Raymun discovered an embarrassing problem at seven years old.
He could not read properly.
Not here.
On Earth, he had been completely literate.
He had read novels, emails, contracts, spreadsheets, news articles, instruction manuals, and far too many arguments between strangers on the internet.
None of that meant he could automatically read Westerosi handwriting.
The spoken language had come gradually.
Writing was different.
“That’s an R,” Raymun said.
Mara looked over his shoulder.
“No.”
He stared at the parchment.
“It looks like an R.”
“It isn’t.”
“What is it?”
“An H.”
Raymun stared harder.
“That man should be arrested.”
“For what?”
“Handwriting.”
Mara laughed.
The parchment was a supplier’s note from Duskendale.
Raymun had seen formal letters before, but this one looked as though someone had dipped a dying spider in ink and allowed it to crawl across the page.
He knew some letters.
Enough to recognize common words.
Enough to write simple entries.
But reading unfamiliar hands remained difficult.
Numbers were easier.
Mostly.
Even there, notation and commercial habits differed from what he remembered.
So Raymun swallowed his pride.
He learned.
Mara taught him practical reading from orders, accounts, labels, and correspondence.
Garran knew enough for the inn’s needs but had little patience for decorative writing.
“If I can tell what he wants and what he owes, it’s good handwriting.”
“That explains your standards.”
“My standards own this building.”
Raymun couldn’t argue with that.
Ellyn insisted on joining.
She sat beside Raymun at the kitchen table, tongue sticking slightly from the corner of her mouth while she copied letters onto a wax tablet.
Her first attempt looked terrible.
Raymun smiled.
“That’s supposed to be a B?”
“Yes.”
“It looks like a dead beetle.”
Ellyn examined his writing.
“Yours looks like chicken feet.”
“It does not.”
Mara walked past.
“It does.”
Raymun looked betrayed.
“Mother.”
“She’s right about the beetle too.”
Ellyn scowled.
The siblings looked at one another.
A temporary alliance formed.
“Mama’s writing is boring,” Ellyn declared.
Raymun nodded solemnly.
“Extremely boring.”
Mara slowly reached for the wooden spoon.
The alliance collapsed.
Raymun pointed at Ellyn.
“She started it.”
“Traitor!”
Weeks passed.
Raymun’s handwriting improved.
So did Ellyn’s.
She learned differently from him.
Raymun wanted rules.
Ellyn wanted stories.
Give her a list of words and she became bored.
Tell her a ridiculous story about a drunken knight losing his trousers and she remembered every word.
Raymun tested Appraisal after one lesson.
The System showed what he had already begun noticing.
Her social instincts were unusually strong.
Her memory for conversations was excellent.
Her ability to notice tone, expression, and mood sometimes bordered on unsettling.
But she wasn’t a miniature adult.
One morning she correctly noticed that a customer was angry before anyone else did.
That afternoon she tried to eat candle wax because Bran told her it tasted like cheese.
Potential, Raymun decided, had limits.
Their lessons began attracting attention.
Bran hated them.
Raymun didn’t look up from his tablet.
“How will you know whose castle you’re attacking?”
“The enemy’s.”
“How will you know they’re the enemy?”
“Someone will tell me.”
“What if they lie?”
Bran paused.
Raymun smiled.
Bran pointed his stick at him.
“I’ll hit them.”
“That is an alarmingly consistent solution.”
Still, Bran eventually joined.
Not because Raymun convinced him.
Because Ellyn learned to write her name before he could.
This was apparently intolerable.
For several evenings, the three children sat together near the hearth.
Raymun practiced accounts.
Ellyn copied words.
Bran fought the alphabet as though it had personally insulted his family.
“Why does this letter sound different here?”
“Because language hates you,” Raymun said.
“I hate it back.”
“That seems healthy.”
One evening, a traveler noticed them.
The man was thin and gray-haired, with a faded cloak and several rolled parchments tied beside his pack.
“You teach children here?”
Mara shook her head.
“Only ours.
And that one.”
She pointed toward Bran.
Bran looked offended.
“I’m not theirs.”
“Then stop eating our supper.”
Bran immediately became quiet.
The traveler laughed.
He introduced himself as Olyvar, a minor factor who carried correspondence and commercial documents between merchants.
During supper, he showed Raymun several examples.
Receipts.
Cargo tallies.
Letters.
A simple contract.
Raymun leaned closer.
The contract fascinated him.
Two men had agreed to something.
Someone had written it down.
Witnesses had added their marks.
Obligations had been recorded.
“What happens if one doesn’t do what he promised?”
Olyvar shrugged.
“Depends who he is.”
Raymun frowned.
“That shouldn’t matter.”
The man laughed.
“You’re young.”
Mara gave Raymun a look that clearly meant don’t start.
Raymun started anyway.
“So the contract doesn’t matter?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what matters?”
“Proof.
Reputation.
Coin.
Who witnessed it.
Where the agreement was made.
Who has authority.
Whether pursuing the matter costs more than you’re owed.”
Raymun became very still.
That sounded remarkably familiar.
Different world.
Same problem.
Rules existed.
Enforcement had a price.
After supper, Olyvar allowed Raymun to copy part of an old damaged document he no longer needed.
The parchment itself was nearly worthless.
To Raymun, it was treasure.
Not because it contained a secret.
It didn’t.
It was an old commercial agreement concerning wool.
Boring.
Ordinary.
He studied the structure.
Names.
Obligations.
Quantities.
Witnesses.
Dates.
Marks.
The language was more formal than everyday speech.
Some terms were unfamiliar.
He recorded them in the Lawbook without pretending to understand them.
Meaning uncertain.
Requires confirmation.
Observed in written commercial agreement.
The System accepted the entries.
No hidden explanation appeared.
Raymun smiled.
He liked that.
Learning still belonged to him.
Before leaving the next morning, Olyvar handed him the damaged parchment.
“You can keep it.”
Raymun blinked.
“Really?”
“Half of it is useless.”
“Not to me.”
The old factor smiled.
“I noticed.”
Raymun carefully rolled it.
His first instinct was to imagine everything he might learn from written documents.
Trade routes.
Contracts.
Law.
History.
Engineering.
Medicine.
Agriculture.
The accumulated knowledge of an entire civilization.
Then he stopped himself.
One parchment.
Start with one parchment.
“Thank you.”
Olyvar nodded and climbed onto his horse.
Raymun watched him leave.
Ellyn appeared beside him.
“What did you get?”
“A contract.”
She stared at him.
“You’re weird.”
“Probably.”
“Can I have a sweet?”
“No.”
She reached into his pocket and stole a Briar Drop anyway.
Raymun sighed.
Apparently literacy had not improved her respect for property rights.
That night, Raymun stored the parchment carefully.
Not with his toys.
Not beneath his bed.
With the household records.
Mara noticed.
“Important?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it worth?”
Raymun thought about it.
In coin?
Almost nothing.
But it represented something larger.
He had arrived in Westeros carrying memories from a world built upon centuries of accumulated knowledge.
Yet memories faded.
People died.
Skills disappeared when nobody taught them.
Institutions failed when knowledge lived only inside one person’s head.
Written words could survive their writers.
Raymun touched the parchment.
“More than it looks.”
Mara smiled.
“Many things are.”
She kissed the top of his head and left.
Raymun remained beside the old records.
Outside, the road was quiet.
Downstairs, the hearth crackled.
And for the first time, Raymun began wondering not only what he could learn in this world— but how much of it could be preserved.