After waiting for about ten minutes under the hot sun at the dock, John finally appeared, a look of mild urgency on his face.
"Master," he said, hurrying over, "all our goods have been unloaded. The tax officer at the dock has just come to check the cargo. He said we must go to the customs office and pay the tax first before we can pick up our goods."
The moment John mentioned paying taxes, Bill's face twisted with dismay. He had anticipated some cost, but hearing that it had to be paid immediately was a blow.
"You've got to pay taxes before taking the goods?" Bill's voice carried both irritation and disbelief. "Did you ask how much this time?"
John nodded grimly. "Yes. We brought fifty barrels of wheat beer, each weighing one hundred kilograms. At one thousand copper cents per barrel, the total value is fifty thousand copper cents. The dock authorities are charging a twenty percent tariff, which amounts to ten thousand copper cents."
Bill's jaw tightened. "Ten thousand copper cents? They're trying to bleed me dry!" He clenched his fists, the veins on his temples standing out. "Is there any way to pay less?"
John's face, usually stern and unflinching, betrayed a hint of embarrassment. "Master… I tried to bribe the tax official, but it didn't work. I've never dealt with these people before, and they seemed… strict."
Bill stared at him for a long moment, chewing on his thoughts. John knew his master well enough to expect a scheme to dodge the tax. But after a silent pause, Bill gritted his teeth and said decisively, "Fine. I'll pay it this time. Let's see how it goes. From what I observed at the dock, we've come to the right place this time."
John let out a discreet sigh of relief. He knew Bill's reputation for stinginess; he had expected some negotiation, some clever trick, or a whispered bribe. But Bill had decided that the risk of trouble was too high.
And there was a very practical reason for his decision. While standing at the dock earlier, Bill had taken the opportunity to observe the scene carefully.
The dock was bustling, yet well-organized. Workers moved efficiently between ships and warehouses. Among the crowd, Bill noticed a unit of warriors that immediately drew his attention. They were clad in chainmail with long black robes over their armor, each emblazoned with a three-headed red dragon. Their pointed helmets gleamed in the sunlight. In one hand, they carried long wooden shields; in the other, two-meter-long spears. Long swords hung at their hips, and bows were slung across their shoulders. They stood in disciplined formations, their posture rigid, exuding both strength and authority.
These warriors patrolled the dock constantly, maintaining order. Even without taking action, their presence alone was imposing. Any thoughts of evading taxes or causing trouble vanished in the shadow of their intimidating discipline.
Seeing this, Bill's mind made a practical calculation. Paying ten thousand copper cents—or however much—was far better than risking confrontation with these well-trained, well-equipped men.
After asking some dock workers for directions, Bill learned that the tallest tower he had seen from the road was the customs office. In John's hand, he saw a small slip of paper listing the quantity of goods and the tax amount due. Pocketing the slip, Bill marched toward the customs building, muttering curses under his breath. Yet, the moment he entered the hall, his scowl softened, and he forced a warm smile.
The customs hall itself was modest, lacking any grandeur. The floor was paved with gray-brown bricks, polished smooth enough to reflect the sunlight streaming through the open windows on either side. Though simple, the room was tidy and organized. Sunlight filtered in, brightening the otherwise dim interior and giving the space a sense of openness.
The first thing to catch Bill's eye was the far wall opposite the entrance. It was covered with black-painted wood and bore words in the common tongue: "General Administration of Customs." Bill squinted at the lettering, using all the knowledge and experience he had accumulated over a lifetime to decipher it.
In front of this wall, long wooden tables were arranged in a line, each with a customs officer sitting behind it. Wooden partitions separated them from one another, creating private stations with chairs opposite each official. Bill immediately recognized the layout: a one-on-one service system, designed to handle clients efficiently and methodically.
Spotting an empty seat as someone briefly left their station, Bill took his chance and sat down. Almost immediately, the officer across from him spoke.
"What business are you here for?"
"I… I'm here to pay taxes," Bill replied quickly, trying to maintain a tone of calm.
The officer nodded, unsurprised. After all, most people visiting the customs office were there for the same reason.
"Hand me the slip from the dock," the officer instructed. "I need to verify the information."
Bill quickly handed over the paper, watching as the officer examined it carefully. After a moment, the officer spoke.
"You brought fifty barrels of beer, valued at fifty thousand copper cents. Your tariff would originally be ten thousand copper cents, but a recent decree has reduced taxes on some daily necessities. The current rate is half of what it was. You only need to pay five thousand copper cents."
Bill's face lit up in relief. Half the amount! The financial burden suddenly seemed manageable. He eagerly handed over five thousand copper cents, but immediately realized he wouldn't be able to carry that many coins by hand.
"I'll pay in silver moons," he said instead. The officer nodded, accepting the payment.
Westeros' financial system was notoriously confusing. One silver moon was worth 392 copper cents. Therefore, Bill handed over thirteen silver moons. The officer counted, then returned one silver deer and five copper stars as change.
For context, Westeros' currency system was… unusual, to say the least. Gold, silver, and copper coins existed in multiple forms and ratios that could make any merchant's head spin.
One gold dragon equaled thirty silver moons, 210 silver deer, or 11,760 copper cents.
One silver moon equaled seven silver deer.
Copper coins were even more convoluted. There were five types: copper star, copper wheat, half copper wheat, copper cent, and copper plate, with two copper plates equaling one copper cent.
Though bewildering, this system had been in place for thousands of years. Its complexity was a legacy of Westeros' fragmented history. Even after Aegon the Conqueror unified the Seven Kingdoms—excluding Dorne—the lack of top-down restructuring meant the monetary system remained a patchwork.
Bill, ever practical, accepted it as part of life. He had managed money in far more challenging circumstances and was used to converting values in his head. What mattered now was that the tax was paid, and his goods were legally his to collect.
Handing over the silver moons, Bill felt a sense of satisfaction. He collected his change, stored it carefully, and prepared to leave the customs hall. Though his initial mood had been sour, the efficiency and fairness of the process had smoothed away most of his frustration.
As he exited, he glanced back at the customs hall. The officials, though few, were organized, calm, and diligent. They conducted their duties with the quiet authority of a machine finely tuned over decades. The system, though complex, worked. And while Bill would have preferred to pay less, he understood that sometimes the simplest path was also the safest.
Returning to the dock, he saw his workers waiting patiently. Their eyes followed him, anticipating the outcome. Bill raised the slip of paper and gave a thumbs-up.
"The tax is paid. Everything is ready," he announced. Relief and enthusiasm spread across the faces of his men. After a brief pause, he added, "Let's get our beer loaded and move it to storage. No shortcuts. We do it right."
As the crew began their work, Bill lingered for a moment, surveying the dock again. The disciplined warriors, the steady flow of trade, the orderly unloading—it was impressive. The combination of efficiency and authority was unmistakable. In the bustling life of Oros City, the customs office stood as both a gatekeeper and a symbol: trade would be regulated, order would be maintained, and those who sought to cheat the system would find the consequences severe.
Bill smiled faintly, satisfied. Today, he had navigated the complexities of Westeros' financial system, understood the power structures at play, and emerged unscathed—more knowledgeable, more experienced, and ready for whatever came next.
For all the cursing, the coin-counting, and the complicated calculations, one thing was clear: in Westeros, a clever merchant who respected the rules and observed carefully could thrive. Bill, pragmatic as ever, made a mental note: next time, be prepared with even more silver moons, but also remember the strength that order and discipline brought to the trade.
And with that thought, he finally allowed himself a small, satisfied grin. The customs office, intimidating at first, had taught him a valuable lesson about patience, observation, and the balance between prudence and profit.
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