章 74: 5
Chapter Five
Early 49AC
Eastwood
I raised the cup to my lips and took a small sip. Suppressing my gag reflex with effort, I swallowed the vile concoction I was dressing up as a luxury drink in little barrels for the idiots of Westeros to consume. My name day had passed a few days ago, and at the age of fourteen, I had deemed myself old enough to drink whisky.
As it turned out, whisky was not so simple to make with limited technology and only a moderate understanding of its principles. Thinking back on it, it was incredible how many things people consumed and used on a daily basis that none truly understood. One thing I had learnt was that seeing something work and being able to replicate it are two truly different things.
The first batch of whisky had gone fine really. The malting and mashing was simple stuff and my smallfolk employees easily got the hang of it. It was the distillation that caused the most hassle. Though I had eventually, after much experimentation and queer looks from those around me, managed to fashion the said copper into the shape I remembered of distilleries.
I sat at my simple oak desk in the Lord's solar, looking down at the small barrel. One of ten that had gone successfully. The barrels had to be specially made since they were of a much smaller size than anything used practically. I also didn't want to be shipping off luxury goods to lords in a fish barrel. That would ruin the taste.
I had had my doubts about my chosen sigil after my conversion with Ser Buckler at Storm's End. Yet I must admit the golden tree looks rather good when painted on the side of a whisky barrel, the words 'Eastwood Whisky' carved in a curve beneath it.
I had done it. A smile made its way onto my face at that thought. The barn I had appropriated for the production of stills and the whisky itself was a small thing for now but enough to produce the first few barrels in order to give a taste to possible buyers. Grinding the malt into grist and extracting soluble sugars was not a complicated thing but plenty time consuming and tedious. After some months of maturation, I had created something that was passably whisky, at least enough to be drunk and sold even if the taste created with ageing wasn't yet present.
Later batches will definitely be left for longer, but first sales were a necessity to continue the business. In Scotland, it couldn't even be called whisky until it has aged for three years. A good thing this wasn't there. Trading standards were such a pesky thing.
I took a sip from the mug with my moonshine whisky, winced and coughed as it burned. Aside from the barrel on my desk, there were nine more ready to be sent to surrounding castles as gifts, and another fifty were ageing in a building near the malting house. Not ideal conditions all things considered but I had ordered the construction of a proper facility prior to leaving on my Progress, for producing and storing my whisky that would be ready in a few moons.
Another new batch was currently under production in my current facility and I had ordered a hundred barrels to be produced this time. Upon the production of this batch, I estimated that my new facility would be complete and I would be able to shift production there, thereby vastly improving the quality and volume of my output.
Pricing was something still being considered. The price of smallfolk labour was near nothing, a request from the Lord of the lands you lived on was less of a negotiation and more of a 'start jumping'. Which was sad for them but also good for me for the time being, they were, of course, paid a bit but with the piddling amount of gold in the treasury, and the sheer amount of development projects that I had ordered during my progress, I could not afford to be too kind-hearted. They will be compensated once the coin starts flowing.
Maester Armon had argued against such undertakings at first but resigned himself to waiting for my idea to fail, discouraged with his young Lord's apparent lack of sense.
My confidence came from what I knew of the world I now lived in. If there was one thing you can count on in Westeros, it's that alcohol would always be consumed. Mines may run dry, crops may wither, but in every corner of the land, some fucker was always drinking.
I set the cask aside and grabbed my writing materials. I would be dispatching two kegs to Storm's End as a gift to Lord Baratheon. It would be a faux pas not to dispatch some to my direct Liege Lord. The favour of House Baratheon seemed like a good start for giving nobility a taste of a new way to rot their livers and empty their coffers. As my liege lord, it also seemed polite to inform him of the project I had been working on.
I sighed and set myself to the task of writing several letters I could only call blatant self-promotion leaflets. I took another swig out of my mug and just about managed to stop myself from coughing again.
This shit has a long way to go.
In the Tower of the Hand, a man coughed violently much to the worry of his squire and servants. The reason was the cask of unfamiliar liquid he had sampled.
With smarting eyes, the Lord Regent said, "Fuck me, and I thought we Baratheon's could handle our drink."
The worried looks on the faces of his servants receded and some even smiled. Lord Rogar was a well-loved man within the Stormlands, though not always elsewhere in the kingdom and none of his servants wished to see him come to harm through sword or poison.
He turned his attention again towards the mug he had nearly dropped. Eyes curiously wandering over the brown substance. It had been given as a gift by his newest bannerman. Lord Aelon, son of Daegon. A man who had saved his life during the battle and earned lands that he would never see. He had never met the lad, but Bruce had written to him and said that the boy was unusually intelligent and astute for his age. After that, he had promptly forgotten about the existence of the young Lordling.
Only yesterday he had received two kegs of this so-called Eastwood Whisky. The cask had come from Storm's End with a warning from his castellan Bruce of the drink's potency. Ser Bruce certainly was not wrong. Despite the brutal power of the so-called 'Whisky', he found it gave him a warm feeling in his chest that he rather liked. While the taste took some getting used to, it wasn't as bad as some of the ale he had consumed over the course of his life. Resolving to allow the rest of the casks to be distributed at tonight's feast he set the mug down. He had letters to write, a cloudy mind would be of no use.
Lord Rogar Baratheon laughed as he watched a young man spew his dinner across the polished floors of the dining hall.
His bannerman's whisky had been only tentatively consumed in the opening hour of the feast, but as men become drunker they also become braver. Drinking contests soon erupted over who could consume the most. Boys often feel invincible before being proved false, drinking was not an exception to this rule.
It did not take long for the casks of whisky to run dry and a disappointed chatter erupted from the drunk men. Eyes turned to Lord Rogar as he had presented the drink.
"My lord, this here whisky is a fine thing. Might I ask where you found such a drink? I have neither seen nor tasted its like before. Honour demands that I bid thanks to the man who created this wondrous concoction." Asked the young Ser Stokeworth. Words slurred.
Rogar smiled at the drunken Knight. "A bannerman of mine has begun to produce the stuff by the barrel. I suggest you direct your requests to Lord Aelon of House Eastwood."
The Knight then raised his last cup of Whisky in a toast, "To Lord Aelon of Eastwood then!"
"To Aelon!" A drunken chorus of agreement followed his statement. Rogar snorted in amusement. Young Aelon would be inundated with messengers soon, of that there was no doubt.
Early 49 AC
Eastwood
It had been a few days since the first batch of whisky had been dispatched to the various Lords of the Stormlands as well as to Storm's End. As I awaited their response, there was much work to be done on my ongoing projects. As I sat in my solar, awaiting Maester Armon, to whom I had sent a servant with my summons, I perused the various reports on my desk. With the projects that I had authorised during my progress, funds had been dispatched to the various towns and my treasury lay precariously close to empty. But with tax season coming up soon, and depending on the success of my venture with whisky, hopefully, I would begin seeing returns soon.
A few moments later, I heard a knock on my door and Maester Armon walked in. "You summoned me, my Lord?"
"Yes Maester, please have a seat." He took a seat and I continued, "What's the news on our soap production? Last I recall, you stated that with some work it could be improved further." I said as I leaned back in my seat.
His eyes lit up with excitement, "Well my Lord, it was a most challenging task that you set to me. One of the tanners who worked on it had the wonderful idea of adding some oils to the mixture which have made the block more stable and increased its utility as well."
He hastily ordered a servant to fetch some notes from his solar as he continued, "The blocks that we have created so far are exceptionally effective at cleaning wool and cotton. One of the tanners used it to clean his tools off grease and blood and found that it was frighteningly effective. We started using this soap to clean other surfaces of stone and metal which yielded similar results. It appears to be a popular product that you have created here, my Lord."
I looked at the door as the servant entered with the notes and handed them to the reachman.
"As you can see, the use of this soap not only is effective at cleaning but also quicker than traditional liquid soaps. It increases the quality of our exported wool. There is already huge demand for these blocks from the craftsmen that used them as well as other townsfolk who have heard tell of this. However, I have held off on selling any until I received your approval, my Lord."
As the Maester was speaking I raised a brow. While I had some vague ideas that involved using wood ash and animal fat, based on some reading I had done years ago in school, I had never expected such results.
Armon seemed to be a bit zealous regarding the product, as I doubted it was truly as miraculous as he stated. Regardless, the results were extremely positive which I could already imagine bringing gold to the coffers. I had thought of creating body wash to market as a luxury product to Lords and merchants, which would certainly require some experimentation.
As the Maester rambled on about the potential uses for the Eastwood Soap as it was being called, I sat back baffled in my seat only half-listening to his words, wondering how I had reached this point.
Well, life gave me lemons and I somehow ended up making grape juice.
The Maester was a problem that had begun to recede after my successes with the soap and the census. When I first arrived he had most likely expected to be left mostly in charge of the lands since I am still, despite my ability, a boy by the standards of these lands. Looking at the situation from his eyes I bore no ill will for his animosity, I would likely act the same as he had were our roles reversed.
I had spent the entire day in the Town, overseeing the production of the soap in an old building that had been repurposed to a production facility. The soap was being produced in reasonable quantities and while there were occasional issues with the setup, those would be eliminated with time and experience. We were currently producing over three hundred bars of soap every day that I had priced at four Copper Stars, which was the equivalent of a little more than half a silver stag. This was so that the price remained affordable to smallfolk as well.
Whilst the low prices meant there would be little profit in it for me, there was a much grander play at work here. The smallfolk in my lands would actually be able to afford it which I hoped would vastly improve their lives. Where I would truly make money was when I exported the product. For every bar of soap that was exported I would charge an additional two Copper Stars.
Maester Armon and I were also working on producing a more premium product for use by highborn and merchants that also possessed a pleasant fragrance. Essentially the actual soap that I had originally intended to create. This soap used only cow fat and much higher quality oils and was thus slightly more expensive to make. It was this soap that I would sell as a luxury product and charge the nobles a pretty penny for the right to not smell like pigs in shit.
While production was currently still in the early stages, that was primarily due to initial teething problems. Maester Armon assured me that we would be producing enough to export in a couple of moons. While the volume was still low as both Maester Armon and I agreed that the demand for the product would be far greater than we could currently produce, we had already made plans to expand the facility to allow for greater production by mid-year. By the time the sun had set, I found myself up in my solar with Maester Armon.
"Lord Aelon, you have received a raven from Storm's End." I looked up at him to see him holding a rolled-up piece of parchment. Taking it from his hand I unrolled it and began to read.
I rubbed my eyes, pinched myself and re-read the letter three times.
He liked it.
Surely he isn't being genuine. The letter was from Ser Bruce announcing that he had sent one of the barrels to King's Landing for Lord Baratheon. Lord Rogar had actually enjoyed drinking a six-month-old poorly distilled swill that had a pretty tree painted on it. Interesting.
Of the ten kegs I dispatched to surrounding lords, two of the replies I received had described 'Eastwood Whisky' as foul and an insult to their bodily constitution and another lord had seemingly taken the sting as a personal challenge and all but demanded more. The remaining Lords, most notably the Errols of Haystack Hall and the Dondarrions of Blackhaven had stated that they enjoyed it and ordered a few more barrels. But for the Lord of the Stormlands and Hand of the King, to have enjoyed it meant that others would surely follow. Who would dare insult my whisky when their Lord himself enjoyed it.
I smiled. Lord Rogar had asked in his letter that I sell him a further fifteen casks. I decided to set the price high. House Baratheon was far from poor and despite the pisswater quality of the whisky currently, as it aged it would become far more palatable and income from its export would allow me to improve the process. Five dragons a barrel seemed a fair price, the wealth disparity in Westeros is enough to make the eyes water. A skilled labourer can expect to earn about three gold dragons per year.
In terms of rich versus poor in Westeros, there are two completely different scales of economy. The poor can scrounge by every week on handfuls of groats and not even silver, it's a life in poverty to be sure, but they are able to cover most of life's basic necessities never touching the higher denominations. Sure, there are various classes among the poor as well which may even be called a distinct middle class, but the disparity between the middle class and the nobility was so great that it was almost laughable if it weren't so sad at the same time. The nobility of Westeros operated predominantly in gold dragons and silver. Even the nobility's minor expenses could cost dragons which would be months of a smallfolk's wages.
As such to a High Lord, five dragons for a barrel? Not a drop in the bucket. If Lord Baratheon's love for my whisky extends to others in his court, I stand to make a fortune. Especially since Lord Rogar currently resides in the Red Keep with the King himself. The idea of receiving royal favour for my product made me giddy.
"Thank you Maester. I think I will head down to the yard with Ser Morden for some practice. I also need to arrange expanded production of whisky so it can age for longer before dispatch." That said, I rose from my comfortable chair.
"Ah, my lord. Apologies, but there is another matter for you to attend to." The Maester said.
I turned around and looked at him expectantly.
He continued, "There is a group of immigrants who arrived outside Eastwood early this morning. They wish to settle in these lands and are petitioning for your permission." My eyebrows rose in surprise. Migrants, I hadn't planned for that. I cleared my throat and spoke, "I will speak to them first then. Where are they currently?"
After he gave me the directions I exited my solar as two guards fell into step behind me. Outside the keep we mounted horses, joined by my faithful knight Ser Morden and we rode down to the large group of tents adjacent to the river.
"Who leads here?" I spoke loudly, hoping my voice would carry across the tents.
A tall man wearing roughspun linen idled out to meet me. Eyes focused directly on the floor in front of me. I hoped that on horseback and with guards I presented a rather intimidating figure.
"I do, milord." said the dirty man.
"Where have you come from and what are your intentions in my lands?" The group look as if they have been through hell, well, more hell than is normal in Westeros.
"We were caught between bandits and the guards of our previous village in the lands of House Buckler. The village was burned during the skirmish." He slowed at this point and stammered slightly, "We heard that your lands have work and decided to come here in hopes of settling, milord." The man's eyes remained firmly settled on the grass in front of my horse.
So people had heard there was work in my lands? That wasn't so good. Other lords most definitely won't be happy if they think I am poaching their smallfolk. But what was I supposed to do, turn them away? This presented an excellent opportunity for the expansion of my business.
"What's your name?" I pronounced in a deeper and more assertive tone. Developing my 'lord voice' had been the work of many days of practice.
The man shuffled nervously, "Bryan, milord. A farmer by trade."
"Well Bryan, you will be responsible for ensuring these people find their places in Eastwood. Coordinate with my Steward. I suggest you do this job well, especially since there will be work for them as I expand my business operations here." The man nodded furiously as I finished speaking.
I felt slightly bad for making him responsible for his fellows, but a bit of fear never hurt anyone. My mind turned to a different topic, namely the subject of better housing for my people. Concrete would be a very useful invention in that direction, and rather simple as well if I remember correctly. I decided to look into finding some lime.
I turned my horse and rode back to the keep with my guards and Ser Morden in tow. This Lord thing is stressful.
I sat on the top floor of the keep. The tower contained the rookery and Maester Armon's quarters. As you might expect, lessons from a medieval scholar were somewhat underwhelming. Whilst a number of basic principles were known, many were confused or half baked and more still were entirely wrong. I was currently enduring a history lesson. Suffering alongside me were Fred and Ser Harys's son James, who had returned with me to Eastwood to begin his fostering. He was settling in well thus far and Ser Morden had reported that he was a good squire and performed his duties admirably.
"-it was this point in the war which would be the true turning point."
Ah yes, the riveting telling of one of a thousand Dornish-Marcher wars before the coming of Aegon the Conqueror. I liked the Maester and admired his enthusiasm for the subject. Yet there are only so many times you can hear the same story with a different date before you lose interest.
It was at this point I decided to interrupt.
"Maester, as interesting as this is. Could you teach us about the tactics involved in major battles rather than just the events themselves? I think an understanding of strategy would serve us better than history lessons." Armon frowned and for a moment I thought I had overstepped before his features lightened up.
"Ah, yes my Lord. I understand you have taken a liking to martial pursuits. Ahem, perhaps a closer look at how levies are conscripted from the local population would be better suited to you." He beamed at me before launching himself into what I was sure would be a very detailed and punitive explanation.
I was sure I would be in the study for some time until Ser Morden barged into the room looking flustered.
"Apologies, Lord Aelon. Your presence has been requested in the malting hall."
The Maester frowned before conceding, "Ah of course. Aelon, we can continue this discussion on the morrow." I gave him a grin before I hastily followed the guard out through the door.
When we were in the hallway, I turned to Ser Morden who now appeared free of his previous haste. He gave me what may have been the first smile I had seen from him, "Now my lord. Should we head to the yard? I believe your time will be better spent there. You have enough ideas as it is."
My eyes widened. Weren't knights supposed to obey their lords? I opened my mouth to retort but he was already setting a pace to the outside of the keep.
Fuck. Outplayed by a knight.
Today was a big day. In my search for stone for numerous projects I had committed to, I had discovered that the closest quarry for the quality of stone I required was located to the North. As such, I had been corresponding with the Errols of Haystack Hall. They possessed several quarries in their lands which well met my requirement for stone and regularly exported small quantities to Eastwood. However, my requirement was far greater than that which was purchased previously.
Lord Adam Errol was a friendly man and had been eager to strike a deal. His last raven had stated his second son, Ser Edwell Errol, would be coming to Eastwood to continue trade talks.
I had dressed in the finest clothes I could find. I would certainly have to see about ordering some more made as the plain black doublet and britches I wore would likely look out of place in situations amongst the higher lords.
It turned out I needn't have worried as the blonde figure with four guards rode up to my tower. He was dressed in a suit of chainmail, as most Knights travelled in armour along the unsafe roads of Westeros.
Deciding polite conversation was a safe place to start, I began, "Greetings, Ser Edwell I presume? I hope the roads were kind to you during your travels."
"Aye, my lord. The roads here are certainly better than I remembered." The Knight replied. I placed his age in his late teens, perhaps twenty.
I let out a chuckle, "That they will be, I have taken steps to ensure the roads in my lands are of proper quality and well kept. Please come in, I have some food prepared and some whisky if you like."
"I've heard things about this whisky of yours, some good, some bad. It would be good to finally get to the bottom of it." The blonde knight gave a grin.
I smiled at him and we walked into my tower and into the dining hall where a small feast had been prepared. I caught the gaze of one of my servants and asked, "Could you fetch us a barrel of whisky?" Edwell seemed surprised at my politeness but said nothing.
"I must say I was surprised to find out your House possessed a quarry. I believed your lands were mostly farmlands." I enquired. Edwell nodded his head thoughtfully, "You'd be right, but there is good stone to the North-East of our hall too. Our stone has been used for the walls of many castles."
"Excellent as that is, frankly, one of the things I intend it for. I would very much like this tower expanded and turned into a true castle."
Edwell looked around and hummed to himself, "That would require a large amount. Do you happen to have plans for it, so I can try and calculate the pricing?" I had been prepared for that eventuality and passed the sketches the builders had drawn to him.
The servant returned with a barrel of whisky and two cups to my thanks. He looked impressed, "This would be a formidable castle once fully built. Large enough to hold a garrison of some hundred and fifty men by the looks of it. Though I must warn you it will be a very large expense."
I chuckled, "I am aware. That's not even the only project I need your stone for." I passed him the plan for the Sept I had tentatively called the Stormtower. His eyes widened, "This is quite the design, I take it the tower is a lighthouse?"
I nodded with a smile, "Yes, I figured two birds with one stone would be the best way to go about it. The state of the sept there is horrific. I do not need to explain to a Knight the importance a Sept holds to the people. As their Lord, it is my duty to ensure that they are taken care of and the Seven are honoured in my lands. Furthermore, if I'm to begin more seafaring ventures, with this being Shipbreaker Bay, I will certainly need a lighthouse. Which handily brings us to the third load of stone I need."
I passed him the final design. This one was a bit less well planned. "The idea is to sink large stone blocks around the harbour-"
Edwell interrupted, "To create a sheltered anchorage. Ingenious. I believe these are in use in a few other cities and it works to great effect." Huh. I hadn't heard that but it made sense I wasn't the first person to think of it. The fact there is precedent for the design actually worked in my favour.
"So, can you provide the necessary stone for these projects?" I answered. Edwell looked contemplative, "Yes, but it will take a long time. The stone has to be moved by wagon and with the amount you require I would estimate full delivery to take years.
I nodded, having expected that result, "It is a fortunate thing that I have years to wait, is it not?"
The Errol Knight laughed and raised his cup of whisky in a toast. I matched his movement and watched gleefully as he took his first mouthful, swallowing with a great wince and coughing into his fist.
We spent the rest of the day in conversation discussing and haggling overpricing, payment schedules and delivery times. It was all in good spirit and I found myself appreciating my conversation with the Knight. Ser Edwell proved that under his chainmail and Knightly chivalry, lay a shrewd and intelligent mind.
He would go on to spend a few more days in Eastwood, touring the town with me and occasionally joining Ser Morden, James and myself in the yard. As a swordsman, he was fairly decent and trounced me on every occasion due to his obvious greater reach, strength and experience. Sparring with him turned out to be hugely beneficial as it exposed me to a different style of fighting than that of Ser Morden.
A sennight later when he departed for Haystack Hall, I was truly sad to see him go. Intelligent company was hard to find in Westeros and I had come to consider the man one of the few genuine friends I had made during my time in Westeros. As I bade farewell to him at the gates, I saw Ser Morden waiting for me in the courtyard.
"Did you really think you could escape sparring today my Lord?" He said with a blank expression, although I was sure that internally he was smirking in smug satisfaction.
Time for my daily beating session. Wait that doesn't sound right.
A few days later, I sat in my solar going over my finances. Purchasing the stone from Errols was going to nearly bankrupt me. With the sheer number of projects that I had ordered during my progress, my expenses had surged and whilst I still had a modest sum of gold in my treasury, it was sure to be spent very quickly. While whisky sales were rising rapidly it was not yet at a level where I was making substantial profits. More so in the soap business that needed volume and exports to be truly profitable.
I had received word from Mayor Monfryd in Southwood. They had constructed a prototype kiln that had promptly exploded within an hour of testing due to what I surmised to be a build-up of smoke and carbon monoxide. They were building another one with small holes poked into the sides to ensure that the gas and smoke could escape and were hopeful that this version would yield better results. It was an expected setback. I had not expected that they would manage to build a perfect kiln within a few moons. But I was nonetheless disappointed. Adding revenues from increased charcoal production and export within the next few moons would have substantially improved my cash flow.
I was currently waiting on Ser Jarett and Warren as they had requested an audience with me to share their results regarding their investigation into the tax collectors. I had been following their investigation closely before I left for my Progress and they had seemed to be making fair headway. Since returning a moon's turn ago, they had informed me that their investigation was nearly complete and I had decided to adopt a hands-off approach as interfering at such a late stage would not be prudent.
As they entered my solar, I raised my brow when I noticed that Warren was accompanied by two servants carrying three massive sets of books and several stacks of notes in their hands. I gave them leave to set the paperwork down on my desk as Warren and Ser Jarett got seated opposite me. The servants bowed and exited my solar upon completing their task and I turned to Warren and Jarett and gestured at them to begin.
"The past few moons since you assigned us this task have been perplexing, my Lord." He began, "I have scoured the books, going as far back as twelve years ago in some cases. The records were not well maintained and sorting through them had been a task, but once I was able to do so, a clearer picture began to emerge. As you are undoubtedly aware, there are 26 tax collectors employed by you in these lands. While the wrongdoing of four tax collectors is clearly evident with much proof available in our records, the rest are not as clear."
He cleared his throat as I waved at him to continue, "As I stated my Lord, the records are unclear, many books were not stored well and have thus succumbed to rot and some are missing altogether. Whether this is due to incompetence or malicious behaviour on behalf of the previous Castellan is not for me to comment on. We have been able to identify these three collectors who have lost substantial sums every year since they have been appointed."
He pushed forward a set of notes which in detail described how the accused went about their crimes along with referencing the specific pages in the books where the said wrongdoing was evident. The notes were detailed and as Warren explained them, it became clear to me that the guilt of these three men was beyond question.
It was at this point that Ser Jarett joined the conversation, "I have investigated these men personally, my Lord. They live far beyond that which should be affordable to them. One of these men resides in Eastwood and recently placed an order for a barrel of Eastwood whisky my Lord." Stupidity of the highest level. A barrel of whisky was priced at 5 dragons. No tax collector in Westeros should be able to afford that.
Ser Jarett continued, "Additionally my Lord, we are deeply suspicious of 11 other tax collectors but are unable to present much evidence against them. They live in houses and spend gold that should be far beyond their stations but with the records either rotted or missing it would be difficult to prove that their gold was stolen from you as opposed to having come from other sources. I have personally investigated each of these eleven men and my gut says that they are undoubtedly guilty. I pray they burn in the Seven Hells, but we have no evidence to present against them."
I spent the next few hours going through the paperwork presented by Ser Jarett and Warren. They had done impeccable work. Whilst going through the records Ser Jarett had discovered that certain merchants from the lands of House Buckler had neglected to pay tariffs to us when exporting their products here for six years now. Similar oversights wherein collectors had forgotten to levy taxes on wealthy merchants and tradesmen had also been uncovered.
Over the next couple of days, I contemplated what actions I could take. There was not much I could do with regards to my tax collectors without appearing to be heavy-handed and cruel. The four who were clearly guilty would hang, there was no doubt about that. I needed to set an example. As for the remaining eleven, against whom we could not find evidence, I had instructed Warren to have them replaced over the course of the next few moons but before tax season was upon us.
Strict edicts would also be issued regarding the proper conduct to be followed by collectors.
Warren was in the process of ensuring that new records were stored safely and had also initiated measures that he had used when he served Lord Swann, ensuring that tax collectors would be properly audited and monitored.
Dealing with finances and accounting was something that I had always been fairly skilled at in my previous life. But Warren was on another level altogether. I would have to ensure that he was properly rewarded for his efforts. As for Ser Jarett, I had already been considering appointing him the Head of the Eastwood Town Guard for a while now. I would consult Maester Armon and Ser Morden on doing so tomorrow.
For now, I yawned heavily and made my way to my quarters. I may be nearly forty years old mentally, but my fourteen-year-old body still needed at least eight hours of sleep every night.
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