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After leaving the inn, the two men stopped a passerby hurrying along the street and asked for directions to the city hall. With the answer in hand, they set off.
Following the man's instructions, they walked along the broad main avenue leading deeper into Oros.
The city had eleven major gates planned around its entire perimeter. Bill and John were currently in the eastern district, where three gates were intended. For now the walls themselves were still only foundations; the actual gates and more complex fortifications were still to come. The only thing fully finished was the stone-paved road connecting the harbor to the inner city—wide, smooth, and wonderfully easy underfoot.
"My lord, why did they build the roads in Oros so damn wide?" John asked, staring at the avenue that stretched more than twenty yards across. "How much coin does something like this even cost?"
Bill shrugged. "How should I know? Maybe Prince Gaemon has more gold than he knows what to do with and decided to spend it all on roads. King Jaehaerys poured a fortune into the Kingsroad, and the old Valyrians built that even grander Dragonroad that ran for thousands of miles across Essos. Must be a Targaryen tradition."
John nodded slowly. "Well, it does make walking a lot easier. Nothing like King's Landing, where you're dodging ruts and horse shit every step."
As they talked, they left the outer district behind, crossed over the future wall foundations, and entered the city proper.
Oros had been built on the central river valley's alluvial plain—flat land with almost no rise or fall. Gaemon had laid the entire city out on a strict grid, so the streets crossed at precise right angles, dividing everything into neat, uniform blocks.
Because the city was designed to eventually house at least one hundred thousand people but currently held only around ten thousand, it still felt strangely empty. The extra population was only possible because Gaemon had built numerous workshops inside the walls to provide steady work.
Gathering that many people in one place wasn't easy. You didn't just move them in—you had to make sure they could feed themselves. That meant creating enough jobs.
In most of Westeros, folk lived on farms or manors, rarely leaving their lord's land. Trade was mostly barter, and taxes were paid in grain or labor. Few ever touched real coin.
Gaemon had changed that here. He split newly cleared farmland evenly with the settlers. The people paid a fixed land tax on their half; everything else they grew was theirs to keep.
To collect the surplus and keep money moving, Gaemon bought their extra grain at fair prices. This put coin in the farmers' pockets and breathed life into the local economy.
For Gaemon, squeezing the smallfolk through brute force was the crudest form of rule. A healthy economy generated wealth on its own, which meant higher tax revenue without resentment—a virtuous cycle that benefited everyone.
So he had moved most processing work out of the villages and into the city. Raw materials came from the countryside, but the workshops in Oros turned them into finished goods. Money became the bridge connecting farm and workshop.
To create enough employment, Gaemon had built furniture factories, tanneries, iron foundries, stone yards, brick kilns, and more across Oros. Some goods were exported for profit, others consumed locally.
Most of the buildings Bill and John saw now were either active workshops or the simple, uniform housing built for the workers.
Because everything had been constructed to the same plan, the structures looked remarkably similar—long, orderly rows that pleased the eye.
Bill walked along, clicking his tongue in amazement. "How in the Seven Hells did they build these houses so tall? And they're all made of stone, yet built so high. You think they used magic during construction? I've heard the dragonlords knew all kinds of spells. How else could they control those giant beasts?"
John nodded in agreement. "Has to be. There's no way they raised all this in just two years with so few people. Doesn't make sense otherwise."
As the two men continued talking, a mounted soldier came trotting toward them from up the road and reined in beside them.
"This is the carriageway," the man said firmly. "Please move to the pedestrian path on the side. You two look like you're new to Oros, so I won't fine you this time. But next time I catch you walking in the carriage lane, I won't be so lenient."
Bill and John stared at the soldier, completely lost by the terms, though they clearly understood the word fine.
Bill quickly asked, "Sir, could you explain what you mean by carriageway and pedestrian path? How are we supposed to tell them apart? We'd rather not get fined again."
The soldier didn't seem annoyed. He pointed down at the road. "It's easy to spot. See this line here? The carriageway is the lower section in the middle. The pedestrian paths on either side are raised a step higher. That height difference marks the boundary. Carriageway is for horses and wagons. The raised sidewalks are for people on foot."
Bill and John looked down and finally noticed the subtle but clear elevation change.
The soldier continued, pointing ahead, "If you need to cross to the other side of the street, use the marked crossing areas up ahead."
Following the man's gesture, Bill and John spotted white lines painted on the road a short distance away and nodded in understanding.
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