With the first seeds pressed into the freshly turned earth, the long summer's stubborn warmth—though the year was already drawing to a close—still let them take root and push upward into grain.
This first sowing was mostly oats and legumes. On virgin soil these nitrogen-fixing crops would rebuild the ground, and the thick blanket of wood ash left by Bahamut's dragonflame would give the fields an extra burst of fertility. For the next few seasons Gaemon's manors would run on intensive multi-cropping.
To wring every possible advantage from both men and animals, he adopted the great-estate model: each manor would cover 800 to 1,000 hectares and support 1,500 to 2,000 souls. Every estate would have its own manor court to settle disputes and a professional steward to run daily affairs.
The living quarters within each manor would be grouped into several villages. The villagers would elect their own headmen, who answered to the steward. For now, this created a simple three-tier system: city–manor–village.
Population was still thin, so only the first manor was under construction. Gaemon named it Gaemon Manor, making his intentions plain: this would be the shining example, the model every future estate would strive to match.
"Your Grace," a knight in full plate called out, reining in his warhorse a respectful distance away, "the second wave of settlers has arrived at the harbor aboard ships of the royal fleet. Lord Jon sent me to ask how you wish them assigned."
Gaemon stood on the raised bank of a field, watching the farmers scatter seed. He turned as the knight approached after being stopped by the Golden Fleece guards.
The Order had long since been split into two companies with separate duties.
Jon's group had slowly become the administrative backbone of the domain. Jon himself now served as temporary steward, coordinating every large and small matter and staying frantically busy. His knights had been given posts across the territory as well—some overseeing harbor construction and keeping order on the docks, others leading the daily hunting parties that ranged through the forest for game, fruit, herbs, and anything else of value.
Amber's second company, by contrast, had a lighter load. Their main task was protecting Gaemon and serving as his personal honor guard.
The knight before him was one of Jon's aides, usually at his side to carry messages and handle secretarial work.
"Matt, tell Jon the new arrivals are to be sorted exactly as before—according to their skills. And let him know it's time we built a smithy in the domain."
When the first settlers came, every tool had been bought in King's Landing, so no blacksmiths had been included. Now, with farm implements wearing out and arrows being used up, a smithy had become essential.
The first forge would rise in the village attached to Gaemon Manor. The "city" itself still consisted of little more than a few warehouses at the harbor and one wooden hall serving as the town hall. Everyone else lived either in the new villages or at the lumber camp beside the forest.
Master Erik's shipyard was still only a rough frame; at present it could build nothing larger than three- or four-meter river fishing boats for the local men.
Thinking of the fishermen reminded Gaemon of an idea he had only recently conceived. To preserve the catch, he wanted the men to salt any surplus fish after each haul. Salted fish would keep for months and could be sold for steady profit.
But when he mentioned it, the fishermen looked uneasy and told him it simply wasn't practical on his lands.
Turning fresh fish into proper salt-fish required huge amounts of salt, and salt was shockingly expensive. After subtracting the cost, the profit often disappeared into a loss. It simply wasn't worth doing.
When Gaemon finally understood what they meant, he stood frozen on the riverbank, stunned.
In his previous life salt had been one of the cheapest staples, sold everywhere for pennies. He had completely forgotten how precious—and how tightly controlled—salt was in this world.
It wasn't only memory. Growing up inside the Red Keep, standing at the very pinnacle of Westerosi society, he had never experienced the daily grind of ordinary folk. He had overlooked that in feudal times salt was one of the most profitable commodities in existence.
The realization hit him like dragonfire. If he could produce his own salt, he would not only earn a fortune—he could use cheap, plentiful salt to draw merchants from every corner of the realm to his domain. And in the Middle Ages, wherever merchants gathered, wealth soon followed.
Once the thought took root, Gaemon set out to learn everything he could.
A quick investigation showed that common smallfolk in Westeros relied mainly on sea salt evaporated along the coasts or pond salt harvested from salt pans. Rock salt mined in the mountains and well salt drawn from deep shafts were far purer but far more expensive, usually reserved for nobles.
The price difference was staggering: ordinary sea salt or coarse salt cost only one silver moon per pound, while mined or well salt fetched one gold dragon per pound.
The profit margin was enormous.
But selling salt was no simple matter. Not everyone had the right to produce or trade it.
Under feudal law, natural resources (including salt) within a noble's domain belonged to the king's grant, yet the lord still owed the Crown a "salt tax." The Iron Throne issued "salt licenses" authorizing production, strictly limiting output and sales area. License holders had to report quarterly to the Master of Coin; any excess was confiscated. The Crown also set official prices and forbade private price-gouging.
The largest sea-salt producer, Saltpans on Crab Bay, belonged to House Hawick, yet even they paid heavy production taxes to the Crown for the privilege of operating. Royal salt judges regularly inspected the pans to ensure no one hoarded or smuggled extra salt.
Salt tax was one of the Crown's greatest revenues, and its regulation was ironclad.
For most men, obtaining a salt license was nearly impossible—the profits were simply too tempting. But for Gaemon Targaryen, a prince of the blood, it was almost trivial.
As long as his lands could produce salt, the license would be his for the asking.