Chapter 7: Agricultural Revolution- Part 2
POV: Corwyn Darke
Two months changed the landscape.
The demonstration fields that had been bare brown furrows now stood knee-high with green—wheat and beans interplanted in the patterns I'd taught, growing stronger together than either would alone. The irrigation channels Torren's father had dug decades ago ran clear again, carrying water from the eastern creek to plots that had been dry for a generation.
I walked the rows at dawn, dew soaking through my boots, cataloging progress with the System's agricultural overlay.
[ AGRICULTURAL STATUS UPDATE ]
[ DEMONSTRATION FIELD A: +32% PROJECTED YIELD ]
[ DEMONSTRATION FIELD B: +28% PROJECTED YIELD ]
[ TRADITIONAL FIELDS (CONTROL): -3% (SOIL DEPLETION CONTINUING) ]
The numbers confirmed what my eyes already saw. The experimental plots were thriving. The fields farmed the old way—continuous wheat, no rotation, no irrigation—were slowly dying.
"Two months to prove a concept. Two more to scale it. By next harvest, we'll have twice the food on half the effort."
"My lord."
Torren approached through the morning mist, moving easier than he had when we'd first met. The old farmer had shed years of skepticism along with some of his chronic pain—the latter thanks to Maester Harlan's new interest in practical medicine.
"Torren. Early start."
"Couldn't sleep." He stopped beside me, surveying the fields with an expression I'd learned to read as grudging pride. "Kept thinking about what my gran would say if she saw this."
"What would she say?"
"Probably that it took a lord acting like a peasant to remember what peasants already knew." A dry laugh. "She had strong opinions about nobility."
"Smart woman."
We walked together through the rows, Torren pointing out details I might have missed—a patch of early blight that needed treatment, a section where the irrigation channels needed widening, a cluster of weeds threatening to choke the beans.
[ AGRICULTURAL KNOWLEDGE TRANSFER: 67% ]
[ LOCAL EXPERTISE INTEGRATION: ACTIVE ]
The System tracked everything, but increasingly I found myself relying on Torren's experience as much as its data. Numbers told you what was happening. Farmers told you why.
"The Fenwick family arrived yesterday," Torren said eventually. "That's the third this week."
"I know. Mira's handling their settlement."
"Five mouths to feed. Two working adults, three children." He kicked at a clod of dirt. "People are saying you welcome anyone who comes."
"People are right."
"And if we can't feed them all?"
I stopped walking, turning to face him. The sun had cleared the horizon now, painting the fields in shades of gold. "Torren, what's our projected yield increase for next harvest?"
"Thirty percent. Maybe more if the weather holds."
"And our current food production can support how many people?"
He thought about it. "Two hundred. Two-ten with rationing."
"So with the increase, we can support..."
"Two-sixty. Maybe two-seventy." His eyes widened slightly. "You planned for this."
"I planned for growth." I resumed walking, and he fell into step beside me. "Every family that joins us is another pair of hands in the fields, another set of skills to draw on, another reason for the domain to succeed. The math works, Torren. It just requires thinking three moves ahead instead of one."
POV: Maester Harlan
The numbers didn't lie.
Harlan sat in his study, surrounded by charts and ledgers, comparing yield data from the experimental plots against historical records. The results were... extraordinary.
"Thirty-two percent improvement in two months," he thought, running his finger down the column of figures. "Soil nitrogen levels rising. Pest damage reduced. Water efficiency improved."
The Citadel had theories about agricultural optimization—ancient Ghiscari texts, Valyrian treatises, scattered accounts from maesters who'd served in Essos. Most were dismissed as impractical or exaggerated.
Lord Corwyn had made them work.
A knock at the door interrupted his calculations. Mira Waters entered, her expression the careful neutral that meant she was carrying information she wasn't sure how to deliver.
"Maester. We have a situation."
"The new arrivals?"
"More than arrivals." She set a folded letter on his desk. "Lord Wendell of Stonebrook. He's sent a formal complaint to our lord, claiming we're 'stealing' his peasants."
Harlan picked up the letter, scanning its contents. The language was aggressive—accusations of poaching, demands for compensation, veiled threats of action if the "theft" continued.
"How many have come from Stonebrook?"
"Twelve families in the past month. Nearly forty people."
"Forty people. That's significant."
"What drew them?"
Mira's mask cracked slightly, showing something like pride. "Word spreads, Maester. Lord Corwyn pays fair wages. He doesn't beat the workers. He shares profits from the mining operations. He treats smallfolk like..." She paused, searching for words. "Like they matter."
"And Lord Wendell doesn't."
"Lord Wendell is the kind of man who whips farmers for arriving late to field work." Her voice hardened. "The Fenwick family—the ones who arrived yesterday—fled after he had their eldest son flogged for 'insolence.' The boy is thirteen."
Harlan set down the letter. The political implications were concerning—no lord liked losing workers, and complaints could escalate to formal disputes requiring Crown intervention. But the moral calculus was simpler.
"People flee cruelty for kindness. That's not theft. That's justice."
"Where is Lord Corwyn now?"
"The fields. He wanted to inspect the irrigation channels before the afternoon heat."
"Send word. He needs to see this letter. And..." Harlan hesitated, then added, "Tell him I recommend we respond with transparency. Share our agricultural methods freely. Turn a complaint into an opportunity."
Mira's eyebrows rose. "You think Lord Wendell would accept farming advice from a younger lord he's accusing of theft?"
"I think refusing to share knowledge makes us look guilty of hoarding. Offering it freely makes us look generous." Harlan allowed himself a small smile. "And if Lord Wendell is too proud to accept, the failure becomes his, not ours."
POV: Corwyn Darke
Lord Wendell's letter was exactly the kind of petty noble complaint I'd expected.
I read it in the shade of an oak tree at the field's edge, Gareth standing nearby with his perpetual frown, Harlan watching for my reaction. The language was florid and accusatory—"unconscionable poaching," "violation of feudal custom," "demand immediate return of stolen property."
"Property. He calls them property."
[ DIPLOMATIC CHALLENGE: LORD WENDELL COMPLAINT ]
[ OPTIONS: IGNORE / CONFRONT / DEFUSE ]
[ RECOMMENDED: DEFUSE (REPUTATION PRESERVATION) ]
"He wants his peasants back," Gareth summarized. "Or compensation. Or both."
"He wants control." I folded the letter carefully, tucking it into my belt. "People who leave make him look weak. Other lords might notice. Other peasants might get ideas."
"So what do we do?"
I thought about it. The aggressive response would be to tell Wendell to piss off—his peasants had left voluntarily, they weren't slaves, and he had no legal claim to them. Satisfying, but likely to escalate.
The passive response would be to apologize, offer token compensation, maybe send a few families back. That would preserve peace but destroy everything I'd built. Word would spread that Lord Corwyn breaks his promises when pressured.
"Neither. There's always a third option."
"Harlan, you suggested sharing our agricultural methods."
"I did, my lord."
"Write Lord Wendell a response. Apologize for any misunderstanding. Explain that we haven't sought to poach his workers—we've simply welcomed those who arrived seeking opportunity. Then offer to share our farming techniques freely. Crop rotation schedules, irrigation plans, the whole package. Frame it as neighborly cooperation."
Gareth grunted. "You think he'll accept?"
"I think he won't. His pride won't let him take advice from a younger lord he's already accused of wrongdoing." I stood, brushing dirt from my breeches. "But the offer will be on record. If he complains to higher authorities, we can show we tried to help. And if any other lords hear about it—which they will—they'll see House Darke as generous rather than predatory."
"And if he does accept?"
I shrugged. "Then his farms improve, his peasants stop leaving, and we've made an ally instead of an enemy. Either way, we win."
Harlan was already pulling out writing materials, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes. "I'll draft the letter immediately, my lord."
POV: Edric
The new families needed housing.
Edric spent three days helping build temporary shelters—rough timber frames with thatched roofs, nothing fancy but solid enough to keep out rain. His hands blistered and his back ached, but the work felt meaningful in ways that mucking stables never had.
Lord Corwyn appeared on the second day, sleeves rolled up, hammer in hand. He worked alongside the builders without complaint, driving nails and hauling beams, pausing only to answer questions or solve problems.
"He doesn't have to do this," Edric thought, watching his lord measure timber with careful precision. "He could just give orders and watch."
But that wasn't Lord Corwyn's way. Not anymore.
"Edric." The lord's voice cut through his thoughts. "Hand me that saw, would you?"
He scrambled to comply, passing the tool handle-first. "My lord. Can I ask something?"
"You can always ask."
"Why do you... why do you work with us? Instead of just telling us what to do?"
Lord Corwyn paused in his sawing, considering the question. Sawdust coated his forearms. Sweat darkened his collar. He looked nothing like the noble lords Edric had imagined from stories—resplendent in silks, commanding from thrones.
He looked like a man who got things done.
"Because work reveals truth," Lord Corwyn said finally. "When you labor alongside someone, you see who they really are. Their strengths. Their weaknesses. Their character." He resumed sawing, the blade biting cleanly through wood. "And they see you. Not the title, not the clothes—you. That's worth more than any amount of distance and dignity."
"My father used to say that nobility was about keeping distance. Making sure common folk knew their place."
"Your father was wrong." No judgment in the words, just fact. "Nobility is about responsibility. The power to help others, and the obligation to use it well." The board separated with a final crack. "A lord who hides behind distance isn't protecting his dignity. He's protecting his ignorance."
Edric absorbed this in silence, turning the words over in his mind. They felt true in a way he couldn't quite articulate—like something he'd always known but never had words for.
"Here." Lord Corwyn handed him the cut board. "Take this to the frame crew. Then come find me at sunset. I want to show you something."
"What?"
A brief smile crossed the lord's face—tired but genuine. "The future. Or at least, a piece of it."
POV: Corwyn Darke
The sunset meeting happened on the hillside overlooking the eastern valleys.
I'd brought Edric here deliberately—away from the keep, away from other ears—to show him what the System revealed when I triggered the resource overlay.
Of course, he couldn't see the overlay. To him, we were just sitting on rocks watching the light fade.
But I could describe what it meant.
"You see those hills?" I pointed toward the ridgeline where iron deposits slept. "In six months, there'll be mining operations there. Men working shifts, ore coming out daily, money flowing into Duskhollow."
"The old mines?" Edric's voice held wonder and skepticism in equal measure. "Everyone says they're played out."
"Everyone's wrong." I turned to face him directly. "Edric, I'm going to tell you something, and I need you to keep it secret. Can you do that?"
His back straightened. "Yes, my lord. I swear it."
"I've surveyed those hills personally. There's iron there—good iron, in quantities that could make us wealthy. But extracting it will require organization, planning, management. Things I can't do alone."
"You want my help?"
"I want more than that." I held his gaze. "I want to train you. Teach you accounting, inventory management, logistics. Make you someone who can run operations, not just follow orders."
[ EDRIC ]
[ LOYALTY: 82% (+4%) ]
[ POTENTIAL: HIGH ]
[ RECOMMENDED: INVESTMENT ]
The loyalty bump was immediate. But more importantly, I saw something kindle in his eyes—ambition, yes, but also purpose. A boy who'd spent his life mucking stables was being told he could become something more.
"Why me?" The question was barely a whisper.
"Because you're smart. Because you're honest. Because you work hard and you learn fast." I clapped his shoulder. "And because I need people I can trust. Not just servants who follow orders—partners who share the vision."
"I don't know anything about accounting or—"
"You'll learn. I'll teach you." I stood, offering him a hand up. "Starting tomorrow. One hour each evening after your other duties. We'll begin with numbers and work up from there."
He took my hand, rising. In the dying light, his face showed the complicated expression of someone whose world had just shifted—fear and hope and determination tangled together.
"Thank you, my lord. I won't let you down."
"I know you won't."
We walked back toward the keep as stars emerged overhead. The population counter in my peripheral vision read 225 now—thirty-eight more souls than when I'd started, each one a resource and a responsibility.
[ TERRITORY STATUS ]
[ POPULATION: 225 ]
[ AGRICULTURAL EFFICIENCY: +35% (PROJECTED) ]
[ TREASURY: 420 GOLD DRAGONS ]
[ MORALE: 74% ]
Good numbers. Growing numbers. But not enough—not yet. The Crown debt still loomed at 2,000 gold, Darklyn still schemed in the shadows, and winter was eight months away.
Tomorrow, I'd review the mining plans with Harlan. It was time to turn iron deposits into actual iron—and actual iron into actual power.
The keep's torches flickered in the distance, welcoming us home.
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