Victory tasted like ash and ink.
Three days after the raid, the threat of death had vanished, only to be replaced by the threat of chaos.
Ronan sat in the Great Hall, his head in his hands. He was surrounded.
"My Lord," the master tanner shouted, "I have forty bandit leathers. Where do I store them?"
"My Lord," the cook yelled, "how much extra grain for the wounded?"
"My Lord," Kennos interrupted, "the furnace needs lime. Do I take the carts from the mine or the wall?"
Ronan slammed his fist on the table. The silence was instant.
"Stop," Ronan hissed. "All of you. Stop talking."
He looked at Varrick. The steward was holding a stack of expensive parchment scraps, scribbled with charcoal, trying to keep track of the sudden explosion in Blackwood's economy.
"We are bleeding efficiency," Ronan said. "I spend half my day answering questions you should know the answers to. We cannot run a city with verbal orders."
"We are doing our best, My Lord," Varrick said wearily. "But parchment is expensive. A sheepskin costs a silver stag. We cannot write down every bushel of wheat."
"Then we stop using sheep," Ronan said standing up. "We use trees."
The Mill
The trip-hammer was repurposed. Ronan removed the heavy forging head and replaced it with a wide, flat wooden beater.
Into the stone trough beneath it, they dumped the refuse of the castle: old linen rags, hemp rope scraps, and sawdust from the lumber yard. They added water and lye (from wood ash) to break down the fibers.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The hammer beat the mixture into a grey, oatmeal-like sludge.
Wynafryd Manderly watched from the doorway, holding a scented handkerchief. "You are making... porridge?"
"Cellulose," Ronan corrected. "Fiber."
He took a wooden frame covered in a fine wire mesh—woven by Kennos to his exact specifications. He dipped the frame into the vat of grey sludge. He lifted it out. The water drained through the mesh, leaving a thin, wet mat of fibers.
He flipped the mat onto a piece of felt and pressed it under a heavy screw-press to squeeze the water out. Then he hung the sheet near the furnace to dry.
Ten minutes later, he handed the result to Wynafryd.
It was rough. It was grey. It had a tiny piece of bark in the corner. But it was flexible, and it was flat.
"Paper," Ronan said. "The Valyrians had it. The Yi-Tish have it. Now, we have it."
He took a piece of charcoal and wrote: 100 Bushels Wheat.
"It costs us nothing but labor and trash," Ronan said. "We can make a thousand sheets a day."
The Blackwood Office
By the next morning, the Great Hall had changed. Ronan had moved the dining tables to the side. In the center, he established rows of desks.
"Varrick," Ronan said, handing him a stack of the new 'Grey Paper.' "You are no longer the Steward. You are the Chief Administrator."
He handed Varrick a wooden stamp he had carved himself. It simply read: APPROVED.
"From this moment on," Ronan announced to his gathered department heads (Kennos, Hareth, the Cook, the Captain), "no one speaks to me about supplies. You write it down."
He pinned a piece of paper to the wall. It was a Form.
[Requisition Form A-1]
• Item Needed: ________
• Quantity: ________
• Purpose: ________
• Signed: ________
"If you want charcoal," Ronan said, pointing to the paper, "you fill this out. You give it to Varrick. If the numbers balance, he stamps it. Then you get your charcoal. If you ask me verbally, the answer is no."
The blacksmith stared at the paper. "My Lord... I cannot read."
"Then you will learn," Ronan said coldly. "Or you will find an apprentice who can. Literacy is now a job requirement for management."
[Policy Enacted: Bureaucracy]
[Effect:]
• Corruption: -50% (Everything is tracked).
• Efficiency: +30% (No wasted meetings).
• Literacy: Slowly rising.
The Census
The final innovation of the day was the most radical.
Ronan set up a table at the village gate. He made every man, woman, and child walk past.
"Name?" Ronan asked a terrified peasant.
"Tom, m'Lord."
"Tom of what?"
"Just Tom, m'Lord."
Ronan dipped his quill. "Tom Miller. Because you work at the mill. Age?"
"Twenty... four? I think?"
Ronan wrote it down.
Name: Tom Miller. ID: 0042. Skill: Laborer. Status: Healthy.
He handed Tom a small slip of tough grey paper with his number on it.
"This is your Identification," Ronan said. "Do not lose it. Without this paper, you do not get rations. Without this paper, you do not get paid."
Wynafryd watched the line of peasants clutching their papers. She realized what he was doing. He wasn't just counting them. He was owning them.
"You are cataloging them like cattle," she whispered.
"I am giving them existence," Ronan countered, not looking up from his ledger. "Before this, they were just 'the smallfolk.' If they died, no one knew. If they were born, no one cared. Now, Tom Miller is a citizen. He has a number. He counts."
He looked up at her.
"A King rules land, Wynafryd. An Emperor rules data."
By the end of the week, the chaos was gone. The noise in the Keep had dropped to a dull hum of efficiency. Reports were stacked neatly on Ronan's desk each evening. He knew exactly how many arrows he had (542). He knew exactly how much pork was left (3 barrels).
He leaned back in his chair, holding a sheet of grey paper. The "Paper Tiger" was real. And it was stronger than steel.
Status Update:
• Tech: Paper Mill (Operational).
• Government: Bureaucracy Established.
• Population: 412 (Counted and Registered).