The wind howling down from the Wolfswood had a bite to it, even in summer. Ronan Alston stood on the ramparts of Highpoint, his fur lined cloak pulled tight, looking down at the village that sprawled at the base of the hill.
To anyone else, it was a typical Northern scene. Muddy roads, thatched cottages leaking smoke, and peasants hacking at the rocky soil with wooden hoes.
To Ronan, it was a spreadsheet of misery.
He squinted, focusing on a farmer named Hodor (no relation to the giant at Winterfell) who was struggling to pull a rock out of a furrow. A faint, translucent number floated above the man's head.
[+0.01 Agrarian CP]
Ronan sighed, his breath misting in the air. "Point zero one," he muttered. "At this rate, we'll be in the Stone Age until the Doom comes again."
He shifted his gaze to the blacksmith's open-air forge. The smith, a burly man named Kennos, was hammering a bent horseshoe.
[+0.04 Industrial CP]
"Better," Ronan whispered. "But not enough."
He closed his eyes and let the Sovereign's Ledger fill his mind. It wasn't a voice; it was a vast, sprawling mural of information, like a tapestry woven of light.
[Current Territory: Highpoint]
• Population: 842 Souls
• Health: Poor (Malnutrition prevalent)
• Happiness: Low (Fear of Winter)
• Daily Income:
• Agrarian CP: 4.2 / day
• Industrial CP: 1.5 / day
• Martial CP: 0.8 / day
[Current Objective: Survival]
• Next Winter Estimate: 2 Years.
• Current Food Stores: Insufficient (predicted 40% casualty rate).
Ronan opened his eyes, the headache throbbing behind his temples. 40% casualties. If he didn't change things, three hundred of those people down there would freeze or starve. And dead peasants generated 0.00 CP.
He needed to unlock the Heavy Iron Plow. It would allow them to churn the deeper, nutrient-rich soil that the wooden hoes couldn't reach.
[Tech: Heavy Mouldboard Plow]
• Cost: 300 Industrial CP.
• Current Balance: 120 Industrial CP.
He was months away. Unless he could make them work harder. Or smarter.
"Ronan?"
The voice broke his concentration. He turned to see his father, Lord Rickard Alston, limping onto the ramparts. His father was a good man, a stark traditionalist who believed in the Old Gods and the old ways. He also had a bad leg from the Greyjoy Rebellion.
"You're staring at the smallfolk again," Lord Rickard rumbled, leaning on his cane. "Counting the grain before it's grown?"
"I'm counting the wasted effort, Father," Ronan said, turning back to the village. "Look at them. They farm like First Men. Scratching the dirt. If we had iron plows"
"Iron is expensive," his father cut him off, a familiar argument. "We trade our iron for salt and wool. We cannot afford to bury good metal in the dirt."
"We can't afford not to," Ronan argued, though he kept his voice respectful. "The yield is terrible. The roots don't go deep enough. If I could just redesign the smithy, optimize the fuel usage..."
"Optimize?" Rickard frowned at the strange word. "You use fancy words, boy. The Maester has taught you too much. The Starks have farmed this way for eight thousand years."
"And the Starks starve every winter," Ronan replied sharply. He pointed at the blacksmith below. "Father, give me the forge. Just for a month. Let me manage Kennos and the apprentices."
Rickard sighed, rubbing his bearded jaw. "You are heir. You should be learning to lead men, not hammer hot metal."
"Leading men means making sure they don't die," Ronan said. He gestured to the floating numbers only he could see. The output was pathetic. If he took over the forge, he could implement an assembly line. He could create a bellows system to increase the heat.
If he increased the efficiency of the smithy, the Industrial CP generated per hour would triple. He could unlock the Plow blueprint in two weeks instead of four months.
"Please," Ronan pressed. "One month. If I fail, I'll shut up and practice the sword until my hands bleed."
Lord Rickard studied his son for a long moment. He saw the intensity in the boy's grey eyes. It wasn't the look of a child playing games; it was the look of a wolf spotting prey.
"One month," Rickard grunted. "But if production drops, you're on patrol duty in the Wolfswood for the rest of the year."
Ronan nodded, hiding his relief. "Agreed."
He looked back down at Kennos the smith. The number above the man's head flickered.
[Target Identified]
[Management Opportunity: Blacksmith]
[Projected Efficiency Gain: 300%]
Ronan smiled. It was time to grind.