Yesterday Lyonel finally reached the ripe old age of four. In theory that made him mentally twenty-one years old. He would have finally been old enough to crack open a cold one in the beautiful United States of 'Murica.
Sadly, he had fallen down the rabbit hole to Westeros and was going to have to postpone chugging the happy juice for a few more years.
Just a few though, seeing as how the good people of Westeros didn't have the same reservations about young people drinking that twenty-first-century America did. Or fucking, or killing, or ruling a country. Nine-year-old alcoholic royal warlords inbound.
Lyonel supposed he could count himself lucky on that front. It was already pretty fucking tedious to endure a second childhood. He might legitimately go insane if he had to wait another two decades to put on his big boy pants.
Perhaps he should send up a prayer to the ROB for inserting him into Westeros instead of like, Code Geass or some shit.
In other news, Stannis had recently gotten married to Selyse Florent, who was even uglier than Lyonel could have ever imagined. The description from Martin's books wasn't even close to doing that horror justice.
A bent nose, fox ears, flat chest, no ass, a chin that could make Robert jealous, and a mustache to top it all off. It was no wonder that Stannis had looked like he was going to a funeral during the wedding. Lyonel shuddered to think about how in canon Stannis had sex with the woman at least once to produce Shireen.
Ugly brides notwithstanding, Robert had been caught on the wedding bed slampigging the bride's cousin as per canon. How generous of Robert to give him another sibling. Not.
Lyonel liked Edric, at least based on the very little screentime the Baratheon bastard had in canon. But since he was trying to ensure that Stannis would remain loyal to the Lannitheons, he couldn't really give his gold star of approval. His illustrious father having sex with Selyse's cousin was not a good way to ensure eternal loyalty to the royal family.
There was also the fact that Stannis had been Lyonel's favorite side character in A Song of Ice and Fire. And he was so far his favorite uncle, despite how little Lyonel saw of him these days. So seeing him get publicly humiliated by his father wasn't very fun. The incident was still one of the most talked-about scandals at court.
There were a number of theories floating around since apparently nobody had anything better to do in this shithole of a city. Some people said that Robert hadn't slept with the lovely bride's cousin, but with her sister; never mind that Selyse had no sister.
Some people said that Stannis had been reaching too far, he had been complaining about being denied Storm's End a bit loudly as of late, and that King Robert had hoped to humble him.
Which was bullshit, Robert did that because he was horny and he was Robert "I fuck everything that moves" Baratheon. It wasn't some kind of power move.
Some even theorized that Robert had slept with both the cousin and the bride herself. Never within Stannis' hearing though, since the last person he had overheard saying that had ended up in the stockades for slander. Lyonel didn't think he had much sympathy for the guy.
Stannis the Mannis righteously strikes again. The dude had been one of his favourite kings in GRRM's work, the other being Robb Stark.
Speaking of whom...
Lyonel had also gotten in communication with 'Robb', also known as the other dude who got sent on this merry adventure with him by the confusingly named ROB. The guy was a bit of an asshole, but considering the whole Brandon the Builder 2.0 thing he had going on Lyonel would need him if he wanted to introduce some large-scale uplift to the Crownlands.
It had been a relatively easy matter to start harassing the heir of Winterfell by letter. Both he and Robb were grown-ass men mentally, so they could write and send off ravens easily enough.
And it wasn't like anyone could actually do anything to stop them either. What was anyone supposed to do about it? Tell their fathers that 'Oh no, forging a friendship that mirrored their fathers' is a bad idea'? Oh, the sheer horror of two young men of rank from allied families corresponding.
Considering the immense raging hardon that Robert had for the Starks that shit wasn't going to fly. Lyonel also expected that a Lord Paramount like Eddard Stark would see the obvious benefits in having his heir forge a bond with the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
Speaking of dear old Ned, apparently, the relations between Catelyn and Jonno boy had improved quite a bit as compared to canon. Most people chalked this up to Catelyn being an incredibly kind, gracious lady who was finally coming to terms with raising her husband's motherless bastard. But he suspected that Robb, the sneaky bastard; had done something concerning Jon's parentage to shake that shit up.
It had made him consider confronting Cersei and Jaime with the whole 'you are fucking behind Robert's back' secret that they had going on to try and bend them to his will. He had ultimately decided against it; however, seeing as how those two were the genuine definition of incompetence. Lyonel wouldn't trust them to put their shirts on inside right, much less help him develop the city. The entire place would burn down by the end of the week.
God, he hoped Joffrey escaped the endless pit of mediocrity the wonder twins were. Nurture over nature, please!
Baby Joffrey had just passed a year, and the blond turd was already a bit of a handful. Loynel had hated children in his first life, and Joffrey had done nothing to change his opinion of the little demonic shits.
But he endured for the sake of trying to make Joffrey a decently competent and moral younger brother to aid him in his future endeavors without destroying the kingdom. Lyonel was willing to put up with the baby's bratty antics for the sake of Joffrey's future.
It was imperative that Lyonel forged a strong bond with Joffrey before he could get any negative influences. Cersei's influence would likely be focused on Lyonel since he was the firstborn, but that didn't mean that Joffrey and his naturally sadistic tendencies coming into contact with one of the more darker personalities at court wouldn't be a goddamn disaster.
Speaking of Cersei and her poisonous influence, she had already begun giving to him what she had given to Joffrey in canon. She practically drowned him with Lannister bullshit. All of the servants attending to him were Westerman, all his clothes were in red and gold, all his toys were lion toys of some kind, etc.
He knew that Cersei wanted to make up for him being Robert's seed by making him as Lannistery as possible but goddamn this was just obsessive. He felt bad for his mom, he really did, because he wouldn't want to be married to Bobby B either. Even if Robert was hot as all hell.
Cuz goddamn, young Bobby B was hotter than Lyonel ever could have imagined. But the adultery and the occasional beatings were not worth it. They just weren't.
His mother could run off to the Free Cities if she tired of Robert, of course, but Lyonel knew that his mother would never give up the power and privilege that her marriage to Robert afforded her. A Lioness does not flee nor cower and all that stuff.
Anyway, he had been informed that Robb had sent him another raven, and now he was on his way to the rookery to grab the letter. Pycelle probably already had his grubby fingers all over it, but ideally the old cunt wouldn't understand the message.
He had asked Robb about finally giving him some concrete uplift in his last letter, so it was probably going to be about that. Lyonel hoped that he could get something actually useful done for once. He was getting tired of sitting around on his ass and acting like a dumbass kid all day. He wanted to get some shit done already, get to the really good shit.
Making his way to the rookery, Lyonel decided a good ten seconds just to give Pycelle's gormless assistant the creepiest fucking stare he could muster. It wasn't that he thought the Lannister lackey would be scared off or anything, it was just the principle of the thing.
"Thanks." He offered tonelessly, turning away without waiting for a response.
Swiping the no doubt resealed letter off the table, he cracked the wax seal and proceeded to read the letter.
Wheat, turnip, barley, clover = CHOW TIME.
First, you eat your gummies, then you check the bottom of the bag, then you eat some more, then you fill it back up.
PS: Don't tell The Ace shit.
Leave it to Robb to only send him vague as fuck information.
Lyonel knew that his theoretical partner in crime didn't want pervy old Pycelle to get his hands on any useful information, but seriously, this was just fucking ridiculous.
If he had to guess, Robb had sent some really vague instructions on how to do four-field crop rotation. The wheat probably consumes minerals, then the turnips would pull some more up from down below where the roots of other plants can't reach. The barley would clean the rest of it up, and then clover would pull in something from the air to add back to the soil.
Fine. Simple enough in theory. Lyonel didn't really need to understand the specific mechanics. He just needed it to work. If the Tyrells tried to crown Renly or anyone else, the last thing he needed was them starving out the city just by squatting on the Roseroad.
The real challenge would be convincing the people who were in charge of King's Landing to implement a new system of managing crops. He was four years old. It wasn't like anyone would actually take Lyonel seriously when he suggested an agriculture policy, especially his no-nonsense pseudo grandfather Jon Arryn.
What was he even supposed to say to a man like Jon Arryn in order to convince him? "Oh hey my man Jonny A, my friend Bobby S who is five years old just came up with a revolutionary new way to manage our crops. What do you mean 'has it been tested'? Just trust me man I'm sure it will work out perfectly for us."
That shit definitely wasn't going to fly based on what he had seen of no-nonsense Jon Arryn so far. That guy was the living definition of if it ain't broke, don't fix it. The Hand didn't take much in the way of risks. So it was pretty unlikely that Lyonel could con Jon Arryn into helping him do some quick uplift.
This was too bad seeing as how he didn't have much in the way of other options on the Small Council.
Jon and Stannis seemed to be the only two men in the entirety of King's Landing who actually cared about doing their fucking jobs.
Lord Estermont and Lord Corbray, the Master of Coin and Law respectively, were far too busy trying to kiss the glorious King Robert's ass, to give a shit about their jobs.
Varys practically wanted the Kingdom to fall apart at the seams so that the Kingdom would be nice and ripe for a Targ (or more likely a Blackfyre) Restoration. Once Young Griff was ready to go on his merry invasion quest with good ol' Jon "I'm gonna commit some war crimes like any true gaymer" Connington, the cockless wonder would pull the trigger.
God fucking damn, he was really going to need to clean house once he came to the throne. The Small Council was already a shit show, and he shuddered to think what would happen once Littlefinger joined the party. There wouldn't be much of a kingdom left if he didn't take some early steps to shore up the foundations.
Luckily, while Lyonel might not be able to con his step-grandpa into doing his bidding, there was someone who would be child's play to push around. Someone who was drunk almost twenty-four seven. Someone who had a shit load of influence by virtue of his position alone. Someone who loved to blow fuck loads of cash on his pointless pet projects.
Bobby fucking B. All Hail.
Jon Arryn may not take Lyonel's ideas seriously, but a drunk off his ass Robert would probably think that the experimentational four-field crop rotation was an absolute banger of an idea and that they should get on that shit right fucking now. Especially if Lyonel mentioned the Starks were trying it out too.
Better get right on that, he decided.
Half an hour later he found Robert essentially 'unguarded' in the royal bedchamber. Boros the Belly was passed out on the floor, so the fat pervert had obviously joined in on the party.
What an inspiring member of the legendary Kingsguard. Under Blount's watch, a four-year-old was able to get into the room no problem. Truly, King Robert's security was second to none. All it takes is an excuse to get blitzed and the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms was easy pickings.
Slip in an assassin disguised as a prostitute and by the end of the day, the realm would have a new King. Seeing as how Robert lived in a perpetual rut, no one would suspect a thing. It was practically a given that at least half the time the man was off sowing the royal seed.
At least this time Robert was only chugging down some ale, as opposed to slampigging some whores. Lyonel's innocent eyes will no doubt eventually be struck blind by the sight of the Baratheon King's bait and tackle, but that day is not this day.
Taking in the approach of his only real son, Robert slammed his beer mug down on the table and slurred out a greeting.
"Lyonel whath arre youo doinng heeree?"
"Father, I need you to sign this."
Lyonel had prepared a stock form a few months ago laying out a decree to experiment with crop rotation in a few select fields out in Rosby. He'd left a few blank spots since he didn't know the exact rotation he'd need, but once word came in from Winterfell all he had to do was fill in the blanks.
At this point, he only really needed his father's seal and signature, and then he could just sneak the decree onto the Lord Hand's desk to get it put into action.
"Whaaaaaat? Oh sevenn hellls…. fineth."
Robert signed the document in something that… sort of looked like a signature? It should be able to convince Jon Arryn though.
'Well, that was easy.' Lyonel thought. 'Seven save alcoholism.'
"And you still insist it must age for three years and one day at a minimum?" Maester Luwin moved at a surprisingly spry pace for such an old man. Maybe it was just being nine years younger than the book series canon, but he seemed to have no trouble tipping three freshly sealed barrels of white whiskey and laying them in their cradles.
"You could drink it right now, supposedly," Robb admitted, wetting a small paintbrush so he could scribble the date on the outside of each barrel's lid. "However, the general idea is that the longer it ages the better, and it's not worth drinking before three years have passed. Though just like wine, that's not an absolute either."
Luwin looked vaguely pained. "Still, it is unfortunate that it takes so long just to age a single batch. To think of the combinations I could have tested…" It went unsaid that Luwin was too old to really become the father of Westeros' whiskey industry. Discovering the ideal mixture of mash, stills, and aging to make a truly great whiskey would take decades, and Luwin would be long dead before then.
To be fair though, Robb also might be dead before then. While he understood the theory behind making various types of alcohol, he couldn't claim to be an enthusiast, and so he was basically starting from scratch. It would take quite a few experiments to produce a decent product, and even more a legendary one, and he didn't really have the time to devote solely to developing it.
Honestly, if not for the fact that whiskey had to be aged Robb wouldn't have even bothered with convincing Ned to let him set up a small distillery in the First Keep. Alcohol was pretty low on the priority list compared to things like blast furnaces, printing presses, or glass. Booze might make a pretty penny and give the North more cash to work with, but it wasn't truly revolutionary.
Or maybe it was. Both Westeros and Essos seemed to suffer from a surprising lack of basic critical thinking skills. Robb was still utterly baffled that Essosi rum was the only distilled liquor available. Was it really that much of a leap to try making other spirits? Myr had no reason not to be making vodka and gin by the boatload considering their monopoly on making quality glass.
Well, their loss was his gain. "Don't worry, Maester." Robb pointed out with a cheeky smirk. "Once we start blowing glass we'll be able to experiment with other types of spirits that aren't aged. The liquors will pull their flavour from herb infusions rather than the wood barrels."
"Oh? I've always been partial to lemons."
"Then lemons you shall have, ser."
Luwin's thin-lipped smile was a vaguely unsettling thing. It wasn't so much that the man gave off creepy predator vibes or acted in any way that was even remotely sinister. The dissonance came more from Robb's mental image of the man from the books as being a creaking mousy grandfatherly sort of man. That kind of man wasn't the sort to get very excited over anything but free nap time.
Instead, Luwin was arguably more helpful to Robb's plans to uplift the North than Eddard Stark was. The maester seemed to shed his years and come alive whenever Robb sought him out to pitch a new idea. Even something as minor as a diagram of a fountain pen was labeled as being 'Simply marvelous!'
Maybe Robb should have expected it from a man who willingly sought a Valyrian steel link. Luwin had studied all the Citadel knew of magic and accepted it as long dead, only for a supposed greenseer to appear before him and start drafting inventions.
"I shall look forward to it then."
Saying their goodbyes to each other, they parted ways. Luwin was bound for the library while Robb was headed down to the training yard.
It was already past time to get the shit kicked out of him by Ser Rodrick, but Robb had wanted to see the first batch of his newest product properly sealed up. Robb hoped the man didn't take his lateness too personally.
Yeah, fat chance of that.
Everyone in Winterfell knew that Robb was up to something by now, with even baby Sansa having figured out that her brother was making 'toys'. But only Luwin and Ned knew about his supposed greensight, so Rodrick wasn't inclined to give Robb an easy go of it. The old knight had warned Robb more than once that his 'fooling around' wasn't an excuse to be late for arms training.
"Well young Jon, it seems the Winter Princess has come down from her tower. Did you have a lovely nap, lass?"
Speak of the devil.
Ignoring Jon's sweaty-faced sniggering, Robb presented himself before Winterfell's Master-at-Arms and took the scowl head-on. "I did, ser."
Perhaps it was just being a grown-ass man mentally, but Robb just couldn't find old Cassel all that intimidating. It was hard to feel the urge to shake in his boots when Robb already knew the middle-aged knight was pure loyalty concealed beneath crabby bluster.
Unfortunately, Rodrick usually took that assurance as green boy cockiness and liked to make him pay for it. "Twenty laps around the yard lad, and it'll be thirty if you don't make it quick."
Choking down a sign, Robb turned and ran. Just another day in the life. Fuck ROB, fuck Westeros, and most importantly fuck Lyonel. Life in Winterfell would have been much easier if that prick had chosen to self-insert into Jon Snow instead.
As he jogged around the walled-in yard, Robb briefly allowed himself to fantasize what it would have been like. They could have double-teamed it together. Their good old religious father-slash-uncle would probably have been more willing to bend the knee and take advice from two supposed seers, especially given the famous Daenys' dragon dreams of the Doom.
They would have been running the show already rather than Robb having to constantly concede to Ned's caution. The Lord of Winterfell had loved the shit out of the horse-drawn seed drill Robb had built, but the man had insisted on testing four-field crop rotation in a few handpicked fields for a couple of years to see how it worked out.
Ned was just enough of a believer to let Robb build devices and make use of them if he saw them with his own eyes, but not enough of one to just do what he was told by someone who actually knew what was going on. Maybe once Robb had another so-called dream about the Greyjoy Rebellion the man would finally stop doubting and start doing. Ten years was not a lot of time to uplift an entire continent, and one of those years had already been used up.
There were only nine more years to go before shit started going down.
Until then, fuck Lyonel in his arse. It could have been glorious. Instead, Robb had to do all the heavy lifting by himself while that bastard was probably living it up in King's Landing enjoying the twenty-four-seven living meme that was Robert Baratheon.
"That'll be another five laps for you Ser Snail!"
"Fucking hell."
"What was that?"