The chill of the Northern spring, though still biting, felt less oppressive than the raw, damp cold of his first days at Stonefist. A subtle shift had begun, a faint stirring of life in the land and, more importantly, in the hearts of the smallfolk under Lord Kaelan Blackwood's nascent rule. His initial, almost imperceptible, interventions had begun to bear fruit, a testament to the disproportionate impact of modern knowledge on a medieval world. The designated waste areas, initially met with suspicion and grumbling, were now being utilized with a grudging acceptance. The air in the fishing village, though still redolent with the scent of the sea, carried less of the acrid stench of human waste. Maester Ellard, initially perplexed by Kaelan's seemingly mundane obsession with "cleanliness," had diligently overseen the lining of the village wells with stone and the implementation of rudimentary rules for water collection. The result was a subtle but undeniable decrease in the common ailments that plagued the village, a quiet revolution in public health that Kaelan observed with the detached satisfaction of a CEO seeing a positive quarterly report. The smallfolk, though they couldn't articulate the why, felt the what: fewer children succumbed to the summer sickness, fewer adults were laid low by the griping guts. This tangible improvement, a direct consequence of Kaelan's directives, began to foster a nascent loyalty, a sense that this new lord, though strange in his ways, cared for their well-being in a manner their previous lords had not. He understood that true power wasn't just about force, but about providing tangible benefits, creating a dependency that bred loyalty more potent than fear.
His conversations with Maester Ellard about agricultural improvements had also begun to take root, albeit slowly. The maester, a scholar by nature, had been intrigued by the concepts of crop rotation and heavier plows, even if he initially dismissed them as impractical or unheard of. Kaelan had framed them not as radical innovations, but as "ancient wisdom from forgotten lands," a clever misdirection that appealed to Ellard's academic curiosity. He had tasked Ellard with overseeing the construction of a few experimental heavy plows, using the strongest timber from the Wolfswood and iron from the small, local deposits that the mountain clans occasionally traded. The first attempts were clumsy, requiring more oxen than the villagers were accustomed to, and the farmers themselves were deeply skeptical. "My lord, my father's father's father plowed this land with a scratch plow, and his father before him. The old ways are the true ways," a grizzled farmer named Old Finn had grumbled, spitting tobacco juice onto the muddy ground.
Kaelan, however, was patient. "Finn," he had replied, his voice calm but firm, "your father's father's father also starved in the long winters. We seek to change that. Try this new plow on a small plot. If it fails, you lose little. If it succeeds, you gain much. And I will personally ensure your family is fed, regardless of the outcome." The promise of security, a rare commodity in the North, was a powerful motivator. The initial results, though modest, were promising. The deeper furrows turned by the heavier plow brought richer soil to the surface, and the first experimental plots showed a noticeable improvement in the hardier Northern grains like oats and barley. It was a long game, Kaelan knew, but every small victory built towards his larger objective.
The true engine of his house's burgeoning wealth, however, lay beneath the waves. Kaelan spent increasingly long hours in the Sunset Sea, his Atlantean physiology a silent, powerful secret. He would slip away from Stonefist under the cloak of dawn or dusk, his superhuman strength allowing him to swim against the fiercest currents, his enhanced vision piercing the murky depths. He explored the coastal shelf, mapping the underwater terrain with a precision no medieval cartographer could dream of. He discovered vast, untouched kelp forests, teeming with marine life, and identified deep-sea trenches where schools of fish, larger and more numerous than any the Stony Shore fishermen had ever seen, congregated.
His ability to communicate with sea creatures was his most potent tool. He would "speak" to the shoals of cod and herring, guiding them towards the fishermen's nets. The results were immediate and astonishing. The catches, once meager and unpredictable, swelled to unprecedented sizes. The fishing boats, once returning half-empty, now groaned under the weight of their bounty. The smallfolk, initially attributing it to "Lord Kaelan's luck" or "the Drowned God's favor," began to whisper of a deeper connection their lord had with the sea. Kaelan encouraged the superstitions, allowing them to weave a mystique around him that served his purposes. He introduced new net designs, subtly guiding the local net-makers to create finer meshes for smaller fish and stronger, larger nets for deep-sea hauls, drawing on his knowledge of medieval fishing advancements. He even suggested the use of buoyant floats and stone weights to keep nets vertical, a technique that increased efficiency.
"My Lord," Ser Gregor had boomed one evening, his face flushed with ale and satisfaction, "the catches! Never in my lifetime have I seen such bounty. The villagers speak of you as a true son of the sea, blessed by the Drowned God himself!"
Kaelan merely smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "The sea is generous, Ser Gregor, when one understands its ways. And the Drowned God, perhaps, favors those who work hard and wisely." He then shifted the conversation. "Speaking of the sea, Ser Gregor, our fishing boats are… rudimentary. They hug the shore, vulnerable to the Ironborn. We need swifter, sturdier vessels, capable of venturing further, of carrying more cargo. What do you know of shipbuilding in the North?"
Gregor grunted. "Little, my Lord. White Harbor has a shipyard, and the Manderlys build some ships, but here on the Stony Shore, we build only what we need. Simple, open boats. The North, as a whole, has little love for the sea, not like the Ironborn or the southerners."
"A pity," Kaelan mused. "For the sea holds great wealth, and great danger. We must be prepared for both. I envision new designs, perhaps with a fixed stern rudder for better steering, and planks that fit edge-to-edge, not overlapping, for greater strength. We have timber in the Wolfswood, and stone for ballast. We will build a small fleet, Ser Gregor. Not for war, not yet, but for prosperity and protection." He was subtly introducing the concepts of carvel building and stern rudders, advancements that would allow for larger, more stable ships.
The conversation then turned to the Ironborn. "The Ironborn," Gregor spat, "they are dogs. They raid our shores, steal our fish, burn our villages. They have always been a curse upon the Stony Shore."
"Indeed," Kaelan agreed, his eyes hardening. "And we will make them regret every raid. A strong fleet, combined with our improved catches, will allow us to trade more, grow richer, and eventually, build defenses that will make them think twice before landing on our shores. Perhaps even… hunt them." He let the last words hang, a promise of future retribution.
His true focus, however, remained the underwater kingdom. His explorations led him further from the familiar coastline, into the deeper, colder waters of the Sunset Sea. He sought not just a cave, but a vast, stable geological formation, a natural fortress that could be expanded and shaped. He remembered the geological insights from his past life: the North, while cold, had areas of geothermal activity, like the hot springs beneath Winterfell and the volcanic vents under the Dreadfort. Skagos, a distant island, was also suspected of being volcanic. This suggested the possibility of finding volcanic ash, or pozzolana, the key ingredient for Roman hydraulic concrete, which could set and strengthen underwater.
One day, while exploring a particularly deep trench near the Bay of Ice, Kaelan felt a subtle tremor in the water, a faint warmth emanating from the seabed. Following the sensation, he discovered a series of submerged fissures, from which warm, mineral-rich water gently seeped. The rock formations around these vents were unusual, dark and glassy in places, hinting at ancient volcanic activity. He collected samples, small fragments of dark, porous stone, and brought them back to Stonefist, carefully concealing their origin.
"Maester Ellard," Kaelan said, presenting the samples, "I found these stones during my… explorations of the coast. They are unlike any I have seen. They feel… warm, even after being out of the water for some time. And they are remarkably light for their size. Can you discern their nature? Perhaps they hold some unique properties."
Ellard, ever eager for a new puzzle, took the samples with a curious frown. He chipped away at a piece, examining its texture and color. "My Lord, these are indeed unusual. They appear to be a form of volcanic rock, perhaps obsidian, though not as sharp. The warmth suggests some lingering geothermal heat. Such formations are rare in the North, though not unheard of. Winterfell itself sits atop hot springs, and there are tales of fire-breathing mountains in the far north."
"Indeed," Kaelan replied, his mind already racing. "I've heard whispers of ancient builders, from a time before the Andals, who used a special ash from the earth to create structures that could stand against the sea itself. Do your texts speak of such things? A 'stone that hardens in water'?" He was subtly guiding Ellard towards the concept of pozzolana.
Ellard's eyes lit up. "My Lord, you speak of the legends of the Valyrians, perhaps, or the builders of the Hightower's base, which is said to be made of fused black stone that predates even Valyria! There are also the tales of the Deep Ones, an underwater race said to have built the Seastone Chair from oily black stone. But a 'stone that hardens in water'… that sounds like a myth. Unless… unless you refer to a specific type of mortar? The Romans of old, in Essos, were said to have built great harbors that stood against the waves for centuries, using a unique cement. But the ingredients for such a thing are lost to us."
"Lost, perhaps, but not impossible to rediscover," Kaelan countered. "Focus on the properties of these stones, Maester. Their lightness, their warmth, their origin. Perhaps they are the key to unlocking such ancient secrets. If we could create a mortar that hardens underwater, imagine the possibilities for our harbor, for our defenses against the Ironborn!" He was careful to keep his true ambition hidden, framing it in terms of immediate, understandable benefits.
The search for a wife, and thus heirs, was another critical component of his long-term strategy. He knew the customs of Westeros: monogamy was the rule, enforced by the Faith of the Seven. Polygamy was "strictly forbidden by the laws of all gods and men in Westeros," a sin in the eyes of the Faith. Only the Targaryens, with their dragons, had truly defied this, and even they faced opposition. However, Kaelan had noted the loopholes: the Ironborn's "salt wives" and the Dornish "paramours," whose children, while often considered bastards, could sometimes inherit or be legitimized.
He needed a trueborn wife for political legitimacy and to secure his line, but he also needed many children, all of whom, he hoped, would inherit his Atlantean, Greensight, and warging abilities. This meant a delicate dance. He began to discreetly inquire about eligible daughters of minor Northern houses, particularly those with coastal lands or timber resources, seeking a strategic alliance. But his mind also turned to the smallfolk, to the hardy, fertile women of the Stony Shore. A "paramour" or "salt wife" from among them would be less politically fraught, and their children, though bastards in the eyes of the realm, would still carry his blood and, hopefully, his powers. He could then find ways to legitimize them later, or simply ensure their loyalty and integration into his future underwater society. The vagueness of inheritance laws in Westeros, which often depended on "old customs, precedents and the lord/king's own desire," offered him flexibility.
One afternoon, while inspecting the new, larger fishing boats being constructed under his guidance, Kaelan observed a young woman, Elara, the daughter of Old Finn, working with remarkable strength and skill, hauling timber. She was strong, resilient, with eyes the color of the stormy sea. He approached her, striking up a conversation about the new boat designs. Her practical insights, born of a lifetime on the shore, impressed him. He saw in her not just a potential mother for his Atlantean heirs, but a woman of the North, rooted in the land he now commanded. He began to spend more time in the village, speaking with her, learning about her life, subtly gauging her character and her family's standing. He knew that any such union, outside of a formal marriage, would need to be handled with extreme discretion to avoid scandal and maintain his standing with Winterfell.
The whispers of the deep continued to call to him. During his underwater explorations, Kaelan felt a profound sense of connection to the vast, unexplored world beneath the waves. He sensed the presence of creatures far larger and more ancient than any fish or whale. The legends of krakens, leviathans, and even sea dragons, once mere fantasy, now felt like tangible realities. The Sunset Sea was said to be home to krakens, and ancient Ironborn legends spoke of Nagga, the first sea dragon, large enough to feed on krakens and leviathans. He had not yet encountered one directly, but the sheer scale of the ocean, the unseen depths, hinted at their existence. His ability to communicate with marine life, he realized, might extend even to these mythical beasts. He envisioned not taming them through force, but forging alliances, a symbiotic relationship built on mutual respect and shared purpose. They would be the ultimate guardians of his underwater kingdom, a living, breathing defense against the White Walkers and any other threat that dared to challenge his dominion. The thought sent a thrill through him, a blend of the mafia boss's strategic ambition and the reincarnated lord's desperate need for survival.
He began to subtly probe the local lore, asking Maester Ellard about ancient tales of sea monsters and drowned gods. Ellard, of course, dismissed most of it as superstition, but he did recount the Ironborn legends of Nagga and the Grey King, and the oily black stone of the Seastone Chair, said to have been carved by an underwater race called the Deep Ones. Kaelan listened intently, filing away every detail. The Deep Ones, an "underwater race," resonated deeply with his own Atlantean nature. Could they be distant kin? Or perhaps, a forgotten civilization whose ruins could form the foundation of his new kingdom? The possibilities were endless, and the sea, once a barrier, was now his greatest ally, a vast, unexplored frontier waiting to be claimed. His journey had just begun, and the currents of fate were pulling him deeper into the mysteries of Westeros, and the secrets of the world beneath the waves.