Mara’s accounts were nothing like modern bookkeeping.
There were no neat spreadsheets.
No standardized forms.
Some entries used coin.
Others used quantities of goods.
Some debts were written beside names, while smaller exchanges existed only in Mara’s memory.
Raymun discovered this when he pointed at a blank space.
“What about Master Hollan’s ale?”
“Paid.”
“It’s not written.”
“I remember.”
“What if you forget?”
Mara looked offended.
“I don’t.”
Raymun glanced at Garran.
His father wisely continued eating.
Raymun began learning Westerosi accounting properly rather than assuming his Earth knowledge automatically applied.
Pennies.
Halfpennies.
Silver stags.
Gold dragons.
Weights and measures that sometimes differed depending on merchant, product, or local custom.
Credit mattered enormously.
So did reputation.
A merchant who always demanded immediate payment might actually receive worse terms than someone trusted to settle accounts later.
Raymun found that fascinating.
Commerce here wasn’t merely arithmetic.
It was relationships.
He tried improving Mara’s records.
His first attempt was magnificent.
Separate categories.
Daily inventory.
Expected consumption.
Supplier comparisons.
Room occupancy.
Waste estimates.
Outstanding debts.
Mara studied several pages.
Then looked at him.
“No.”
Raymun blinked.
“No?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not doing all that.”
“But we’d know exactly—”
She handed him the ledger.
“You do it.”
Raymun smiled.
“Fine.”
Three days later, Raymun hated himself.
Tracking every cup of ale was annoying.
Tracking every handful of grain was worse.
During busy hours, nobody had time to record everything immediately.
By evening, Raymun couldn’t remember half of it.
On the fourth day, he quietly approached Mara.
She looked at him.
Raymun looked at the ledger.
Mara’s mouth twitched.
“Something wrong with your perfect system?”
“It requires adjustment.”
Garran laughed from across the room.
Raymun ignored him.
Mara took the ledger and removed more than half his categories.
“Track what matters,” she said.
“Not everything that can be tracked.”
Raymun stared at the simplified version.
It was better.
Much better.
He sighed.
Raymun added another lesson.
NEVER DESIGN WORK YOU REFUSE TO UNDERSTAND.
His education expanded beyond accounts.
Garran taught him horses, repairs, suppliers, and road conditions.
Mara taught him purchasing, food storage, customers, and bargaining.
Travelers taught him geography.
Merchants taught him prices.
And whenever Raymun encountered something he didn’t understand, he recorded the question.
The list became enormous.
Taxes.
Property rights.
Contracts.
Inheritance.
Guilds.
Market fees.
Who actually owned the road outside the inn?
Could Garran build another structure anywhere on their land?
What happened if someone disputed their boundary?
Could debts be inherited?
Who settled commercial disputes?
One afternoon, Mara discovered him staring at his growing list.
“What now?”
“I need someone who understands laws.”
Mara laughed.
Raymun frowned.
“What?”
“You’re six.”
“So?”
“You’re going to bother some poor clerk until he explains property law to you?”
Raymun considered it.
“Yes.”
Mara stared at him.
Then sighed.
“Seven help us.”
Raymun smiled.
Somewhere in Duskendale, an unfortunate clerk had no idea what was coming.