Year: 281 AC, Early Spring — 2 years before Robert's Rebellion
Marcus sat at his desk, overlooking the reports from Castamere. It had been three months since he received Tywin's reluctant support, and already, the mines and farms showed signs of revival.
The current population stood at 570 souls—miners, farmers, smiths, and their families. It wasn't enough. Marcus knew that if Castamere was to become a true power, he would need to grow this number steadily.
"Five hundred seventy," he murmured, tapping his fingers against the parchment. "Barely enough to keep the mines, farms, and forges alive. If one bad harvest strikes, we'll be ruined. I need more."
He called for Ser Damon, his steward—a grizzled man of fifty, once a knight in service to the Reynes before their fall. Unlike many, Damon had bent the knee without hesitation when Marcus arrived, preferring survival over stubborn pride.
"My lord," Damon said, bowing.
"I want to know," Marcus began, "how many more workers we can attract from the nearby villages. Those without land, the desperate, the forgotten. Castamere must be their refuge."
Damon frowned. "Many fear this place still. The Reynes' bones lie scattered in these halls, and Lord Tywin made certain the Westerlands remembers their fate."
Marcus leaned back, smirking faintly. "Then we'll give them something stronger than fear—opportunity. Promise them bread, work, and fair coin. Refugees, debtors, the castoffs of other lords—I want them here. Under me."
Damon bowed again. "It will be done."
That night, Marcus sat alone, candlelight flickering across parchment filled with sketches and notes. With his modern knowledge, he began drafting ideas that Westeros had yet to see.
"Crop rotation… irrigation canals… stronger plows. If I can increase food production, more people can be sustained. And with blacksmithing, if I introduce water-powered bellows and better smelting methods, our forges will outproduce any in the Westerlands. Tywin thinks I want to play at lordship. He has no idea what's coming."
A knock broke his thoughts. It was Ellyn, a young farm girl he had taken into service as a maid. She curtsied nervously. "My lord… supper is ready."
Marcus nodded, rising. "Good. Eat well, Ellyn. You'll need your strength—the days ahead will be long for all of us."
As he walked past her, his mind remained fixed on the future. Castamere was no longer a tomb. It was becoming something else—something alive.
*"Step by step," Marcus thought. "First, people. Then food. Then weapons. When war comes—and it will come—I won't be a pawn in my father's game. I'll be a player."