Managing Expectations
Twentieth Day of the Tenth Month 294 AC
Henrik the Younger, once maester Henrick, at times marveled at the sight outside his window. Oh, not at the enormous tree tall as a pillar of white and red piercing the sky, nor at the clouds being shepherded across the sky like placid sheep by a spirit some worshiped as a god. No, he marveled at the fate that had lead him to this city and this task after he had left Oldtown in haste, hands trembling in terror, hoping against hope that the new Seneschal of the Citadel would not follow him, that he would not have to speak to the madman who had destroyed the order.
With the benefit of hindsight, of course, he would be amazed if Qyburn even knew his name, much less carried a grudge against a man who had been a glorified secretary for Archmaester Prestan. What secrets did he know that other more senior members of his order who had seemingly vanished without a trace did not?
It had only been in the aftermath of his panicked flight that he realized his coin would not last him more than a month or two of decent living, after which he had but a scribe's meager skills to offer in taverns and alehouses to unlettered oafs. And that would likely have been his fate if he had not spotted a request for 'lettered folk, knowing both the Common Tongue and High Valyrain' literally nailed to the wall outside the inn he was staying in. From there it had been a winding but ever climbing road to realizing that as terrifying as the specter of the Dragon still loomed in his thoughts, the realm he was building was far from the tyrannical mageocracy rumor had painted it as.
Either that or I'm a tyrant's lackey who finds comfort in it. Henrik had read enough of history to know that was very much an option, but he did not let it bother him overmuch. If he had been bold and willing to gamble with his life, he would have taken on a knight's surcoat, not a maester's robes. Still, he had been surprised when he had been promoted to the rank of Adjunct Director of the new office of Land Management, an institution that would be handling more public wealth in the form of land grants than he could even really imagine. True, even among his peers the former maester had been well-known for his knowledge of heraldry and easy way with the highborn, yet he could not help but wonder if they knew he had ran from Oltdown, so he asked around, particularly of his new superior.
***
The answer came the next day in the form of a raven knocking on the window of his apartment bearing the seal of the book and sword.
'You have passed the background check with no issue. Relocating from one city within the Imperium is of no concern to us or to His Majesty.' It took two stiff drinks to make his hands stop shaking, but by the third one he was toasting the wall, and any unseen watchers nearby. He had gotten the job, after all, more prestigious and better paying than anything he had ever had in his life. Without the weight of the chain around his neck, he could make a new life here, perhaps even start a family. A few years from now he might even tell the story of his flight as amusing after dinner conversation... or maybe a few decades. For now he had work to do, assessments to write on what criteria would be reasonable and useful to use for each marchland.
Office of Land Management: 80 (Success)
What border lands do you open for knightly land grants?
[] The Old Rhoynar Lands
[] The Sarnory Lands
[] The Valyrian Borders
[] Sothoryos
[] Write in
OOC: The more you open the more the nobility will like you, however if you open too many dangerous places and their children start dying in job lots that goodwill will turn sour fast.