personal6

Chapter 4Notes:So it's chapter four.

Before we start, I want to just go over what different POVs I'm going to have in this story. The main one is going to be the SI/Androw Farman, which will be first person. But I also want to have some other characters' perspectives, just to flesh out the world and reveal any potential blind spots in the main POV. 90% of the story will still be Androw Farman, but we'll get a few others for the time being.

Tangent finished. Onwards!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter TextFaircastle - 38 AC

I was finally old enough for weapons training. Well, at least in the eyes of my grandfather.

If I had been back on Earth they wouldn't have let a six-year-old even see a practice sword, but this was Westeros. The rules about aging were kind of skewed.

Anyways, I had reached my sixth nameday and had been granted by the stern Lord Humphrey Farman to train.

Franklyn had already been training for a good five years or so and was turning out to be a decent enough swordsman. He wouldn't be winning any tourneys, but the skill imparted from the old Ser Benedict was enough to trounce any untrained peasant or sell-sword, once the eleven-year-old had built up some more muscle. He would likely be assigned to squire for one of House Farman's vassals, like House Clifton for example. It was the next step in his martial ascension and would see him anointed as a knight sooner or later.

Elissa had pulled an Arya and tried to get herself some weapons training, and had even attacked Franklyn in some childlike attempt to prove herself. I admired her tenacity, but she was going about it all wrong. Sure, she had shown our grandfather and the rest of the family that she could fight, but not that she should. Lord Humphrey and the men of House Farman wanted someone who fit the gender roles to a tee, not someone to spat in the face of them. She had only gotten herself more time with Septa Larissa after that.

I'd been bored out of my mind for the past four years, and had been preparing all I could. Fighting had never been an interest of mine in my past life, but I knew that in Westeros a man's reputation and prestige were almost directly tied to their martial capabilities, so mine was important as well. I employed the regular exercise routines that I knew to develop the muscles I could, but I couldn't exactly do burpees without looking like a crazy person. In the bowels of my room, I did push-ups, burpees, squats, and more. Outside, I ran, jumped, and climbed as much as I could, and joined my sister Elissa whenever I could to go sailing with her. I'd wanted to join my brother, Franklyn, on a trip to Lannisport, but had been forbidden.

My sister had been punished for her initial excursion, but seeing as she was five at the time she'd be let off relatively lightly. That is to say, in terms of Westerosi punishment, that is. She'd been paddled, forced to tears by the pain. I think that the septa administering it had tried for some ironic punishment. Now that kind of thing wasn't remotely tolerated on Earth, or at least where I was from. I knew that corporeal punishment could lead to a whole bunch of issues down the line, not to mention it caused the kid a whole bunch of distress at the moment. Something I'd do my best to change when I was older.

Despite any punishment, my sister continued to sail. She'd steal away in the late hours of the evening, and return just as the sun was rising above the horizon. I did my best to come with her whenever I could, and the two of us enjoyed a fine time sailing the waves. My body was particularly susceptible to seasickness, but I pushed through.

In the yard, my training paid off. Ser Benedict Kayce put me through some initial tests, of which the brawn-based ones I passed with flying colors. There was far less success to be found on the agility tests, and I repeatedly failed to dodge attacks or throw accurately. I also tripped. A lot.

It seemed as if Farmans tended to be on the larger side, judging from the relative heights of nearly my entire family. Grandfather, despite his sixty-odd years of age, was still as tall and broad as a boar, my uncle Flement and my father even larger than that. Franklyn, having reached ten and one name-days himself, was just in the throes of puberty, and was shooting up like a tree. Elissa was pretty tall for her age too.

Myself, I was easily four and a half feet.

Ser Benedict had me test a variety of weapons, starting with an assortment of blades. I tried longswords, shortswords, bastard swords, knives, and even a greatsword, but none of them worked for me. The twists and parries were too much for my limited dexterity to handle, and I could never hold the damn things steady. I tested an axe but found it lacking. A spear too.

Eventually, I settled on a mace.

It felt perfect in my hands. Plenty heavy enough to keep a good grip on, and small enough that I didn't lose control. Something that relied more on strength than agility, or accuracy. Something perfect for me.

As soon as I could, I had Ser Benedict completely dedicate my training to that of a mace. The man had used a sword for the vast majority of his training and it showed, but he was such a master of his craft that it mattered little. With his help, I was facing down boys some two to three years older than me.

Things were going well.

I was ready.

The task of using my knowledge from my past life had initially been a difficult one. I'd never paid attention to the internal functions before now, and even though I had some vague ideas there wasn't much I could use. Yes, I knew vaguely how stuff like compasses or glassmaking worked, but I didn't have the time nor the resources for that kind of trial and error. If I were to come up with anything, it would have to be immediately helpful.

However, I had some knowledge that might come in handy.

I knew how to make glass.

Granted, my knowledge of chemistry amounted to the scant memories of high school chemistry class and the occasional YouTube video, but it was enough. Human knowledge was already advanced and accessible enough in my past life that even a schmuck like me could figure out glassmaking by watching a ten-minute tutorial. I had, out of simple curiosity. I knew what to do.

I got some odd looks when I requested for a building in Fairport (Faircastle's nearby town) to be set aside for me, a six-year-old, but I was nobility and was said to be very mature for my age. The maester supported me when he learned I wanted to experiment, and my grandfather assigned a half dozen men-at-arms of House Farman to escort me as I went about my business. The structure itself was a small stone manse on the edge of town, with a large walled yard surrounding it. It was rather cozy, really, and It would suit my purposes.

The first step in the glassmaking process was rather simple. Locate adequate sand. Since I lived on an island, it didn't take much time. I just walked down to the nearest beach and put a sample of the sand in a jar. I then moved on to the next beach, and the next beach, and so forth. I needed the right kind of sand, the kind that was fine enough not to have any big chunk pebbles or stones mixed in. It needed to be as close to uniform as I could get.

My two siblings had elected to join me on the first few visits, but quickly grew bored when they learned I wasn't going to play or explore the beach like they'd wanted to do. I enjoyed the energy of the two little scamps, but it wasn't something I had the time for. Eventually, they stopped following me, and it was just my guards and me.

I brought the sand back to my 'lab' and examined the different samples I'd collected. I found a batch of sand that was as near perfect as I was going to get, from a long beach on the west side of Fair Isle. I visited the place another time just to be sure, but I had my sand.

The next stage was one of the most difficult, and one that I was all the less sure of. I had to locate a plant called saltwort, one that grew on the various ocean beaches of my old world. I knew that it was the main component in the process of glassmaking, acting as a flux in the process. Once the Salt Wort was turned into ash, it reduced the melting point of the glass as a whole, making the glass far easier to work with.

Lancel, the maester of Faircastle, indulged my request with the bemusement I saw on a routine basement. He knew I was far smarter than the average child of my age, and saw no harm in allowing me to peruse his text on botany. There was a large catalog of the Westerlands' various plants, some I knew and some I didn't. I read the entire thing, front to back, seeking my objective. Eventually, I found it.

Yes, saltwort. It was small and bushy, with stocky branches and a rounded edge that reminded me that it was a very small cactus called a succulent. The drawing provided rested next to a map of all its locations, and- YES! Its range included Fair Isle.

I had a chance.

The next month was spent combing the coast of Fair Isle in search of saltwort. My guards were even more weirded out than before, but I was a large boy for my age, spoke like an adult, and had very official-looking diagrams backing me up. Plus, and this was probably the main thing, I was a noble. I got what I wanted.

It took a while, but we found some. Grabbed as much as we could, including separating all the seeds we could. I knew that if I wanted to make this into a profitable business, I would need as much of this stuff as I could. I couldn't wander around Fair Isle whenever I needed to make another batch, so I would need something self-regenerating and sustainable. I'd need to farm the shit out of it.

We returned to my lab, where I had my men-at-arms get to work planting all the seeds in the yard and used my allowance to hire some of the poorer folks in town to dig a well outside of the manse's walls. Hey, don't look at me like that. I was giving them work. And I fed them.

Meanwhile, I started to get things done inside. It took a big chunk out of my funds to hire one of Fairport's smiths, and a man named Socks, but it was worth it when we began to set up the kiln. My chubby little child fingers weren't great for drawing, but I hadn't had much else to do over the past few years and I'd gotten pretty good. I drew the diagram, and my assorted staff put it together.

I had the harvested saltwort put into a collection of clay pots, and roasted them over a fire pit my men dug. We needed the plants to be turned to ash, but I didn't want to waste any of them in the flames. I kept lids on the pots, and heated them as best I could given the circumstances. In an hour or so, they were ash.

Next came the hard part. The only frame of reference for what I was doing was some Youtube video I'd watched back in my old life. It was a long time in the past, and I hadn't been fully paying attention. I believed that the next step was to mix the ash in water, strain the water, and boil it. We didn't have any strainers, but I was pretty sure a clean shirt would do in a pinch. The same pots that we'd used to cook the saltwort were filled with water, I stirred with a thick wooden spoon. I set a tablecloth across a pot and gradually poured the boiled ash water.

Setting the sludged cloth aside, we boiled the water until it turned into steam, evaporating the entire thing. We were left with this dried ash powder thing. The flux. It had worked.

It took a few more days for the smith to make the kiln, during which time I turned all of the remaining saltworts into the ash powder, and I consulted Maester Lancel to determine if we were growing the saltwort seeds properly. Turns out the man didn't have a link in botany, but with his limited knowledge we were able to compile a game plan.

"My lord, how did you imagine this endeavor?"

Maester Lancel was quite curious about what I was doing. The sand, the kiln, the saltwort, it was all obviously leading to something, but I couldn't exactly explain how I knew. Luckily, I had prepared an excuse.

Fairport was a major trading hub on the Sunset Sea, probably the fourth or fifth if you wanted to rank it. Nothing in the Iron Islands or the North had the kind of economy we in the Westerlands boasted, and the only major ports in the Reach were Oldtown and the Arbor. Lannisport made up the majority of the Westerlands' trade, but Fairport was its second. People like the Mallisters of Seagard or the Flints of Flint's Finger were far keener on trading with us Farmans than the Lannisters, who didn't have the same dreadful reputation they would in the future. The Farmans were the naval power in the Westerlands, and we could ensure our trade routes were well-guarded from the Ironborn. The days of House Hoare were over, and the Ironborn didn't fuck with the Farmans.

And if I had my say, they never would. But that's beside the point.

People visited Fairport from all around the world, or at least from as far as the Free Cities. You had wares coming in from places like the Summer Isles, Oldtown, or Pentos.

Or Myr.

The city of the glassmakers, among other things. It had a monopoly on the glass trade, keeping its production a trade secret. Their merchants visited Fairport just as any others and spent their time indulging in House Farman's provided amenities. They liked to drink, gamble, and whore. And they liked to talk.

I told Maester Lancel that I'd overheard some Myrish lenses chatting about glassmaking, sharing tips and tricks. I'd taken what they'd been discussing and extrapolated, using my existing learning and mind to develop their tips into a complex process. I'd invented glassmaking from accidental Myrish insights.

Lancel ate it up. How else would a six-year-old know this kind of thing?

We collected the ash powder and mixed it with the fine sand collected a few months ago. Put it into an open-faced pot, and slapped that bad boy into the kiln.

I'll admit, it felt pretty good watching the smith take the smooth glass out of the kiln. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't fully transparent. That would come with time. But it was glass. Recognizable glass.

The men around me were stunned. I knew that up until this point, they'd mostly been indulging me, allowing my grandfather to pay them for relatively easy work. They'd been waiting for me to lose interest, and for this whole experiment to be dumped and abandoned. Socks, the smith, had likely assumed he'd been wasting his time and had only participated due to the fat paycheck. He wasn't speaking either. Finally, Todd, the captain of my soldier group, spoke up to growl at me. "Wipe that damn grin off your face, my lord."

I tried. I really tried.

Notes:That's about the extent of the uplifting we're going to be doing. Our SI needed money, so he made glass, but this man doesn't know all that much about how to reinvent modern technology. Sorry if you were expecting gunpowder and penicillin.