Phelan stared at Renly for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable. Then he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Well, I'll be damned. The boy does have teeth." He pulled out a thick leather-bound ledger from a shelf behind the desk, dust motes dancing in the morning light as he set it down. "Fine. Everything, then. But don't say I didn't warn you, Dragonstone's books aren't as pretty as a training yard sword."
Renly pulled his chair back to the table, sitting up straight. "I'm ready."
Phelan flipped open the ledger to a marked page, and the pages rustled like dry leaves. His finger landed on a neat column of numbers. "First, ports. Two total, eastern near the dragonpit, northern one smaller. Eastern's the only deep-water dock, here, see? 'Vessels over 50 oars: only eastern port viable.' But look at this line from last moon: 'Crane mechanism failed, a cargo from The Salty Wench lost overboard.' And the pilings? '12 of 36 found rotten during inspection, risk of dock collapse.' We charge 2 silver stags per ship to dock, but only 17 ships stopped here last moon. Storm's End got 89, their port's deep, well-maintained, and it's on the way to the Reach's grain fields. Merchants don't want to waste time on a broken dock way out in the Narrow Sea."
He turned the page, running his finger down the harvest counts and wage lines side by side. "Economy. Dragonstone's a fire-mountain, most of it's black rock, but there are small, sheltered hillsides where the ash has made thin, fertile soil. We grow hardy stuff that can handle it: barley, oats, turnips, a little rye. Last moon's harvest: 40 bushels of barley, 28 of oats, 15 of turnips, barely enough to feed the castle and the three coastal villages. The ash helps, but there's just not much land to work with. Most of our coin comes from obsidian, 'dragon glass.' Mine production: 300 pieces last moon, sold for 12 gold dragons. But look at the wages: '1 copper penny per day per miner.' A family of four needs at least 3 pennies a day to eat. Discontent's been brewing down there for months, got a note from the mine foreman right here in the margin."
Renly's jaw tightened as he looked at the scrawled note in the margin. He'd seen the miners in the courtyard sometimes—hunched shoulders, hands black with dust. He'd never thought about the numbers behind their hardship.
"And vassals?" he asked, leaning forward.
Phelan flipped to another page with a list of house sigils and tallied numbers. "Few and far between. Dragonstone's a royal holding first, so only three minor houses sworn to us: House Celtigar of Claw Isle, House Velaryon of Driftmark, and House Bar Emmon of Sharp Point." He tapped each name as he spoke, pointing to the figures beside them. "Celtigar's loyal enough, here, they sent 5 ingots of silver ore as tribute last moon, but they're far more interested in their own rich silver mines than in what happens here. Velaryon… their last tribute was 2 small trading ships, but look at this note: 'Lost 3 vessels to reefs in the Narrow Sea last season.' They've got their own sea troubles to worry about. And Bar Emmon?" He shook his head at the tiny number next to the name. "Their tribute was one single cask of wine. Barely remember we exist half the time."
Renly sat back, absorbing it all, numbers, notes, hard facts. A broken port, a struggling economy, vassals who barely cared. It was worse than he'd imagined. But instead of feeling discouraged, he felt that same feeling from earlier, confidence, or hope, or whatever it was—growing stronger.
This is real, he thought. This is what ruling looks like. Not just sigils and swords, but this.
He pointed to the port section. "Show me the numbers for the repairs. How much would it cost to fix the crane and the pilings?"
Phelan raised an eyebrow again, but this time there was a glint of something like pride in his eyes. "Now you're talking like a lord. Let's see, here's the estimate from the shipwright in King's Landing…"
He ran his finger down the page, tracing the inked figures. "Crane replacement: 27 gold dragons. Repairing the 12 rotten pilings: 18 gold. Labor for the work itself: 5 gold. Total: 50 gold dragons."
Renly's shoulders tensed. "And how much do we have in the treasury?"
Phelan flipped to the last page, his expression turning grim. "Thirty-two. Eighteen short."
Renly shifted in his chair, uncertainty in his voice. "Well… it's easy to connect dots on paper. But I've only read about the miners' trouble. I haven't seen it. Or the villages, or the port in person for that matter. It's all just words and numbers to me right now." He leaned forward a little more, his gaze steady. "That's why I want to go see them. Soon."
Phelan hesitated, glancing at the stack of ledgers then out the window at the grey cliffs plunging to the sea. "Can't do it today, my lord. It's not that the village is far, you could walk it in an hour if the path was easy. But those coastal paths are steep and slick when the wind whips up spray from the sea, we had a small landslide near the mine path just last week, blocked half the way. I need to send a runner to the village elder and mine foreman to let them know you're coming, have the guards clear that slide and check for loose rocks, and time it with low tide so we can actually get onto the port dock without getting our boots soaked. Give me three days to get it all sorted safely, faster than that, and we're asking for trouble."
Renly nodded, satisfied. "Three days. That works."
Three days later
The clang of steel cut through the morning air as Renly raised his sword to meet Ser Borin's, his movement stiff, unrefined, but steady.
In the three days since asking to visit the villages, he'd been out in the training yard from dawn till midday. By the second day, he'd mastered the Warding and Thrusting stances, faster than any child Borin had trained in his ten years at Dragonstone. The other guards had noticed too, stopping their drills to watch, exchanging quiet nods when he held a stance without wavering for five full minutes. Today was his first light sparring, and Borin was taking it easy—no hard blows, just testing his form.
Renly parried a slow lunge, his arm trembling with the effort. He tried to spin into a counter, but his foot caught on the dirt and he stumbled.
"Steady," Borin said, not a hint of praise in his voice, just fact. "Stance is solid, but your feet are too heavy. You're thinking too hard about the move instead of making it."
Renly nodded, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His tunic was soaked through, his muscles screaming, but he'd lasted longer than Borin had expected him to.
He splashed cold water on his face at the courtyard well, then headed for the maester's study, Borin falling into step beside him. "Phelan asked I come along," the knight said flatly. "Path's safe, but extra sword never hurts."
"Ready?" Phelan said, grabbing his cloak. "Village first, talk to Eldar Finn. He knows what's going on in all three coastal villages. Then we'll head to the port, low tide's got two hours left, so we'll still make it. Mines after that, if the weather holds."
Renly pulled out a chair for a moment, eyes on the port layout and harvest numbers. In three days, the miner-port idea hadn't been the only one. Methods from the future should come in handy, he thought, a flash of his past life. His old-life father used to ramble about his grandfather's farm, how they planted peas between rows to hold soil in place and get extra food. That was cover cropping, he'd called it. Another memory: his dad pointing out street vendors, mobile instead of stuck in one spot. So, if ships won't dock here, send small boats out to meet them with obsidian? He jotted both down, tucked in his tunic. He kept it hidden for now, didn't know if they'd work here.
"Before we leave," he said, his gaze steady, "what if we ask the miners to help with the port work? Pay them 2 pennies a day instead of 1. Saves us the 5 gold in outside labor, eases their discontent."
Phelan looked at him then, his eyes wide with surprise. "Now that's a lord's thought. You've been turning that over, haven't you? All those days training, and you were still thinking about the numbers."
Renly smirked and stood up, grabbing his cloak. Had three days to work on more than just stances, he thought. There's more where that came from. But first, see the real Dragonstone.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the wind hit Renly full in the face—sharp with salt and the faint, acrid smell of the fire-mountain. The path wound down the cliffs in a narrow, switchbacking trail, its stones slick with sea spray even on this clear day. He could see why Phelan had taken three days to clear it—loose rocks still littered the edges, and the drop to the churning sea below made his stomach flip.
They walked down the cliff path, and soon the first village, Saltmere, the name that the villagers had given it came into view. As they stepped into the village square, Renly spotted a small girl sitting on the steps of a hut, peeling turnips into a wooden bowl. Her clothes were threadbare, fingers blue with cold, and she kept glancing up at the sky like she could feel the storm coming.
Phelan led him to the largest hut, where a grey-haired man with calloused hands was sorting fishing nets.
"Eldar Finn," Phelan said, gesturing to Renly. "This is Lord Renly of Dragonstone, he's come to ask about the villages."
Eldar stood quickly, brushing dirt off his knees and wiping his hands on his tunic. He dipped his head in a small bow, proper, but not overly formal for a village head talking to a lord he's probably never met before.
"Lord Renly," he said, his voice steady. "A pleasure to have you in Saltmere, though I wish it were under better circumstances. Saltmere's holding on, but just. The other two, Rockfall and Tide's End, are much worse. Rockfall's well got a leak, so they're carrying water from the cove. Tide's End lost half their fishing boats in last month's storm.
Renly leaned forward, his eyes drifting back to the girl. "And the harvest? The food?"
"Not enough," Eldar said quietly. "All three villages share the turnips and grain, but most families go hungry one or two days a week. Kids like little Elara—" he nodded toward the girl "—she's peeling turnips for her siblings right now, and that's all they'll eat today."
Renly pulled a piece of bread from the satchel and walked over to her. He held it out gently. "Here," he said softly.
Elara stared at the bread, then at him, wariness in her wide eyes. When he didn't move, she took it in her small, cold fingers and mumbled, "Thank you, my lord." Then she scurried inside, calling out in a thin voice: "Mara! Kip! I got bread!"
"Come with us to the port?" Renly asked Eldar. "I need to see how it hits your fishermen."
"Aye, my lord. Know those docks like the back of my hand." Eldar answered with certainty.
They set off together—Renly, Phelan, Borin, Eldar, with the two other guards—walking the five minutes from Saltmere to the eastern port. The tide was low, just as Phelan had said, and they could walk the full length of the dock without getting their boots wet.
"See that?" Eldar said, pointing to the rotten pilings. "Last week, a fisherman's boat got caught on one and split open. Lost all his catch."
Renly stopped at the edge of the dock, looking out at the Narrow Sea. Sure enough, three merchant ships were visible in the distance, their sails billowing as they turned southwest, away from Dragonstone. Straight for Storm's End.
"As you can see," Phelan said, following his gaze. "They'd rather sail an extra day to a port that works than risk their cargo here. Storm's End has space for big ships, no rotting pilings, and they're right next to the Reach, where all the grain and wine comes from. We're just a rocky outpost to them."
Renly stared at the crooked crane, the frayed rope, the empty dock. In the distance, merchant ships sailed past toward Storm's End. "We need to fix this," he said. "And I'm thinking of asking the miners to help, pay them more, get the work done faster."
Eldar nodded slowly. "Mines are hard work. They'd take above-ground pay in a heartbeat."
From the port, they climbed the mountain trail to the mines, each step steeper than the last. The sea breeze faded, replaced by air that grew thick and hot, heavy with the smell of ash and sulfur that stung at Renly's throat. Soon, the low, steady clang-clang-clang of pickaxes drifted up from the mountain's belly, rhythmic, relentless, like the beat of a tired heart.
The mine entrance was a dark, gaping mouth in the black stone, framed by piles of discarded rock. Leaning against the wall was a man in worn leather, his face streaked with dust and sweat, his hands calloused and black under his nails. When he saw them, his shoulders tensed hard, and he crossed his arms over his chest, planting his feet firmly on the gravel.
"Foreman Torvin?" Phelan called out, his voice carrying up the trail.
The man nodded, his eyes narrowing into slits as they landed on Renly. "That's me. What's the castle want with us today? More obsidian? We're already pulling double shifts to hit the damn quota, my men haven't seen a full night's sleep in a week."
Renly stepped past Phelan, his boots crunching on loose gravel. "I'm Renly, Lord of Dragonstone. I didn't come for obsidian. I came to see the mine. And to talk about work. At the port."
Torvin let out a harsh, barking laugh that echoed off the stone. "Work? We've got plenty of work down there in the dark, my lord. Digging till our backs break, breathing in dust that'll kill us young. Still won't pay enough to put bread on our tables, my own boy hasn't had more than a turnip a day for a month."
Renly glanced past him, into the mine's depths. Shadows moved in the gloom, men bent low over their picks—their breathing heavy and ragged, the clang of metal on rock growing deafening the further in he looked. This is the other half of the dot, he thought, a knot tightening in his stomach. The numbers truly don't show the darkness.
"I'm offering 2 pennies a day instead of 1," he said, his voice clear and steady over the noise. "And the work's above ground. You'll see the sun. Breathe clean air."
Torvin stared at him for a long, silent moment—his weathered face unreadable, his eyes hard as the obsidian they dug. Then he spat on the ground at his feet, the sound sharp in the stillness between picks. "Words are cheap, lord. Show me you mean it first. Come down into the mine. Walk the tunnels. See what we deal with every single day. Then we'll talk."
Renly hesitated for just a second, glancing at the blackness inside, feeling the cool damp air wash over him. Then he nodded, his jaw set. "Lead the way."
He followed Torvin a few steps into the dark, his eyes struggling to adjust. The heat was gone now, replaced by a chill that seeped into his bones, and the clang of picks was so loud it made his ears ring. Before he could take another step, Phelan's hand touched his arm—firm, urgent.
"My lord," Phelan said, his voice low. "We should head back soon. The sun's starting to dip below the cliffs, and look at the sky, it's turning grey as ash. Storm's coming."
Renly glanced back at the thin slice of light at the mine entrance, then at Torvin. The foreman was watching him, waiting.
"Tomorrow," Renly said, his gaze steady. "I'll come back tomorrow, first thing. And I'll go all the way down, every tunnel. But for now…" He glanced at the dipping sun, then back at Torvin. "Get your men out of there. The storm's coming fast, and no quota's worth getting caught in the dark when it hits. Go home to your families. We'll finish this conversation then."
Torvin stared at him for a beat, his brow furrowed like he wasn't sure he'd heard right. Then he let out a short, rough breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Quota don't stop 'cause of rain, my lord. Castle'll be asking where the obsidian is come dawn." But even as he said it, he turned and shouted into the mine's darkness: "Alright, you lot! Wrap it up! Out in five minutes! Storm's on its way!"
He looked back at Renly, his eyes a little less hard than before. "Tomorrow," he repeated, his voice quieter this time. "First thing. Don't make me send my boy to fetch you."
They turned and headed down the mountain trail together—Renly, Phelan, Borin, Eldar, and the two other guards. The sky was already dark grey, wind picking up, and within minutes, the rain hit hard. Sheets of water poured down, so thick they could barely see, turning the path to slick mud.
"Steady there!" Eldar called out, grabbing Phelan's arm as he slipped. "I know this trail blind, follow me!"
He led them carefully down, his boots finding purchase in places the others couldn't. By the time the village huddled into view, they were all soaking wet and shivering. Eldar didn't stop at the square, he led them straight to his hut, where he'd left the door ajar and a lantern hanging by the entrance. Warm light and the smell of stew drifted out.
"Knew this storm was gonna hit hard the second I saw the sky this morning!" he said, pulling the door fully open and wrapping a thick wool cloak around Renly's shoulders as they stepped inside. "Get close to the fire. Got stew bubbling, will warm you right up. You'll be safe here tonight, that's for sure."
Inside, the fire crackled in the hearth, chasing away the chill in seconds. Eldar grabbed extra cloaks for Phelan and Borin too, and they all stood by the flames, wringing water from their clothes and hair. The hut was small but cozy, wooden walls lined with fishing nets, a single table, and a pile of furs in the corner.
"Stew's ready!" Eldar said, ladling thick, hot turnip-and-barley into four wooden bowls. They sat around the table, eating with their hands when spoons ran short, the warm food spreading through their cold bodies like sunshine. No one talked much, just the sound of eating and the rain beating against the roof.
When the bowls were empty, Eldar spread the furs out on the dirt floor by the fire. "Not much, but it's dry and warm," he said, settling down himself on a nearby bench.
Renly lay down on the furs, his muscles aching from the climb and slippery walk. As he watched the fire dance, his thoughts drifted to today, how broken the port was, how tattered the villages felt, how the ships just sailed right past.
He closed his eyes, a quiet promise forming in his chest. Someday, this place will be great, he thought. And I'll be the one to do it.
Then he drifted off to the sound of rain and fire.