Chapter 6: Agricultural Revolution
POV: Corwyn Darke
The sun rose hot over Duskhollow's fields, burning off morning mist to reveal earth that had been worked for generations. Brown furrows stretched toward the tree line, studded with the remnants of last season's failed wheat crop.
I stripped off my doublet and picked up a hoe.
"My lord." Old Torren's voice carried equal parts confusion and disapproval. "That's... that's peasant work."
"It's necessary work." I drove the hoe into compacted soil, breaking the crust. My shoulders protested—muscles still conditioned for keyboard rather than labor—but the motion felt right. Productive. "And I can't teach what I haven't done."
[ AGRICULTURAL DEMONSTRATION INITIATED ]
[ SKILL: CROP ROTATION (BASIC) ]
[ YIELD BONUS: +15% WHEN PROPERLY IMPLEMENTED ]
The System provided the theory. My body provided the execution. Together, we carved patterns into the demonstration field—not random furrows but deliberate channels designed to prevent erosion and maximize water distribution.
Torren watched with crossed arms, surrounded by a dozen other peasants who'd gathered to witness the spectacle of their lord doing manual labor. Some whispered behind hands. Others just stared.
"You're planting beans and wheat together," Torren said finally. "They'll compete for—"
"They'll complement." I wiped sweat from my forehead, leaving a streak of dirt. "Bean roots fix nitrogen in the soil—a... a substance that helps other plants grow. Wheat depletes nitrogen. Plant them in rotation, the beans replace what the wheat takes."
"Never heard of this nitrogen."
"It's what the Essosi call it. Your grandfather's generation knew the same principle—they just called it 'letting the soil breathe.'" I gestured to the pattern emerging in the field. "Three-field rotation. Beans one year, wheat the next, fallow the third. The soil recovers, yields increase, everyone eats better."
"And you learned this from books?"
"From high school biology, actually. But yes."
"From very old books. Essos has been farming for thousands of years. They know things we've forgotten."
Edric appeared at my elbow, carrying a bucket of seed grain. The boy's loyalty marker now read 78%—up from 71% last week. He'd been shadowing me constantly, absorbing everything like a sponge.
"Where do you want these, my lord?"
"Here." I showed him the pattern—seeds spaced precisely, buried at consistent depth. "Not too deep or they won't sprout. Not too shallow or birds will take them."
We worked together, lord and stable boy side by side in the dirt. The watching peasants murmured. Some drifted away, shaking their heads. Others stayed, curiosity winning over tradition.
[ AGRICULTURAL KNOWLEDGE TRANSFER: 23% ]
[ PEASANT ENGAGEMENT: MODERATE ]
[ TIME ELAPSED: 2 HOURS ]
"My lord." Torren approached, his earlier hostility replaced by something more thoughtful. "My gran used to talk about planting beans before wheat. Said it made the harvest better. But the old lord—your grandfather—said it was superstition."
"Your grandmother was right." I straightened, stretching my aching back. "The old knowledge gets lost when people stop listening to those who work the land."
"And you're listening now?"
"I'm trying to." I met his eyes. "Torren, I need farmers who understand their soil. Not just laborers who follow orders. You've been working this earth for forty years. What else do you know that lords have ignored?"
The old man was quiet for a long moment. Around us, the other peasants had stopped pretending not to listen.
"There's a creek," Torren said slowly. "East of the main fields. My father dug irrigation channels from it once. Doubled the yield for two seasons. Then the lord said it was too much work to maintain, filled them in."
[ LOCATION NOTED: EASTERN CREEK ]
[ IRRIGATION POTENTIAL: HIGH ]
[ REQUIRED LABOR: 40 MAN-DAYS ]
"Show me later today. If it's viable, we'll dig new channels."
Torren's weathered face cracked into something approaching a smile. "Lords don't dig, my lord."
"This one does."
POV: Maester Harlan
Harlan watched from the field's edge, stylus poised over wax tablet, recording observations he barely believed.
The young lord worked alongside peasants. Not supervising—working. His hands were blistered, his shirt soaked through, his face streaked with honest dirt. And somehow, impossibly, the farmers were listening to him.
"The bean-wheat rotation has theoretical merit," Harlan admitted to himself. "The Citadel's agricultural texts mention similar practices in ancient Ghis."
But theory and practice were different animals. Getting Westerosi peasants to change methods their families had used for generations required more than knowledge—it required trust. And trust in lords was not something farmers gave freely.
Yet here was Corwyn, earning it one furrow at a time.
"Maester Harlan." The lord's voice carried across the field. "Join us."
Harlan hesitated, then picked his way through the muddy rows. The peasants parted for him—gray robes commanded respect even in the fields.
"You're documenting everything?"
"As you requested, my lord." Harlan held up the tablet. "Planting patterns, seed ratios, soil conditions. Though I confess I don't fully understand the purpose."
"Evidence." Corwyn accepted a waterskin from Edric, drinking deeply. "When these fields outproduce the traditional ones next harvest, I want records proving why. Documentation turns experimentation into replicable method."
"He thinks like a maester," Harlan realized with a start. "Recording, testing, verifying."
"My lord, where did you learn such... systematic approaches?"
"Books, Maester." The familiar answer, given with a slight smile. "Amazing what you can find in books if you know where to look."
It was a lie. Harlan was certain of it now. The Corwyn he'd known for twenty years had never opened a book willingly in his life.
But whatever had changed the young lord, the results spoke for themselves. Peasants working with enthusiasm rather than sullen compliance. Agricultural innovations that promised real improvement. A domain that had been dying was beginning to breathe again.
"Perhaps," Harlan thought, "the source of wisdom matters less than its application."
He made a note on his tablet and continued documenting.
POV: Corwyn Darke
Evening found me collapsed on a bench outside the keep, muscles screaming, hands raw despite the gloves Edric had found for me.
"Manual labor hits different when you can't just quit and order takeout."
But the satisfaction was real. The demonstration field was planted. Six peasants had committed to trying the rotation method on their own plots. Torren had shown me the creek irrigation site—viable, as the System confirmed—and we'd scheduled a work party for next week.
[ DAILY PROGRESS SUMMARY ]
[ AGRICULTURAL INNOVATION: +3% ]
[ POPULATION MORALE: +4% ]
[ PERSONAL EXHAUSTION: SEVERE ]
[ HP: 108/120 (FATIGUE PENALTY) ]
Mira appeared with bread, cheese, and a cup of watered wine. She set the tray on the bench beside me without comment.
"The servants are talking," she said after a moment.
"About the field work?"
"About the lord who works like common folk but thinks like maesters." She studied my dirt-caked face. "It's unprecedented, my lord. Lords don't... do this."
"Maybe they should." I tore off a piece of bread, chewing slowly. Every muscle in my body wanted sleep, but the food helped. "Respect earned through shared labor is stronger than respect demanded through title. The peasants don't trust nobility—why would they? We tax them, conscript them, ignore them until we need something. But a lord who sweats alongside them? That's different."
"Different enough to make them loyal?"
"Loyal enough to try new methods. Loyal enough to report suspicious strangers instead of looking the other way. Loyal enough that when Darklyn comes calling, they'll choose Duskhollow over whatever false promises he offers." I drained the wine, letting the warmth spread through my tired body. "Building a domain isn't just walls and soldiers. It's people. Get the people right, and everything else follows."
Mira was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "The old lord never understood that."
"The old lord is dead." I regretted the bluntness immediately, but didn't take it back. "I'm what's left. And I intend to do better."
She nodded slowly, collecting the empty cup. "Sleep well, my lord. Tomorrow you have training with Ser Gareth."
"Of course I do. Because apparently I hate myself."
I watched her go, then turned to look out over the fields. The sun was setting, painting the western sky in shades of orange and red. Somewhere out there, Darklyn was plotting his next move. The Crown debt still loomed. The iron deposits needed development. A thousand problems waited for tomorrow.
But tonight, for the first time since waking in this strange life, I felt like I might actually win.
My hands ached. My back screamed. My eyes burned with exhaustion.
And beneath it all, quiet and persistent, something that felt almost like hope.
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