Ronan didn't roll the parchment. He held it up to the dying light of the fire, staring at the seal. The wax was black, stamped with the Stag of House Baratheon.
But the demand was wrong.
"I am a bannerman of House Stark," Ronan said, his voice flat. "My tithes go to Winterfell. Lord Eddard manages the King's due. Why is a Southron tallyman standing in my mud?"
The messenger, who had been eyeing the pot of stew with undisguised hunger, stiffened. "The Master of Coin has instituted an emergency audit. The Crown believes that... remote holdings have been under-reporting their yields."
Ronan's eyes narrowed. The interface flashed.
[Insight Check: Politics]
[Result: Success]
[Analysis:] The Crown is in debt. Littlefinger (Master of Coin) is squeezing the realm dry, bypassing the Great Houses to extract coin from the minor lords before the Wardens can protest. It is a violation of feudal rights.
[Option A:] Refuse. (Consequence: You are labeled a traitor to the Crown. The Starks might defend you, or they might not.)
[Option B:] Pay. (Consequence: -50% Iron Reserves. -20% Grain Reserves. You survive another season.)
"An audit," Ronan repeated. He looked at the messenger's horse. It was a good beast, but the saddlebags were empty. This man wasn't here to collect grain. He was here to collect gold or promises.
"Varrick," Ronan said.
"My Lord?"
"Give the man a bowl of stew. And a bed for the night."
The messenger relaxed, smugness returning to his face. "Wise, my Lord. The King's justice is—"
"And Varrick?" Ronan interrupted. "Send a rider to Winterfell tonight. Inform Lord Stark that the Crown is collecting taxes directly from his bannermen. Ask him if the Warden of the North gave permission for this... intrusion."
The messenger choked on his first spoonful of broth. He stared at Ronan, his face draining of color. "My Lord, there is no need to bother Lord Stark. This is a minor administrative matter..."
"If it's minor, Winterfell won't mind," Ronan said coldly. "If it's major, they need to know."
Ronan turned his back on the man. "You will get your tax, messenger. But not today. You can wait until the harvest is in the silo. If you try to take my seed grain now, I will hang you as a thief and explain it to the King later."
[Intimidation Check: Critical Success]
[Messenger Status: Terrified]
Ronan walked away, leaving the man shivering by the fire. He had bought time. Maybe a month. Maybe two.
He walked back to the forge. The fire was banked, but the heat remained.
"Kennos," Ronan called out.
The smith emerged from the shadows. He looked exhausted, his arms trembling from days of forging plowshares. "The plows are done, my Lord. The men are using them. Can I sleep?"
"Not yet," Ronan said. He pulled a piece of charcoal from his pocket and sketched on the stone wall of the forge.
"The plows will double the yield," Ronan said. "But do you know what happens when we have twice the wheat?"
Kennos rubbed his eyes. "We eat well?"
"No. We have a bottleneck," Ronan corrected. "Currently, we thresh grain by beating it with flails on the barn floor. It is slow. It is wasteful. We lose 30% of the grain to rot and rodents because we can't process it fast enough."
He drew a circle. Then a shaft. Then a series of paddles.
"A water wheel?" Kennos squinted. "We have a stream, aye. But for a millstone?"
"Not just a millstone," Ronan said, drawing a cam-shaft—a rotating rod with bumps on it that would lift and drop heavy wooden hammers. "A trip-hammer. We use the river to pound the grain. And we use the same power to turn the grindstone."
[Tech Tree: Water Power]
[Requirement:] Carpentry (Level 3), Masonry (Level 2), Iron Axle.
[Cost:] 4 CP.
[Current CP:] 0.2 (Drained by Rush Orders).
Ronan cursed silently. He was broke. He had spent his points rushing the plows. He couldn't magically instant-build a mill. He would have to build it the hard way.
"We need stone," Ronan said. "And we need timber that won't rot."
"We can't spare the men," Kennos argued. "Everyone is in the fields. Even the stable boys."
Ronan looked at the notification from earlier.
[Objective Complete: Plow 500 Acres]
[Reward: Civilian Population Growth +10%]
"New hands are coming," Ronan said, though he didn't know how the System would deliver them. Refugees? Wanderers? "For now, Kennos, I need an axle. The strongest piece of iron you have ever forged. It needs to hold the weight of a rushing river."
The rain came two days later.
It wasn't a gentle shower; it was a Northern deluge. The sky opened up and hammered the earth.
Ronan stood in the tower of his keep, watching the deluge. If they had used the old scratch-plows, the water would be sheeting off the hard surface, washing away the topsoil.
But they had used the Mouldboard.
The deep furrows acted like drainage channels. The overturned earth absorbed the water like a sponge. The water didn't run off; it soaked in.
[Environmental Check: Heavy Rain]
[Soil Retention: 95%]
[Erosion: Minimal]
It worked.
Down in the courtyard, the gates creaked open. Varrick came running up the stairs, dripping wet.
"My Lord! People. At the gate."
"The tax collector?" Ronan asked.
"No, my Lord. Smallfolk. A dozen of them. Ragged. They say they came from the Stony Shore. Wildlings raided their village. They heard... they heard we had food."
Ronan smiled. The System reward. +10% Population.
"They don't have food," Ronan said. "They have hunger. And hunger is fuel."
"Shall I turn them away?" Varrick asked. "We barely have enough for our own."
"Let them in," Ronan ordered. "Give them hot stew. Give them a dry place to sleep in the barn."
He turned from the window, his mind already calculating the labor distribution.
"And Varrick?"
"Yes, my Lord?"
"Ask if any of them are stonemasons. We're building a dam tomorrow."
[Empire Status Update]
• Food Security: Rising.
• Political Threat: High (The Crown).
• Industrial Tech: Water Power (Pending).
• Manpower: +12 Units.
Ronan looked at the map on his wall. Winterfell was to the North. King's Landing to the South. He was a small speck of iron between a Wolf and a Dragon.
"Let them play their game of thrones," Ronan whispered. "I'm playing a different game."
He looked at the iron nail he still kept in his pocket.
"I'm playing Factorio."