Havenhall—Hreska
98 AC (Tenth Moon—Day 28)
Tobyn II
Tobyn had rolled into Havenhall a moon back, when that port still had no name worth spitting. Was a right ruckus then, but it had its ways. You hopped off the boat, got in a row, bunched up with a pack of strangers, hauled up for jawing, slapped with a number and a mark, then kicked into a wagon with some rags, a tent, and a boot up the arse for the trail.
One day stuck in Ranse Port—where them ships puked them out. After that, it was off to Druesfort or Hreska. Most folk got sent to the last, picked by what their hands could do.
Tobyn was set for Druesfort, but 'cause he had a missus and a brat, they shoved him to Hreska—where the prince was raisin' his big pile. Proper lucky, that.
Five days trudging, most of it getting roared at by some cunt-starved sods with blades and armour too bright for their own good. Order, order, order—all they hollered. Bloody order! No one crossed 'em, mind. Folk didn't squawk—slept snug, ate full, and only the men plodded a couple hours. Lasses and brats rode the carts.
Finally hit Hreska—queer damn name. Tobyn reckoned it was some Essosi jabber, from them white-haired folk like the royals. 'Aderian' or some such rot.
There was a mess of folks at Hreska, five thousand or thereabouts. Their bunch got dumped on a flat stretch where them earth-diggers had scraped through. There, they handed out little wood huts that slapped up fast as spit, and a pile of rules to mind.
It was like them tourneys, but folk spread wide and lined up neat. Tobyn got a yard, a big one. Some clever sods came by him and Eyla, scratching ink after a long yap.
What work did he do? Tricks he knew? Wants? Schemes? Hurts? Coin? And such rot. Them folks knew heaps about him too, his old daft messes, his tie with Eyla, little Bryn and all.
When it wrapped, it came to his job. He was still laying bricks. Still had them gut-wrenching debts on his back—filthy thieving pricks. They bumped him to trade boss, so he'd pull in fatter coin.
Then the big ask: where to squat? Village or town. In Hreska, huts cost dear the nearer to Velena castle—that's what they called the royal's pile, or would once it stood tall.
Tobyn weren't getting close, not by a mile. His spot was a long stomp from Velena, set to be some grinding town. He could snag a real hut here and a yard without his wages getting gutted—proper tight-fists, them smooth-talking ink-scribblers.
"A ten-room house, middle yard, and a small patch for greens," one smart arse told him, handing five scraps of skin. "Guard these papers good—they're your blood and kin's. Lose them, and you're a filthy beggar."
It was his, his woman's, little Bryn's, Jenna's—hells knew how that half-sister got stuck to him—and the babe not yet born, just in case.
All this kicked off a sennight after he hit Havenhall. Then he got to grafting. Hauled to a big huddle of builders, stuck under a foreman—some poor sod named Bennard. Got the word and the job. They was raising fifteen huts, see, and Tobyn bossed the brick-layers in their patch.
Over eight hundred proper workers, plus three hundred green sods with no clue how to slap a house together.
Stuff rolled in quick—more than plenty. Then the sweat started. They worked in clumps now, slick as pig shit. Seven hours a day, six days a sennight.
First came the diggers, clawing foundations and drain lines. Took a sennight per yard. Used to take two back in the Riverlands.
Diggers done, fillers swooped in. One day to level, one to pour the cursed stone. Them boys ground hard. Six days for the base to set, save the walls—then it was Tobyn and his sorry crew.
They stacked bricks—thick walls, mind. Their bit dragged longest, real man's toil and careful. Straight lines, no waste. Couldn't muck the dirt too bad or the magic stone'd kill the crops.
Sennight and a half to wall one hut.
Roofers and plasterers came after. First house stood tall in a moon's pass—damn pretty, too. Not finished, mind—no doors, windows, or pipes yet. It was called a townhouse, and it was the one Tobyn picked when they shoved the choices at him. Weren't cheap, and he grabbed it with a big yard.
Felt like they skinned him proper because the damn thing shot up fast as a fart. When he yapped about the stuff and sweat, he clammed up quick. He weren't raising one without the priced royal's hand. Hells, he'd slap together a sour old shack if he done it alone with his bag of coin.
"The bloody furniture's gonna leave me a stinking beggar, I tell ya," he groused one noon to his mate Corren. The old sod was his neighbor now, the pair of them stuck tight somehow. "How am I supposed to snag a decent horse now?"
"You weren't getting no nag anyway, none allowed in towns—didn't you read the paper?" A quick tavern sat a few streets off, slinging cheap ale. Him and his pal hunkered there, swilling mugs. "Plus you're still Prince Maelys's man, so you'll scrape by real good."
Corren picked the same townhouse but paid it straight from his fat purse, the smug sod. Still left him broke as a beggar, so he went back to guard work, running supply wagons this time, and got bumped to captain, pulling good coin.
"I should've took a village, one of them farm spots. They got yards big as fields there." Word was the farms were already built, just needed bosses to run them and tend them. Fat pay and a real chief's job. "Reckon I could've had ten horses then, and one of them fancy wheel-houses the High Septon's said to ride."
Loads of folk with fresh yarns from King's Landing kept rolling in. Turns out Prince Maelys shat out another wonder, a thing that scratched holy books faster than lightning. Impossible shit that royal was pulling.
Tobyn didn't regret coming here a lick. He'd have one of them sacred books soon enough. Hells, by the talk, they cost pennies, twenty silver moons at most.
"We do got a farm, you thick-headed sod," Corren grunted, shaking his head like Tobyn was a slow mule. That hit Tobyn like a kick to the gut. A farm? His farm? "We only got four percent of the damn thing—pennies, really—but it's one of the big spreads, so come next harvest we'll be hauling fat coin."
Corren kept on, "Got a hauling outfit too, inland. Ten percent there, seven wagons rolling. Then there's an inn going up in Velena—six percent of that."
"When the hells did we turn into bloody merchants?" Tobyn barked, loud enough heads turned. "And why am I choking down this piss-water ale if I'm swimming in coin?"
"From that purse you tossed me, you daft git!" Corren shot back, tossing Kevan the barkeep a sorry glance. Tobyn didn't give a rat's arse—this ale tasted like horse piss anyway. "Told you I had a deal brewing, didn't I?"
Aye, he remembered, but he figured Corren was just flapping his gums to buy Nessari some fancy silk gown or some such rot. Well, it twigged why Eyla never boxed his ears for that daft stunt—she had a sharp head on her, no doubt Corren blabbed the whole scheme to her first.
"We raise a cheer, then?" Tobyn hoisted his mug.
"Sod off, you prick. We're still poor as dirt, and you got work come dawn—want them ink-scribblers docking your pay 'cause you show up stinking of ale?"
The sod was right, so Tobyn nursed one more mug and trudged back to his little wood hut. He'd been paid a few days back, so he snagged something nice for Eyla from the quick stalls.
His patch of houses sat a bit uphill—least his corner did. Down low was the town's gut, where hammers rang even on rest days. Big half-built hulks everywhere. Sewer trenches dug deep and wide, same as King's Landing.
One lone road cut through, raw dirt yet, slicing straight to Velena and stopping where the castle would rise. Tobyn figured they'd pave it proper once the bones were set.
He wondered what they'd name this town. Better not be some poncy Essosi word like Hreska.
When he got to his patch, he looked dead north, where the nearest farms sprawled. Squint hard and he could spot them—green smears that melted into the sky. Big bastards, them farms. He wondered how many huts'd be needed to stuff all the sods who'd sweat on them and the cursed grinding houses.
This town'd two hundred huts split in three chunks. His chunk got sixty-two. He had fifteen to raise, and that'd take him a year and a half. Whole place'd be done by then.
"Reckon I ain't fretting over empty hands," he muttered, half-stunned. "Keep hammering five years, I'm set for life if Corren's tricks pay fat."
He'd still be young enough to chase some new shine. Or get shoved to foreman—nah, not that. Bennard looked like a kicked cur every time he showed. Too many skins and tallies. Tobyn knew his sums, but that room was pure lunacy.
He swaggered into his home, barely a wobble in his step—Kevan's ale was piss-weak.
His yard was more grass than mud now. A pair of tall trees, and a garden patch he'd scratched out for Eyla. Foundation dug and poured, just waiting to cure. Stuff for the walls wouldn't show for three moons yet.
Still, Tobyn liked staring at it. Thousand times better than that rat-hole inn in King's Landing, and a million better than the shithole he'd crawled out of in the Vale. Even the wooden hut was a leap up.
——
Eyla'd cooked up a feast when he got home—a big pot of beef stew with carrots, spuds, and peas. Loaf of bread too, and a mug of juice to swill it down. Food cost less here if you did it yourself. Tobyn figured it'd get dear later when wagons started to run slow.
"Back from boozing so quick, eh?" His woman said after a good smack on the lips. "Thought you'd stick longer."
He handed her the little pail of fancy-smelling soaps, oils, and candles. There was a new white glass cover that lit things bright—proper witchcraft, that. Cost a heap, but he'd snag one soon.
"Kevan's ale was bloating my gut, so I figured to scarper before it drained my drinking purse." He scooped up his boy Brynden. The lad was getting plump, and it weren't even a year since he'd been pushed out. "This one needs to start toddling soon."
The babe giggled like babes do, spitting bubbles and smacking his face with them tiny arms. Sharp-eyed, this lad, with his mam's looks—green eyes and yellow hair, not too strong though. Tobyn hoped the boy didn't get Eyla's small build. He didn't want no craven for a son.
"He'll get to it soon, reckon," she said after brightening the hut. "The women say babes start that after a year or so."
He figured them hags knew their rot and dropped it there. He dug into the stew, letting his woman yap his ear raw with drivel. All about straying wives and other tavern slop. Slipped in one ear, out the other.
What did he give a fart for some merchant's whelp popping up and fouling a kin's nest?
Still, bits stuck—like them archive sods who scratched a man's tricks for fifteen moons and carted it to them quill-shoving dens where the ink-rats crawled from.
Corren had yapped it to him. Seemed worth the hassle, since it'd nail his skills down solid, no doubts.
"Jenna came by earlier," Eyla told him. "Her belly'd swelled bigger now, reckon she'll push out the babe soon."
"She did? How'd she drag herself here?" He knew she squatted in that posh patch where the prince's close men would lived. Real big houses going up there, Tobyn'd seen the drawings and plans.
"She rolled in with her merchant man," she said. "He looked all twisted up, likely fixing to wed your sister quick so the whelp don't turn out some cursed bastard."
"She's my cousin, damn you." He faked a huff, not too loud. Didn't want to spook his boy. "Plus we got no septs yet, so the tying'd be a quiet mess. That rich prick want my nod or some rot like that?"
Eyla threw him a glare, but it had play in it.
"Reckon he did, since you're her closest kin now with the new rules the princess and her man shoved through."
See, there was a split in how stuff got done when them royals stuck their noses in. The women liked heaping all the praise on that big-titted princess, Gael. Bloody stupid thinking if you asked Tobyn—everyone knew it was the priced prince pulling all the strings on them changes. You saw it clear when you heard him yap and watched him graft.
The royal talked common like it was some strange lingo. All fancy words and clean rhythms, like them smart masters from the Reach.
Princess Gael was gentle and kind, heart big as the Mother's own. But she hadn't no odd brains in her, nothing near what that prince packed in his silver skull.
"He'd best be fixing to toss me a fat purse, 'cause I ain't handing Jenna off cheap," he growled. He reckoned he could squeeze a dozen gold dragons if he hollered the sod took her maidenhead before tying the knot. "We could snag a proper fancy bed with it, something to make it easy for me to plow your slit like a real man."
He shot her a leer that turned her ears red. Proper whore, his woman, so she'd likely fleece a fat purse next time Jenna come by if it meant Tobyn'd give her a real pounding.
After the grub, he fixed a wash out back in the hut. Them new septons was yelling that filthy bodies could damn a sod to the seven hells now. Tobyn weren't fixing to get yanked to them pain holes just 'cause he skipped scrubbing his balls each noon.
Plus, there was heaps of new water holes where the wet shot out when you twisted some shiny metal spout. Them crafty sods called it a pump. Said each hut'd get one inside once the shit ditches was done.
Sounded like witchcraft to him, but he weren't turning down easy water, was he?
————
Havenhall—Hreska
98 AC (Eleventh Moon—Day 05)
Tobyn was a trade boss, which meant he didn't have to break his back out in the dirt messing with bricks and that quick stone unless one of his lads got hurt bad. His brick-layers were proper good hands, so they didn't muck up or pull no stupid stunts on the job.
All that left him not fretting over the sods, with more time on his hands during work than he knew what to do with. So, to kill it, he reckoned teaching them dumb helpers how to stack bricks right was only fair.
No sense letting the bastards rake in fat coin for scratching their arses, was there?
His figuring was that if they got more good hands, they'd wrap this whole building rot quicker than planned. So he done that most days, tacking on little side jobs so them fresh sods could sharpen their tricks without fouling the big work.
It was just small bits added to the yards he'd yapped over with the owners first. Some steps. A fast fountain. Couple of poured back platforms. An outside fire pit. All them little jobs got the new lot learning how to slap stuff together right quick.
Then he got hauled in by Bennard one day. The big chief sod.
"The checkers say your men have been doing work fast and good. Used more of the material on site too," the foreman said. Tobyn figured the man had a bitter hag for a wife 'cause the foreman weren't one for grins. "Your bunch is ahead of the rest by a week or so. Mind sharing how you pulled it?"
He spilled it all, no sense risking his pay getting slashed for being mule-headed.
"That sounds fair—it's a quick way to get the spare hands up to scratch," the man said after Tobyn yapped it out. "I might pitch the whole thing to the site manager next meeting. Could earn you extra coin or a spot in some new department altogether."
Tobyn didn't know what to make of it, mostly because he didn't get a damn word of what the man meant.
A pair of days later, a red dragon cut through their sky while they grafted, heading to Hreska proper. Them royals finally showed. But he didn't know which one, because that beast weren't one of the two he knew.
He found out quick from the racket at the open tavern once he knocked off work. Turned out it was one of them nameless princes from that island the royals squatted on before they smashed the old kingdoms a few hundred years back. Folk called this one a 'demon', and some boozed-up sods swore they'd seen him in them posh brothels back in the king's city.
Tobyn didn't know what a whoring royal wanted here in Havenhall, but he didn't give a rat's arse neither. Long as the demon prince didn't stir more grief with his cursed beast, that was.
Few days on, word came the demon prince tagged along with Prince Maelys, so folk was grinning like fools. They said the fancy royal'd yap a few words when he rolled through to eyeball all the sweat they'd poured.
Tobyn was pleased too, because the pretty sister-fucker was a proper chosen of the Seven now, weren't he? Plus the prince liked tossing good stuff their way.
"Bet he'll shove out a rule makin' them booze-peddlers flog their fancy rot cheap as piss-ale," he grunted during one of them mad rushes when carts and wagons swarmed the town thick as flies. This time, heaps stuck around. "Heard he stuffed that sweet princess of his full, so he must be in a right sunny temper."
Princess Gael with a babe in her gut had the women turning holier than septons. Even Corren's woman was spouting Faith words like a true Westerosi. None of that fire-kissing bollocks here—they bowed to real gods.
Be grand if them ice-fucking barbarians from the north swapped their cursed trees for proper faith, instead of stealing men's wives.
"Why's it always ale with you, Tobyn? You barely sup enough to muddle your wits no more," one of his lads grunted. That was because he didn't want to turn out like his old man. Plus, Eyla always got riled when he guzzled till he pissed his breeches. "My reckon is he'll slap up one of them horse-running sheds so clever sods can bet their coin proper."
Tobyn figured Deran had some loose bits rattling in his skull 'cause what he yapped weren't happening. Them guards was always snatching them whores who spread their slits for a handful of coppers every day, all 'cause whoring was banned here—they called it sin.
Gambling was big sin too, so the prince weren't slapping up a whole shed just for it.
"Maybe we wait and see instead of thinking up some real daft things, yeah?
So they waited, and it wasn't long till the prince came and gave them a real heart touching talking to.
"My good subjects of Havenhall," the prince had a voice like a tune, so when he yapped, it was hard not to perk your ears. He stood on a quick-slapped platform, wearing fancy like a dream flogged by a greedy trader. "My heart is gladdened by the labors you have undertaken here, and by the peace and order you've kept amid hardship. I know well the weight of your toils, and it is for that reason I have come among you this sennight—to ease that burden where I may, and to strengthen the unity we have so dearly forged."
Near all the folk had crammed here, where the plans said it'd be a rest spot for sods once the town stood full.
"Now, I'll speak plain with you. The tidings I bear are not all of cheer—some are solemn, others middling—but I'll begin with the good. From the second sennight of this moon forth, workdays shall be lessened to five per sennight."
A roar busted out, one Tobyn hollered in for whatever daft rot. He didn't know why he was grinning, since he didn't sweat much himself. But he reckoned two days pissed on ale or lolling with Eyla and his boy beat one.
Prince Maelys shut the racket with a lifted hand before going on. Tobyn wished he had half the bossing and pull that silver-haired prick had. Them highborn sods was just the seven-favored bastards, every one.
"As with the former decree, new provisions will be made for trade and craft. Take heart, for you shall enjoy more time with your kin and your neighbors both. Your wages will remain untouched. In addition, there shall be a grievance shed raised in the town's midst, where all may bring forth their concerns and appeals. Each department shall have ties to it, that your voices may not go unheard."
The prince's mug lost its grin, voice turning cold as a grave. "Another matter concerns the women of our holdfast. Too many have turned to unworthy labours to fill their bellies, and that I will not abide. Work fit and fair shall be granted to them—honest work, with honest pay. And as for children in the workforce—hear me now—such practices end this very day. Any man found employing a child for coppers and scraps will answer for it before my hall. I will see no trade thrive on the backs of babes. Fear not—aid and replacement will be given, and none shall lose their livelihood for obeying the law."
It made sense to Tobyn… maybe. He didn't know, didn't give a fart neither. Eyla still stitched her rags and pulled fat coin, and he saw no beef with it. Didn't see why other women couldn't do the same. Plus, whoring was real sin—straight to the seven hells for any who spread.
Now, Tobyn begged pardon heaps of times and tossed coin to the septas every week or so. He never broke his vows once, so he likely weren't headed for hells no more. Plus he scrubbed regular and had no bastards. Proper holy sod, he was.
So he was all for the prince's yapping and wants now. And by the roar, heaps of folk was too.
"Now, to matters more moderate. In the moons to come, many souls shall arrive upon our shores—folk from Essos, freed from the cruel yoke of slavery and want. I have brought them here, that they may begin anew beneath our banner. And I ask you, my good people of Havenhall, who have known me long—welcome them with open arms. Teach them our customs, our ways. Show them the kindness you would hope to be shown. For in time, they shall not be strangers, but brothers and sisters—one people, bound as Havenhall's own. This I decree, and I shall see it upheld with respect and grace."
That was only right, weren't it. Hells, he might start one of them giving outfits just so them sorry sods didn't fret over hard lives no more.
Tobyn hated them Essosi pricks with all his gut now. Bunch of demons, they was. Slaving folk was sin you couldn't wash off. Even septons said the biggest slaving bastards—one of them beast-riding kin the royal house come from—got smacked by the gods.
The Targaryens, good folk they was, with no rot in their blood, was the only ones who made it through the big wreck. Them Essosi bastards was next in line for the Seven's boot if they kept sinning.
"Lastly, the ill news. Bandits have struck at our settlements in Druesfort. Know that I will not allow such harm to fester. A program shall be set in motion to guard against such evils henceforth. You may not see its fruit at once, but in the years to come, its roots will hold fast, and Havenhall will be the safer for it."
The prince gave them a grin like sunshine. "That is all for now, though more shall be announced in due course. Keep heed of the speakers in the days ahead. Until we meet again, my good and loyal subjects—may the light of the Seven and the fire of House Targaryen ever shine upon you."
He let out a big roar, Tobyn did, with the whole lot of folk joining in. After the prince's yapping came a proper bash like them tourneys—grub and ale and all sorts of larks. Tobyn, lucky sod that he was, even got to grip the prince's hand 'cause his trick with training them extra hands somehow reached the royal's ears.
It was bloody amazing.
========
The Saint: Tobyn is just a smallfolk, he doesn't know much. So I put a quick clarification.
Propaganda
Whoring and betting. This is treated as gospel, written into a new version of the seven pointed star. Septas and septons are working overtime to spread this doctrine.
Bathing. Not bathing is considered a sin, and anyone who does not participate regularly is believed to be destined for the hells, or marked as a plague ridden and evil vessel. Maelys does not compromise on hygiene, and people like Tobyn are willing to resort to violence to avoid being infected with plague or cursed to the hells. This mirrors the hysteria seen during the Covid period in the United States. Water and soap, specifically hard soap, are free and abundant, so hygiene is not optional but expected.
Maelys is a chosen one.
There is also a rewritten history of the Doom and of House Targaryen. This is overt propaganda. It includes gospels declaring their divinely chosen status, which supposedly shields them from the punishments of incest and permits their participation in it. The conquest is framed as a holy, sanctioned event, and any house that opposed it or would oppose it is portrayed as a vessel of the pits.
The intent is that the smallfolk, septas, septons, and most lords are not learned enough to meaningfully argue against these claims. When Maelys's accomplishments, reputation, and the High Septon's support are added, the result is a figure who cannot realistically be opposed or challenged.
Additionally, Tobyn calls maesters masters. He does not know Valyrian and refers to Valyrians as Aderians. He believes northerners are barbarians who steal other men's wives, a belief rooted in the practice of first night. He calls Prince Daemon the demon prince. This is meant to emphasize how little he knows of the nobility. He knows only Maelys and Gael from the royal family. That is all. These are the only figures most commoners recognize. He does not know the king, the number of the king's children, the great houses, or other important details.
Tobyn is, to his bone, Maelys's creature. He will do anything he says so long as it doesn't sound obviously harmful to him and his.
—-
Two more chapters to post, but again, I'm exhausted. I still have to post a lot of things today. So maybe I'll post. Idk 🙄
Find extra chapters up on my Pa-treon/BoombaTheSaint under the Free Membership section, go and read them, free of charge.