Chapter 1.3: A Strangers Skin
Jack Carter
The door thudded shut behind Rodrick, leaving me alone with the solar’s silence—well, near silence. The fireplace crackled, beating back the chill from outside. I paced back to the desk, boots scuffing the stone—It still felt weird having both legs again—and sank back into the chair. The carved wolves, a constant presence against my back—it was like they were prodding me to action. I rubbed my temples as Rodrick’s words rattled around: torched villages, bled-dry stores, a treasury stretched thin. “Hell of a welcome, Jack. At least it’s not a cubicle,” I muttered. Suddenly, in the solitude of the solar, the reality of my situation came crashing down—my chest tightened. “” I thought, throat catching—Jack Carter gone, snuffed out in a flash of gunfire. What about the real Edwyle? Where’d he go? That sick wolf from the dream wheezed in my head—grey eyes fading, crimson drenched snow. “Why me?” I muttered. “Have the Old Gods Rodrick mentioned summoned me? What would they want with me?” My mind went back to the gaunt faces scurrying about the courtyard—nobody deserved to starve, especially while I had the know-how to stop it. ” I resolved.
I looked around once more, eyeing the desk—ink pots, quills, a stack of yellowed paper all neatly arranged. Bookshelves flanked the window—my interest piqued. I grabbed a dusty volume, flipping through it—runes like Nordic scratches, illegible to me. “What wisdom do you hold, I wonder?” I grumbled, gently placing it back on the shelves—surely there’s someone who can teach me those letters. Just another task to add to the list.
Retaking my seat with a quill in hand, I scratched out orders and plans on that rough paper—the first of many, I’m sure. I’ve yet to really explore my new domain, but I’m betting there’s plenty of overlap between here and the feudal era of my time. So to that end, I directed that all water must be boiled before drinking and cooking. Also, I ordered the creation of a waste management crew, like a medieval garbage man, to gather the shit—both literally and figuratively—and take it to a midden heap, downwind and far away, so it can turn into compost. But Rodrick’s words gnawed—too few hands, too many empty plots. I mused, tapping the quill and eyeing the expansive map once more. There was so much land here in the North, maybe we could draw people north? We could pay them or offer tax breaks, hell, we could even give them some sort of starter kit—seeds and tools. “But that’ll require money,” I grimaced. “What does the North even have to trade?”
A knock—sharp, quick—made me flinch out of my musings. “Enter,” I called, voice rougher than I meant—guess I’m already getting used to this lord business. The door creaked open, and in stepped a thin man—shoulder-length brown hair, trimmed goatee, green eyes sharp—like they missed nothing. "Henry Poole, my lord," a guard announced. The steward carried a stack of bound tomes under one arm, posture stiff as a drill sergeant, hands clasped behind his back once he set them down. The ledgers hit the desk with a thud. “My lord,” he said, a sharp bow and voice flat—bored, maybe, or he kept his emotions locked away.
“Sit,” I said, waving at the chair—I didn’t need him looming like a damn statue. Henry perched, all proper, while I flipped open the top ledger. Neat script stared back—elegant loops, words not numbers. “One thousand five hundred sixty-three dragons—firewood,” I read, squinting—then another, “Two hundred forty-seven—grain imports.” My head pounded harder—Roman numerals were bad enough, but this? “Who writes accounts like they’re reciting a ballad?” I grumbled, flipping pages—more of the same, a single-column sprawl, no debits, no credits, just a jumbled list of transactions. A modern accountant would torch this and dance on the ashes.
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I glanced up—Henry’s brow twitched, like he’d caught my mutter but didn't dare respond. “This is how we keep our books?” I asked, leaning forward—the desk creaked under my elbows. “Aye, my lord,” he said, flat as ever. “Since before I took over.” I frowned. “What’s the tally now?” He didn’t blink. “Thirty thousand dragons, give or take—a few hundred cords of wood, hundred bushels of grain.” Thirty grand in gold—not enough with granaries bare.
“Alright, Henry—crash course,” I said, grabbing a fresh sheet. He mouthed “crash course,” a single brow arched, but I pushed on and sketched a T—left side “Out,” right “In.” “Firewood’s out—fifteen hundred sixty-three,” I wrote, using Arabic digits. “Grain’s in—two hundred forty-seven. Keeps it clear—what we spend, what we gain.” His mask cracked. “This tracks every coin?” he asked, leaning in, voice low but keen.
“Exactly,” I said. “expenses and incomes clearly marked. No guessing—shows exactly where its all going.” I tapped the sheet. He nodded slow, like he was chewing it over—then sat back, brow up again. “This'll take time to redo, my lord—are records go back years.” I smirked—wry twist I couldn’t help. “Good thing spring’s here—there'll be plenty of daylight. Rewrite ‘em—starting with last year’s.” Henry’s jaw tightened—clearly not happy, but that interested spark held. “As you command,” he said, voice still flat—guess that’s his face’s default.
“Anything else?” he asked. “Yeah—resources,” I said, tapping the ledger. “What’ve we got—lumber, furs, ore?” He rattled it off—lumber from Bear Island and Hornwood, iron and copper from the clans, fur from Karhold and Deepwood Motte—most taxes come in grain, some gold from Bolton and Manderly. ” I thought. “And our imports—where from?”—“Riverlands mostly, sometimes the Reach when their prices aren’t too steep,” he said. “Which isn’t often,” I bet—Tyrells sounded like tightwads from what I recalled.
I questioned him on the prices we paid for grains, it took a moment for me to wrap my head around the currency of the world: gold dragons, silver moons and stags, or the five different types of copper coinage. But the thing I grasped quickly is that we were getting gouged for our grain imports. Hardly surprising really, giving the state of farming technology, those that were blessed with fertile land got to set the price.
“Spring’s here,” I said afterwards, “but we’re bleeding coin on Riverland grain—they gouge us. We’ve got lumber, furs—these could fetch gold south or east.”
Henry’s eyes flicked—a spark. “Trade, my lord?” I nodded. "The North is poor in grain, but rich in lumber, tell me Henry what do we use it for?"
"Fuel mostly, my lord, to feed the hearths in winter. The rest is sold to the Manderly's for their ships." he answered, but I saw the gears turning behind his sharp eyes. A moment later there was a slight wrinkle in his brow, "But if we were to trade away our lumber, my lord, your people would freeze come winter."
"True," I grimaced, there went that idea. I sat back in my chair, those damn wolves grinding against my shoulders. "
“Alright—go and see that these are followed,” I said, leaning forward and handing him my edicts from earlier—the dismissal sharper than I meant, the stress mounting. He stood, scooped his ledgers, bowed sharply—then was out the door. I slumped back, my mind racing. Thirty thousand dragons, half gone to imports—most of our fields fallow, Wildlings burned the rest. ” I decided—finishing up the crude designs I started earlier—starving folk revolt, and I’m not dying to pissed-off peasants.