Chapter 1: It's actually really easy to not be an asshole, why don't more people try it?
Nugar
Not too sore, are you?
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Note: The first chapter is now the prologue, this is now chapter one. This starts before the events of the old chapter two.
Eight years and change later, I stared down at the smoldering ruins of one of my alcohol distilleries and pursed my lips. The stone walls of the small building still stood, but the wooden roof and all of the contents were so much charcoal and ash. Even the heavy oak doors that stood wide open were charred and sagging on their warped iron hinges. I could see the big iron retort inside, which might be salvageable, but the copper piping of the still, which spiraled up and over a stone wall to the condensing side, was a mangled mess.
The jugs and pots the alcohol would have flowed into were a shattered, partially melted catastrophe. With so much alcohol as fuel, even the surface of the stone had cracked under the heat.
Most infuriatingly, there was another, identically burned distillery right next door, thirty feet away. A distance I THOUGHT was far enough to keep fire from spreading.
Irritated by the loss, I looked around. There were five more small distillery houses in this row alone, and five rows. I knew the volatility of grain alcohol vapor, but these also might distill anything ranging from wood alcohol to kerosene to ammonia, depending on the still. Fortunately, I'd had each one built using as much stone as possible, kept a distance from its neighbors to reduce the likelihood of fire spreading, and this was in a field outside King's Landing that tended to have a breeze to disperse dangerous concentrations of fumes. I also had multiple people keeping an eye on them at all hours of the day, and three small water wagons, two wheeled hand carts, really, with basic hand pumps on standby in case of fires. Every previous time there had been a fire, it was put out with no issues.
"What did this one make?" I asked my assistant slash secretary slash officially appointed spy, Cayla.
Rusty, my big ass war dog, sat at my side, pushing his head under my hand for a quick ear scratch.
She consulted her notes, then replied. "Whiskey, my Prince, the new Smyte recipe with apple mash. Both were loaded with first distillation product yesterday, totaling thirty six dragons, five stags, two pennies in value, each. A man named Seban was the tender for this area, Rody Lowfield the supervisor, and a woman named Jeyn the other tender on duty. There should also have been six guards. Would you like their names as well?"
I make a motion of 'wait on that' and looked over where a series of singed, burnt smelling men all kneeled, heads down in shame. My personal bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, loomed ominously behind them, hand on the hilt of his sword.
Not because he was preparing to kill one, or even really expecting this to lead to murder, he just liked to stand that way. Nice guy, kinda intimidating, a little too quiet.
"Seban."
A man I kinda recognized and had met a few times before straightened up slightly. He was an older man, with a few streaks of grey in his hair, and a short, well-trimmed beard. "Yes, my Prince?"
"Tell me what happened."
Hesitantly at first, but with growing surety, he launched into his tale. Apparently, since most of the retorts were being scrubbed and prepared for their next batches, they had only called in two tenders, himself and the widow Jeyn, for the night. He had three rows, with a total of five stills. Jeyn had two rows with seven, but they were all close together and easy to manage.
The night had been going well, as usual, although for a change, there was no wind or breeze. When he saw a fire inside one of the distilleries. A bend of the copper pipe near the top had apparently started leaking and the alcohol had instantly caught on fire from the flame under the retort. He had called for the water wagons and tried to beat out the flame, but it was already too much to be put out by hand.
Guards had brought the water wagons, and at first it looked like it was going to be put out, but the first wagon ran out of water, and when they switched to the second one, the pump wouldn't work. The third one was low on water, having been used for retort rinsing earlier that day, and not refilled.
I had to pinch my nose. Leaking copper tubing, plus lack of wind to keep the fumes dispersed, plus two failed water wagons. Seban started getting really nervous.
I looked over at Cayla, her long blonde hair pulled back into a neat bun. "What's Seban's work history?"
She didn't even have to glance at her book. "Impeccable, my Prince. He was one of the first still tenders hired, and has multiple marks on record as being a hard worker, honest, diligent, and punctual. He's received the max raise every year, and only one complaint has been filed against him, which turned out to be a lazy employee who resented Seban for criticizing the quality of his work."
I nodded. "Seban," I announced, turning back to the man, who looked more sure of himself after Cayla's report. "You have a reputation for good work and are a valuable employee. I judge you innocent of negligence. You may move to the side."
Flushed with relief, and maybe a little proud that he was considered valuable, Seban stood and moved to the side.
"Jeyn," I said, and the woman perked up, "you had no direct responsibility in this matter other than helping fight the fire, which I see you did. You may move to the side."
The singed middle aged woman murmured repeated thanks and removed herself from the group.
"Rody Lowfield," I intoned.
A slightly chubby man with badly burned hands and arms already wrapped in lotion and bandages straightened. He was balding, though the hair around the sides of his head had burned away to the point it might be more accurate to call him bald, his clothes had holes burnt in them, and he trembled slightly with barely repressed pain.
He would have been offered a dose of laudanum, which I'd made as a more effective, longer storing alternative to the ubiquitous 'milk of the poppy'. Basically, it was the opioids of milk of the poppy, distilled out, then mixed with high proof grain alcohol. It'd put you on your ass and kill pain pretty effectively, but it also dulled the wits. This man wanted to be able to talk coherently more than he wanted to be free of pain. I wondered if that was a good or bad thing.
"Yes, my Prince," he said, bowing low and nearly toppling over.
"Which guards were assigned to check the water wagons?"
"Jeffary and Eman, my Prince," he replied promptly.
I glanced to the side at the various guards.
Four of them looked mostly relieved that their names hadn't been called. Two young men, however, also sporting minor burns, looked like they'd just been called to the chopping block.
"I'm only going to ask once. Did you perform the beginning of shift inspection of the water wagons?"
"We did, my-!"
"We did not," one of them said, talking over the other one and bowing his head like he merely hoped the blade would be swift.
The other one looked at him in shock and betrayal. "N-no! Eman! We did! We did-"
"Be quiet, Jeffary," I ordered. "Eman?"
He spoke quietly, almost morosely. "We did not, my lord. We were assisting the others with moving some gear at the beginning of the shift, and instead of going back to do our checks, we decided it was okay to skip it just once."
A small part of me wanted to ask if, in fact, it had been okay, but I decided against it. I raised an eyebrow at Jeffary.
He sputtered, then sagged. Not agreeing, not denying. If he wasn't still upright, I'd say he had fainted.
"Rody, who is at fault here?" I asked.
"I am, my Prince," he admitted.
"Did you make your own beginning of shift checks of the safety equipment?"
He flushed. "No, my Prince."
"Why not?"
"Laziness, my Prince," he said, dropping into a bow again. "We spent the first portion of the night moving equipment, and I simply didn't follow up. If I had, I would have found that Jeffary and Eman had skipped their duty, and they would not be in trouble. If I had, the fire would have been a small accident quickly put out. I accept full responsibility, and ask for leniency on behalf of Jeffary and Eman."
Well, he certainly had internalized the lingo I had built my subordinate management around. He'd also clearly fought like a demon to put the flames out by hand, though obviously that didn't work.
"Cayla?" I asked.
"Rody Lowfield also has an impeccable record, at least until now, and was promoted to management two years ago on the strength of his work and his willingness to learn reading and writing and his numbers."
"Family? I asked.
"Yes, Prince. A wife of fifteen years, and six children. Fifteen-boy, twelve-boy, eleven-girl, ten-girl, eight-girl, seven-boy."
I nodded. "Rody, you're an idiot."
"Yes, my Prince," he agreed in shame.
"Not just because you didn't do the checks, but because you clearly nearly killed yourself trying to fight the fire."
"It were my responsibility, my Prince," he tried to explain, looking up slightly.
"You've got a family, fool. Even if I dismissed you, you could still feed them if you worked somewhere else. You can't do that if you're dead."
He bowed even lower.
"Alright. This little fuckup has cost several hundred dragons, and I'm not happy. Rody, you're demoted to…" I glanced at Cayla, but didn't give her time to speak, "whatever lower position we need more of. If, a year from now, there are no more problems, we can look at whether you're worth keeping, or even promoting again." I paused and frowned at him. "And make sure the clinic gets you healed up. It'd be a shame to lose a man because he lost use of his hands. Report to Marvion Fisher when you're healed up enough to work."
I turned. "Eman. You fucked up pretty bad. But you were honest. You're on half pay for two months. And I don't think you'll ever skip the equipment check again, will you?"
"No, my Prince!" he gasped, like a drowning man who suddenly got a lifeline. "I'll be the most diligent man in Westeros!"
Heh, I bet he would be. That's why I do things like this. I want a diligent, honest workforce that doesn't take bribes to let product or secrets walk off into the night. So I put a little effort into it.
Sometimes, though, you can't forgive people.
I shook my head. "Jeffary, you fucked up, and you lied. You know I hate being lied to, or if you didn't, someone should have told you. You fuck up, you admit it, you might get a second chance. You lie, you get caught lying, it's your ass."
I motioned at the other guardsmen. "He's dismissed. Kick his ass out. Cayla? He's blacklisted. Now let's head back to my office. The morning is shot anyway, I might as well head back and work on something. Rusty, follow."
We turned and headed back to King's Landing. I'd planned on a much more entertaining trip out on the river this morning, to see how my new model fishing rod would hold up, but nooo. Gotta deal with fuckups.
You know, this is why I don't actually want to be king?
AN: I hope this works better. There's still a time skip, I don't particularly feel like writing a whole childhood, but this is intended to ease readers into the new King's Landing and daily life of Prince Eddard. Let me know what you think. Also, I set up a discord channel specifically for talking about this fic. If you want to say something personally, and have easier input to influencing the fic, come say hi. https://discord.gg/k7BPP2Y
Eight years and change later, I stared down at the smoldering ruins of one of my alcohol distilleries and pursed my lips. The stone walls of the small building still stood, but the wooden roof and all of the contents were so much charcoal and ash. Even the heavy oak doors that stood wide open were charred and sagging on their warped iron hinges. I could see the big iron retort inside, which might be salvageable, but the copper piping of the still, which spiraled up and over a stone wall to the condensing side, was a mangled mess.
The jugs and pots the alcohol would have flowed into were a shattered, partially melted catastrophe. With so much alcohol as fuel, even the surface of the stone had cracked under the heat.
Most infuriatingly, there was another, identically burned distillery right next door, thirty feet away. A distance I THOUGHT was far enough to keep fire from spreading.
Irritated by the loss, I looked around. There were five more small distillery houses in this row alone, and five rows. I knew the volatility of grain alcohol vapor, but these also might distill anything ranging from wood alcohol to kerosene to ammonia, depending on the still. Fortunately, I'd had each one built using as much stone as possible, kept a distance from its neighbors to reduce the likelihood of fire spreading, and this was in a field outside King's Landing that tended to have a breeze to disperse dangerous concentrations of fumes. I also had multiple people keeping an eye on them at all hours of the day, and three small water wagons, two wheeled hand carts, really, with basic hand pumps on standby in case of fires. Every previous time there had been a fire, it was put out with no issues.
"What did this one make?" I asked my assistant slash secretary slash officially appointed spy, Cayla.
Rusty, my big ass war dog, sat at my side, pushing his head under my hand for a quick ear scratch.
She consulted her notes, then replied. "Whiskey, my Prince, the new Smyte recipe with apple mash. Both were loaded with first distillation product yesterday, totaling thirty six dragons, five stags, two pennies in value, each. A man named Seban was the tender for this area, Rody Lowfield the supervisor, and a woman named Jeyn the other tender on duty. There should also have been six guards. Would you like their names as well?"
I make a motion of 'wait on that' and looked over where a series of singed, burnt smelling men all kneeled, heads down in shame. My personal bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, loomed ominously behind them, hand on the hilt of his sword.
Not because he was preparing to kill one, or even really expecting this to lead to murder, he just liked to stand that way. Nice guy, kinda intimidating, a little too quiet.
"Seban."
A man I kinda recognized and had met a few times before straightened up slightly. He was an older man, with a few streaks of grey in his hair, and a short, well-trimmed beard. "Yes, my Prince?"
"Tell me what happened."
Hesitantly at first, but with growing surety, he launched into his tale. Apparently, since most of the retorts were being scrubbed and prepared for their next batches, they had only called in two tenders, himself and the widow Jeyn, for the night. He had three rows, with a total of five stills. Jeyn had two rows with seven, but they were all close together and easy to manage.
The night had been going well, as usual, although for a change, there was no wind or breeze. When he saw a fire inside one of the distilleries. A bend of the copper pipe near the top had apparently started leaking and the alcohol had instantly caught on fire from the flame under the retort. He had called for the water wagons and tried to beat out the flame, but it was already too much to be put out by hand.
Guards had brought the water wagons, and at first it looked like it was going to be put out, but the first wagon ran out of water, and when they switched to the second one, the pump wouldn't work. The third one was low on water, having been used for retort rinsing earlier that day, and not refilled.
I had to pinch my nose. Leaking copper tubing, plus lack of wind to keep the fumes dispersed, plus two failed water wagons. Seban started getting really nervous.
I looked over at Cayla, her long blonde hair pulled back into a neat bun. "What's Seban's work history?"
She didn't even have to glance at her book. "Impeccable, my Prince. He was one of the first still tenders hired, and has multiple marks on record as being a hard worker, honest, diligent, and punctual. He's received the max raise every year, and only one complaint has been filed against him, which turned out to be a lazy employee who resented Seban for criticizing the quality of his work."
I nodded. "Seban," I announced, turning back to the man, who looked more sure of himself after Cayla's report. "You have a reputation for good work and are a valuable employee. I judge you innocent of negligence. You may move to the side."
Flushed with relief, and maybe a little proud that he was considered valuable, Seban stood and moved to the side.
"Jeyn," I said, and the woman perked up, "you had no direct responsibility in this matter other than helping fight the fire, which I see you did. You may move to the side."
The singed middle aged woman murmured repeated thanks and removed herself from the group.
"Rody Lowfield," I intoned.
A slightly chubby man with badly burned hands and arms already wrapped in lotion and bandages straightened. He was balding, though the hair around the sides of his head had burned away to the point it might be more accurate to call him bald, his clothes had holes burnt in them, and he trembled slightly with barely repressed pain.
He would have been offered a dose of laudanum, which I'd made as a more effective, longer storing alternative to the ubiquitous 'milk of the poppy'. Basically, it was the opioids of milk of the poppy, distilled out, then mixed with high proof grain alcohol. It'd put you on your ass and kill pain pretty effectively, but it also dulled the wits. This man wanted to be able to talk coherently more than he wanted to be free of pain. I wondered if that was a good or bad thing.
"Yes, my Prince," he said, bowing low and nearly toppling over.
"Which guards were assigned to check the water wagons?"
"Jeffary and Eman, my Prince," he replied promptly.
I glanced to the side at the various guards.
Four of them looked mostly relieved that their names hadn't been called. Two young men, however, also sporting minor burns, looked like they'd just been called to the chopping block.
"I'm only going to ask once. Did you perform the beginning of shift inspection of the water wagons?"
"We did, my-!"
"We did not," one of them said, talking over the other one and bowing his head like he merely hoped the blade would be swift.
The other one looked at him in shock and betrayal. "N-no! Eman! We did! We did-"
"Be quiet, Jeffary," I ordered. "Eman?"
He spoke quietly, almost morosely. "We did not, my lord. We were assisting the others with moving some gear at the beginning of the shift, and instead of going back to do our checks, we decided it was okay to skip it just once."
A small part of me wanted to ask if, in fact, it had been okay, but I decided against it. I raised an eyebrow at Jeffary.
He sputtered, then sagged. Not agreeing, not denying. If he wasn't still upright, I'd say he had fainted.
"Rody, who is at fault here?" I asked.
"I am, my Prince," he admitted.
"Did you make your own beginning of shift checks of the safety equipment?"
He flushed. "No, my Prince."
"Why not?"
"Laziness, my Prince," he said, dropping into a bow again. "We spent the first portion of the night moving equipment, and I simply didn't follow up. If I had, I would have found that Jeffary and Eman had skipped their duty, and they would not be in trouble. If I had, the fire would have been a small accident quickly put out. I accept full responsibility, and ask for leniency on behalf of Jeffary and Eman."
Well, he certainly had internalized the lingo I had built my subordinate management around. He'd also clearly fought like a demon to put the flames out by hand, though obviously that didn't work.
"Cayla?" I asked.
"Rody Lowfield also has an impeccable record, at least until now, and was promoted to management two years ago on the strength of his work and his willingness to learn reading and writing and his numbers."
"Family? I asked.
"Yes, Prince. A wife of fifteen years, and six children. Fifteen-boy, twelve-boy, eleven-girl, ten-girl, eight-girl, seven-boy."
I nodded. "Rody, you're an idiot."
"Yes, my Prince," he agreed in shame.
"Not just because you didn't do the checks, but because you clearly nearly killed yourself trying to fight the fire."
"It were my responsibility, my Prince," he tried to explain, looking up slightly.
"You've got a family, fool. Even if I dismissed you, you could still feed them if you worked somewhere else. You can't do that if you're dead."
He bowed even lower.
"Alright. This little fuckup has cost several hundred dragons, and I'm not happy. Rody, you're demoted to…" I glanced at Cayla, but didn't give her time to speak, "whatever lower position we need more of. If, a year from now, there are no more problems, we can look at whether you're worth keeping, or even promoting again." I paused and frowned at him. "And make sure the clinic gets you healed up. It'd be a shame to lose a man because he lost use of his hands. Report to Marvion Fisher when you're healed up enough to work."
I turned. "Eman. You fucked up pretty bad. But you were honest. You're on half pay for two months. And I don't think you'll ever skip the equipment check again, will you?"
"No, my Prince!" he gasped, like a drowning man who suddenly got a lifeline. "I'll be the most diligent man in Westeros!"
Heh, I bet he would be. That's why I do things like this. I want a diligent, honest workforce that doesn't take bribes to let product or secrets walk off into the night. So I put a little effort into it.
Sometimes, though, you can't forgive people.
I shook my head. "Jeffary, you fucked up, and you lied. You know I hate being lied to, or if you didn't, someone should have told you. You fuck up, you admit it, you might get a second chance. You lie, you get caught lying, it's your ass."
I motioned at the other guardsmen. "He's dismissed. Kick his ass out. Cayla? He's blacklisted. Now let's head back to my office. The morning is shot anyway, I might as well head back and work on something. Rusty, follow."
We turned and headed back to King's Landing. I'd planned on a much more entertaining trip out on the river this morning, to see how my new model fishing rod would hold up, but nooo. Gotta deal with fuckups.
You know, this is why I don't actually want to be king?
AN: I hope this works better. There's still a time skip, I don't particularly feel like writing a whole childhood, but this is intended to ease readers into the new King's Landing and daily life of Prince Eddard. Let me know what you think. Also, I set up a discord channel specifically for talking about this fic. If you want to say something personally, and have easier input to influencing the fic, come say hi. https://discord.gg/k7BPP2Y
