The weeks that followed the Sapphire Town visit established the template that would guide Alexander's governance of Tarth for years to come. He returned to Evenfall with a comprehensive understanding of the island's resources, its people, and its potential, and he spent the next month translating that understanding into a formal plan that he presented to his father in the solar where so many of their consequential conversations had taken place.
Lord Selwyn listened with the patience of a man who had learned, over the past year, that his eight-year-old son's ideas tended to be worth the time they took to explain. The plan was ambitious, certainly, more ambitious than anything a lord of Tarth had attempted in generations. But it was also detailed, practical, and grounded in the realities of what the island possessed and what it could reasonably aspire to become.
"Three economic pillars," Alexander said, indicating the map he had prepared, a large sheet of parchment on which Tarth was divided into coloured regions, each with its own designation and purpose. "The north produces iron and steel. Sapphire Town produces marble, both raw and worked, and will become the centre of the artistic crafts. Morne produces tea, whiskey, and perfume, the luxury goods that will give House Tarth a name beyond the Stormlands."
"And the central valley?"
"Agriculture. The foundation on which everything else rests. The farms feed the workers, the surplus pays for the imports we cannot produce ourselves, and the efficiency of the cultivation methods ensures that we need fewer people working the land, freeing labour for the crafts and industries." Alexander traced the lines he had drawn, connecting the regions with the roads that were being built or planned. "Each region has its own character, its own specialisation, its own leadership. But they are all part of a single system, designed to be greater than the sum of its parts."
"And who leads these regions?"
"Mayors, appointed by you but chosen from among the local residents. For Iron Town and Sapphire Town, the appointments can be made within the month. Marya, the headwoman of Sapphire Town, has already proven her capability, and there is a man in Iron Town, Harren Stone, who has the respect of the community and the practical intelligence to manage its affairs. Both will need training, of course, guidance in the administrative methods we want them to employ. But the core competence is there."
Lord Selwyn studied the map for a long moment. His expression was difficult to read, a mixture of pride and something that might have been unease, the discomfort of a father watching his child grow into something he had not anticipated and was not entirely sure how to relate to.
"This is more than governance, Alex. This is... redesigning the island."
"Yes."
"You are eight years old."
"Also yes."
"And you expect me to approve this plan?"
"I expect you to consider it carefully, ask whatever questions you need to ask, and then approve it because it is the best chance House Tarth has to become something more than a minor bannerman house with a beautiful island and no real influence." Alexander met his father's eyes without flinching. "Father, the Seven Kingdoms are not stable. Robert Baratheon's rule rests on alliances that were forged in war and have never been properly tested in peace. The great houses manoeuvre against each other constantly, each one looking for advantage, each one waiting for the moment when weakness can be exploited. We are not a great house. We have never been a great house. But we can become the kind of house that great houses want to ally with, trade with, marry into. We can become indispensable."
"And this plan accomplishes that?"
"This plan is the foundation. The building will take years, perhaps decades. But without the foundation, nothing else is possible."
Lord Selwyn was quiet for a long time. Outside the solar window, the afternoon light was fading, painting the western sky in shades of copper and gold that reflected off the waters of the harbour and made the whole world seem, for a moment, like something that had been dipped in precious metal.
"You sound like your mother sometimes," he said at last. "She had the same way of seeing things. The same ability to look at what was and imagine what could be. I used to find it intimidating, before I learned to find it beautiful."
Alexander did not know how to respond to that. The mention of his mother was rare enough that each instance felt like a gift, a small door opening onto a room he was not usually permitted to enter. He waited, not wanting to speak and risk closing the door too soon.
"She would have been proud of you," Lord Selwyn continued. "She was proud of you, in the time she had. She used to hold you and look into your eyes, those eyes that are so like hers, and she would say that you were going to do great things. I thought it was just a mother's fondness. The kind of thing mothers always say about their children." He paused. "I am beginning to think she knew something I did not."
"She often did, from what I understand."
Lord Selwyn smiled, a rare expression that softened his large, stern face in ways that reminded Alexander, painfully, of how much had been lost when the fever came. "She often did. She was smarter than me in every way that mattered, and kind enough never to mention it."
"I am sorry I did not know her longer."
"So am I, Alex. So am I."
The moment stretched, fragile and precious, and then Lord Selwyn straightened in his chair and returned his attention to the map.
"Very well. I approve your plan, with the following conditions. First, the mayors will report to me as well as to you. Second, any expenditure above one hundred gold dragons will require my explicit authorisation. Third, you will continue your regular studies with Maester Germund and will not allow your administrative projects to interfere with your education."
"All acceptable."
"Fourth, and this is not negotiable: you will remember that you are a child. You will play. You will make friends your own age. You will do the things that children do, even if they seem inefficient or unproductive. Your mind may be ready for the burdens you are taking on, but your body and your spirit are not, and I will not have you burn yourself out before you are old enough to shave."
Alexander considered the condition. It was, he had to admit, not unreasonable. The past months had been relentless, one project flowing into the next with barely a pause for breath, and he had felt, at times, a weariness that had nothing to do with his body and everything to do with the weight of the expectations he had placed on himself.
"Agreed."
"Good." Lord Selwyn rose from his chair and crossed to his son, placing a large hand on Alexander's shoulder in a gesture that was simultaneously affectionate and formal. "I am proud of you, Alexander. I do not say it enough. But I am. Every day. In ways that I do not always know how to express."
"Thank you, Father."
"Now go. Find something to do that has nothing to do with iron production or marble quarries or the future of the Seven Kingdoms. I believe your sister is in the practice yard, if you are looking for company."
* * *
Alexander found Brienne exactly where their father had predicted, in the practice yard that adjoined the eastern wing of Evenfall Hall, drilling with a wooden sword against a training dummy that had seen better centuries. She was wearing her usual armour, the half-suit of leather and mail that had become her daily uniform, and her movements were crisp and powerful, the kind of controlled violence that came from practice repeated until it became instinct.
He watched her for a while, leaning against the stone wall of the yard, letting his mind settle into something like stillness. It was not a state he achieved often, this absence of planning, this willingness to simply observe without immediately trying to improve or optimise or transform. But watching Brienne fight had always had that effect on him. There was something meditative about the way she moved, a kind of present-tense awareness that had no room for past regrets or future anxieties.
"Are you going to stand there all evening, or are you going to pick up a sword?" Brienne asked, without breaking her rhythm.
"I was enjoying the view."
"Liar. You were calculating whether my footwork has improved since the last time you watched."
"It has, marginally. Your rear heel is still coming up too high on the recovery, but less than before."
Brienne laughed, a sound that Alexander treasured precisely because it was rare. "Pick up a sword, little brother. Let us see if your analysis translates into practice."
He crossed to the weapons rack and selected a wooden sword that was appropriately sized for his frame, a child's blade that looked almost comically inadequate next to the instrument Brienne was using. But size, as he had learned in the practice yard over the past year, was not the only factor that mattered.
They faced each other across the packed earth of the yard, falling into the opening stances that had been drilled into both of them, though by very different routes. Brienne had learned to fight from the master-at-arms of Evenfall, a grizzled old knight named Ser Oster who had survived three wars and had opinions about sword technique that he shared with everyone whether they wanted to hear them or not. Alexander had learned from observation, from reading, and from the strange, instinctive knowledge that came to him sometimes, the flickers of precognition that told him where a blow would land a fraction of a second before it arrived.
He could not rely on that knowledge, not entirely. It was too unpredictable, too dependent on factors he did not understand. But when it came, it was decisive.
Brienne struck first, a testing blow that Alexander parried with more effort than the simple nature of the attack warranted. She was strong, impossibly strong for a woman her size, and even her casual strikes carried enough force to numb his arms if he was not careful about how he received them. He retreated a step, circling to her weaker side, looking for an angle of attack that would let him exploit his speed rather than contest her power.
"You are thinking too much," Brienne said, launching a combination that drove him backward across the yard.
"I am always thinking. It is a design flaw."
"Ser Oster says that a fighter who thinks is already dead. The body knows what to do before the mind can interfere."
"Ser Oster also says that women cannot fight, so perhaps his wisdom should be taken with a grain of salt."
Brienne's next strike was harder than the previous ones, carrying genuine force rather than controlled restraint. Alexander caught it on his blade, felt the impact travel through his arms and into his shoulders, and used the momentum to spin away before she could follow up.
"Ser Oster is learning to revise his opinions."
"As are we all."
They fought for another half-hour, until the light began to fail and the sweat had soaked through Alexander's doublet and Brienne's face was flushed with exertion and something that might have been happiness. He did not beat her, of course. He was eight, and small for his age, and she was one of the finest natural fighters in the Stormlands. But he lasted longer than he had the last time they sparred, and he landed two clean touches to her, and when they finally called a halt and set their swords aside, she looked at him with an expression that combined sibling affection with something closer to professional respect.
"You are getting better."
"I am getting better at fighting you. It is not quite the same thing."
"No. But it is a start." She clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture that nearly knocked him off his feet. "Come. I want to hear about your tour. Marya sent a rider to Morne with a letter asking about what we are doing there. Someone told her that House Tarth is worth watching."
"That would have been me."
"I suspected as much. What exactly did you promise her?"
They walked toward the hall, the practice swords left behind for a servant to collect, the evening settling around them with the soft, blue-grey light that was characteristic of Tarth in late summer. Alexander told her about Iron Town, about Sapphire Town, about the mayors and the guilds and the economic pillars, and Brienne listened with the focused attention she usually reserved for lessons in tactics or the study of historical campaigns.
"Three pillars," she said, when he had finished. "Iron, stone, and luxury goods. You have divided the island into specialised regions, each with its own focus, each dependent on the others."
"Yes."
"And you control the connections between them. The roads, the trade routes, the flow of materials and finished goods. Whoever holds the connections holds the power, even if they do not hold the individual pieces."
Alexander smiled, a genuine expression of pleasure at being understood. "Exactly. The regions can develop their own identities, their own pride, their own leadership. But they cannot function without each other, and they cannot function without the infrastructure that we provide. It creates loyalty not through domination but through mutual benefit. Everyone does better when everyone works together."
"It is not a very Westerosi way of thinking."
"No. Which is probably why no one else has tried it."
They reached the hall and paused at the door, the warmth of the interior spilling out to meet the cooling evening air. Inside, servants were setting tables for the evening meal, and the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread carried on the current like a promise.
"You know," Brienne said, "when I first came back to Evenfall after the thing with Wagstaff, I thought my life was over. I thought I would spend the rest of my days being pitied and forgotten, the monstrous daughter that no one wanted."
"I remember."
"You gave me Morne. You gave me the Maiden Guardians. You gave me a purpose that has nothing to do with marriage or beauty or the things the world said I was supposed to want." She looked at him, her pale blue eyes serious. "I have not properly thanked you for that."
"You do not need to thank me. It was the correct decision."
"Nevertheless." She pulled him into a hug, brief and fierce, the kind of embrace that she rarely offered and that Alexander rarely received from anyone except her. "Thank you, Alex. For seeing what I could be when everyone else only saw what I was not."
He did not know what to say, so he said nothing, simply accepting the embrace and the sentiment behind it. When she released him, her eyes were suspiciously bright, but she turned away before he could be certain.
"Go eat," she said. "Father says you have been forgetting meals again."
"I have been busy."
"That is not an excuse. You are still growing, and you cannot grow properly if you do not feed the body that is doing the growing." She gave him a slight push toward the hall. "Go. I will join you in a moment."
Alexander went. Behind him, he heard Brienne take a breath, the kind of breath that preceded a decision or a resolution or a prayer. He did not turn to see what she did with it.
Some things, he had learned, were better left private.
* * *