll with punches. This though was something else entirely. How could one fight that which they could not even see?
For all Aelon's efforts with edicts and focus on health, he had been unable to completely prevent the sickness from spreading. Sure, the people of Eastwood were far better off than those anywhere else, but even Aelon, despite his uncanny ability to work miracles, could not stop the plague. Morden turned in his bed with a groan, attempting futilely to stop the shaking in his limbs.
Never had he thought that he would embrace the Stranger in such a way. He had always thought, hoped even, that when he died, it would be on the battlefield, with a sword in his hands, in service to a good and just Lord. He let out a weak chuckle. At least he got the last part right.
The night before he fell sick, he had been but a little weary and had woken up in the morning with a fever that seemingly burned him up from the inside and left him with a rattling cough. Ironic then, for a sickness that burns to become known as The Shivers.
Over the past three days, the Maester had attempted a number of remedies, all the while wearing one of the masks that Aelon had instituted for those dealing with the sick. Many had attempted to visit him, but Morden had refused entry in his quarters. He could only hope his infection didn't spread throughout the castle. He would rather die alone than take those he cared for with him.
Even so, James and Cassana had forced themselves into his rooms the night before when it became clear that he would not survive. His former squire and niece had been beside themselves with grief and it had taken all that he had left to not shed tears. The Lady Elena and Serwyn had also brought the children outside his door and he had spoken to little ones through closed doors as best as he could manage. Now, there was but one thing left to do.
Armon came in for another of his visits, though rather than his reasonably good cheer, his demeanour remained sombre.
Morden coughed into his fist and spoke, "I'm not dead yet you know."
Armon looked up slightly startled, "I know, Ser. But-"
Some of The Knight's regular fire entered him, "If you plan to remind me that most who catch it die, don't bother. My final hours needn't be filled with such drivel."
Armon opened his mouth to speak but decided better. Instead, choosing to remain in amicable silence.
"How's Aelon today?"
"I haven't yet seen him, should I send for him?"
Morden paused for a moment, "I would like to speak to him, before the end."
Armon gave him a sad smile, "I will have someone fetch him. Rest and wait."
"Armon…." called out Morden, as the Maester was about to close the door.
"Yes, Morden?"
"Take care of them."
"I will, my friend," said the old Maester as he gazed upon his sickly form and if Morden's eyesight were not clouded by sickness and age, he may have noticed the tears forming in Armon's eyes.
"Thank you Armon," rasped the knight as he took a laboured breath.
The Maester could only nod as he turned and left the room.
It would be almost half an hour later when the door next opened, cautiously, as if expecting the smell of a rotten corpse.
"Stop pussyfooting and get your arse in here, boy."
The door opened fully. A frown marred the man's face as he settled down, occupying the chair at the bedside, "I'm unsure if that's the correct way to address your Lord, Ser."
Morden's voice was faint as he replied, "No it probably isn't, but it is certainly the correct way to address a son."
Aelon met his eyes and seemed speechless as Morden continued, "I have served you since you were a child. A talented boy, if a little dim on occasion. You were an orphan and I never married, is it so surprising to hear I've viewed you as my own?"
Calming down, the Lord answered with a whisper, "No, I suppose it's not. You could have picked a better moment to tell me though."
Morden chuckled slightly before giving in to a wave of coughing that brought a grimace to his scarred face, "I would not have you become a sentimental fool. I am your sword and shield. To be used as you deem fit. We could not afford anything else."
Aelon spoke once more, "Well now I need the man who has been the closest thing I have to a father more than I need a sword and shield."
Aelon's words were like a balm to sickness. He had always known deep down that Aelon cared for him as well, but hearing the words from him was something else altogether.
Unfortunately he had a reputation to uphold and he refused to be seen as a soft invalid in his last moments. Morden raised a brow and grunted before speaking. "There will soon be questions about how it is you know the things you do," He put a hand up here to stop Aelon from interrupting, "I am not asking as I have not the time to fret, but you must be prepared to answer others soon enough. The time to put an end to your hiding is fast approaching, it simply isn't viable anymore with all you've accomplished."
The sick man finished his speech with a fit of coughing that drew blood onto the cloth he held against his face.
Aelon knelt by his mentor's bedside looking helplessly as he took shallow breaths to calm himself.
"I fear boy, that our time is drawing short."
Aelon spoke, eyes watering, "I wish I could say otherwise, but you wouldn't like me to lie."
The gruff man coughed a laugh "Aye, nothing worse than a liar. You are a good lord, Aelon. I wish I could have seen what you'll make of this land, but you'll have to make do with other servants," The knight tried to laugh but only coughed more, this time not subsiding for much longer.
"You are no servant my friend. You have been by my side since I was but a snot nosed brat. You were the one who taught me how to hold a sword, how to cast judgement, and how to be a man. I only wish that you could have done the same for my children as well."
A solitary tear slipped down Morden's cheek as he turned to see the young man he had come to think of as a son.
"You take care of them, you understand me. And not just them, but James, Cassana, Serwyn, Warren and the rest as well. But more importantly, you are the rock that holds this all together Aelon. So you better take care of yourself as well lad. I better not see you on the other side until you are far older and more wrinkled than I am," said the Knight, his voice choking either from sickness or emotion. Probably both.
"There are many things that have gone unsaid between us these past years-"
"I know lad. I always have. I won't have you going soft on me now. I think I raised you better than that," interrupted Morden.
Aelon could only nod at that as he let out a soft sniffle.
"Once Winter ends, the vultures are gonna start circling boy. You better be ready. Protect all that we have built this past decade. I may not be there by your side, boy. But maybe that's for the better. You don't want some old relic by your side. The world needs more young visionaries like you," continued Morden. His voice strained with effort, every breath more laboured than the last. Silence fell across the room for a few moments.
"Thank you, Morden. For everything."
"No..Thank you…My Lord. It has been an honour," gasped the Knight.
"The honour was all mine," choked out Aelon.
Morden had long since settled down into the bed deeply, fatigue overcoming him.
Aelon dearly wished that this plague wasn't airborne so he could be closer to Morden.
The man was shivering hard now, his teeth almost chattering. Soon enough the coughing resumed and seemed as if it would never stop, Morden, growing frantic as if he couldn't breathe. A shuddering gasp left the gaunt Knight, the shivering settled down and was replaced with mere twitches. Then he was merely still.
Aelon's jaw worked open and closed and his hands shook as if fatigued, a lonely tear tracing its way down his cheek.
Mid 59AC
Eastwood Sept
The moonlight shone across the white stone surfaces. Casting shadows on the carved faces of the Seven. He had never been a religious man. Much preferring cold logic to hope and prayer. Yet was his entrance into this world, not itself a feat of magic? Perhaps even something divine.
Churches had always brought him peace in his old world, and the sept in which he stood was nothing if not a church. The altar upon which the man who was as a father to him stood a few yards in front of his position. The practice of standing vigil had seemed so strange to him before, yet now he understood. It wasn't really a practice of honouring the dead, but of allowing the bereaved a night of peace to think about them.
Others had offered to stand vigil in his stead, but Morden had always been a man of duty, how could he shirk his now?
He took a deep breath to steady himself and closed his eyes. Focusing on the memories he possessed of the man. How he had arrived with him to Eastwood for the first time when it was merely a dirt poor village and a tower on a hill. How Morden had beaten him around the yard until some skill at arms seeped in. How Morden had grown tired of merely standing with him in his solar and picked up the hobby of reading.
None Aelon had ever known had shown more willingness to adapt their practices. When he first began his innovations, Morden was his sole supporter. Shielding him from the tides of public opinion and naysayers and fostering his spirit with his own iron will and dependable strength.
In all his life he would never have a sworn sword turned master at arms who had been through those experiences with him. That was the real loss. The loss of someone who had truly understood him.
Taking another breath he moved his thoughts to the others currently in mourning, the most pronounced of all were James and Cassana. His niece and his squire, perhaps the only competent and dependable candidate for Morden's replacement. He had certainly left big boots to fill.
Aelon had given James leave from his duties to be with Cassana when she heard the news; they hadn't been seen for nearly a full day before eventually emerging for the funeral. The young girl had become especially close to Morden since her arrival in Eastwood. While Morden had never shown it overtly, it had heartened him to finally have a member of his family near him.
Even James had been struck with grief. Morden had been his mentor for many years and the man who had knighted him. Perhaps even more of a father to him than Ser Harys Potter had ever been. He had joined me in my vigil and true to his mentor's training, remained by my side until the very end. He was a good man and I was lucky to have his loyalty. His skills would be needed soon enough.
Morden had warned in his last breaths that the relative peace he had enjoyed so far was soon to end, perhaps that was true. The Vulture King would soon assail the Marches and like a certain Mockingbird once said, chaos is a ladder. Westeros had been at peace for over a decade now. And even in Jaehaerys's reign, that was too long a time without strife in this shithole of a continent.
Preparations would need to be made. How he could do that without it seeming the act of an aggressor he didn't know. But failing to prepare is preparing to fail, as someone had definitely once said.
He stood there for hours after, considering his plans and how best to go about ensuring his successes didn't turn to failures. How not to allow everything he had built to crumble under the pressures to come, and as the sun rose, and his vigil ended. He swore that he would honour his friend's memory with his deeds, not words.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein