Chapter 32: Kingsguard V
Late 156 AC
The cold winds had come without warning the week before, heralding the arrival of an abrupt winter. With the warmer days now gone, they'd been ill-prepared for the suddenness of the cold, and many smallfolk had needed to take shelter against this unexpected change. The winds had thankfully subsided the night before, but already the distant seas seemed rougher, and reports of foul weather were filtering in from along the coast. Small storms, localized but heavy, bringing with them chilling rain or light snow, or even small hail in some cases. The smallfolk in the afflicted areas had whipped themselves into a frenzy at this, an early cold the likes of which hadn't been seen in years. Indeed, none knew how long it would last, and for all the gains to have been made with the implementation of Stormhall crop rotation, iron plows and those newfangled horse harnesses, there was that ever-present undercurrent of worry for the future.
Though he would refrain from using those exact words, nor would the boy show it to the world, Thorne could tell Baelor was pissed at the sudden change in the season. It had come without warning, and the white ravens had yet to fly from the Citadel heralding its arrival. Under the prince's direction, the workers had been well on their way to finishing the last of the fields, with the old stumps nearly removed and the plows ready for usage. Yet the suddenness of the cold snap, made worse by the shortage of suitable cold weather clothes and equipment, had ground the progress to a halt.
It had all been going so well, even with the setbacks here or there delaying progress on a field or two. Injuries from accidents, broken harnesses, a lethargy from a particularly hot day sending to bed nearly a quarter of the laborers under Baelor's direction, it'd almost seemed too much for the prince to handle, and yet he had managed to overcome it all. Thorne, meanwhile, had thanked the gods several times over for the shelters the prince had the laborers build from the trees harvested from the former fields, many of them truly large specimens. Spaced properly and with clear spaces for additions, the buildings had been originally planned to be the eventual homes of the smallfolk who would then tend to these fields. Thankfully, they had also proven to be stout in the face of the usual storms from Shipbreaker Bay and were now earning their keep from the safety they provided from chilling rain and near-frosty winds that had whipped at them for days.
So now he sat, huddled near the fire with the prince scribbling into his small book, waiting for the supply carts to return with enough furs and woolen coats for them all. As a prince, Baelor and his guards were afforded the most spacious of the shelters, and with it came the all the accoutrements of a true lordly manor. A kitchen, feasting area, separate rooms for host and guests, a stocked larder, and a great deal of similar trappings furnished the halls. Thorne knew Baelor appreciated the comfort, given the chill he'd almost developed. Nothing threatening, thank the gods, but the boy had been caught in the cold, much as they all had, and for a while he'd feared Baelor would develop a fever. Now that such danger had passed, the prince had thrown himself back into his work, much as he'd done from the beginning, only now he could only do so from within the safety of this hall, rather than out in the fields.
"Where did I go wrong, Ser Thorne?" the boy asked, looking up from his book. "I feel as though I should be done with this task, yet the end of it eludes me."
The Kingsguard shrugged. "I am not entirely certain, my prince. The process of land reclamation lies far outside of any area I might call myself educated in. I studied the sword and saddle far more than I have the spade and sickle."
"I just can't find what I might have missed in this task, good ser. I have gone over my notes several times now, and though I did find a few things here or there, I know I am missing something that led us to this. If I did not miss anything, then why do I feel so distressed about it?"
"Well, the best way to find one's path is to retrace one's steps, my prince. Let us start from there and work our way back to this day."
"Well, after my foster-father assigned me the task of reclaiming these lands from wilds to farms, we went to the library. There, with the maester's help, we found the records of the place, and what used to grow there, as well as the names of the yeomen who originally worked the area. Since Lord Orys took over, there must have been some sort of internal problems, as there was later no mention of those yeomen ever again, nor word of smallfolk tending to those fields."
"As you surmised all those moons ago, they likely died during the Last Storm. That battle depleted a great many of the men of the Stormlands due to dragonfire, and some places have yet to recover, I'd wager."
The prince nodded. "Then, after getting as much gear together as we could, along with our assigned laborers, we set off for the site. After arriving and setting up the work camp, I had the lumbermen survey the area for the biggest trees, as we would be using those for our permanent shelters later."
"A good thing too, given these damnable winds and cold rain," Ser Thorne replied.
"Then, as the men cut and sorted the logs and boards, we had our first issue, feeding all these laborers. I think we figured out it took near three pounds of food, at least half of it in bread, to feed each man each day, and three pints apiece of ale or something similar, such as cider. With two hundred men, that meant we'd be going through around six hundred pounds of food every day, not including what the guards needed to eat, and around seventy-five gallons of drink as well. Each of our supply carts were being emptied every two days, I believe."
"Aye, as we could only fill them so much, given that the roads here are not yet as good as those in Wytch lands. Wagons out there can be built larger and thus carry more since the wheels won't sink into the ground after a storm." Lord Baratheon was likely next in line for the S.E.C. to build roads in his lands, at a reduced cost of course. Until then, they would have to make do with what they could.
"Our first problem was ensuring we maintained enough flour for the camp cooks to make enough bread without it dropping too low. There is only so much we can purchase in the surrounding area, and the farther we needed to range to buy flour, the longer it would take for it to reach back to our camp. With the area being so sparsely inhabited compared to other kingdoms, this presented a major problem. Substituting some bread with more vegetables, especially greens such as spinach, was great advice from Lord Wytch. It meant we could send our wagons for flour farther out while they ate crops closer to them, of which were grown in greater abundance since the crop rotation has been in place."
"Thankfully, the bountiful numbers of mutton sheep meant there was always enough meat for the men," Thorne said. He'd grown to tolerate mutton, given that he'd had to eat so much of it these past moons.
"Our distance to the coast also allowed for fish, good ser, so at least there was variety," Baelor added. "With our food supply taken care of, we didn't hit any real troubles for a good while. The men felled and cut the trees, setting up a yard for them to dry in for later use. The smaller trees were cut and split for firewood, and for the most part, we had little difficulty digging, chopping, or pulling out the stumps."
"Save for the pines."
The boy sighed in frustration. "Save for the pines, yes. We had to burn those out, and with all the piles of brush lying about, we nearly set the remaining woods on fire. We were lucky that the winds were fair that day. Now, all brush piles are to be burned in small, separate piles, so such a potential hazard is not allowed. My foster-father would not be happy if I managed to set fire to his lands through such inattention."
Ser Thorne nodded. The smallfolk would not take it well either, as the surrounding forests that were to remain were often a source of food or goods that they could not grow themselves, one being the stormwater mushroom, a favorite of the locals. He'd thought the texture was like that of cooked chicken breast, and it was rather delicious in a thick stew. "After that was dealt with, everything proceeded with fairly uneventful efficiency, until this sudden arrival of winter, that is."
"Yet we've received no word of the Citadel sending their ravens heralding it. Either something has happened within the Citadel to delay them, or this weather has stopped riders from spreading the news."
"Or, perhaps, this is no winter, but a terrible autumn," the Kingsguard replied. "It would not be the first time the seasons have been unusual. Being unprepared for this unusual weather is not unexpected, as none of us know the future, and we have made do with what we have. 'Were we better prepared' is the line all men say when things do not go to plan, and so long as one is willing to continue their work, there is no harm in learning from such a lesson. If this change in weather is indeed a sign of winter though, then let us pray it is a mercifully short one. I cannot imagine the sudden cold would be good for the health of the king."
"Father's condition worries me, but I can only pray the grand maester can help him recover from it," Baelor replied. "As for this potential winter, it has thrown off the schedule we were so nearly done with. Should the winds let up, even if the cold does not, we should be able to clear the fields and plant them once more. Only, if winter is upon us, the only thing we could plant would be turnips."
"Aye, a last resort, but often the only one available in such times, my prince."
Baelor leaned back in his chair. "So then… I didn't miss anything?"
"Likely not, my prince. Considering the smallfolk of the area, who have lived here their entire lives, were as unprepared for this sudden cold as you were, I would dwell no more on it. Just let it be a lesson to prepare for as much as you can but know that you cannot prepare for everything the gods throw at us."
There was sound from the far side of the room, and a pair of guards, escorting a third man, entered the building, quickly shutting the door behind them. Dressed for the weather with thick wool trousers and coat, yet still tinged with what looked like frost, the man bowed before the prince. Thorne recognized him as one of the couriers.
"My prince, I bear letters."
"Borros!" the prince said, cheering up considerably. "How was your journey from King's Landing?"
"Uneventful, thank the gods, though I was nearly caught in a small squall once I passed through the Kingswood," the man said, handing a small satchel of scrolls to a guard, who looked them over. "I then barely made it to Storm's End before the rain fell again, where I met with the other couriers. The Wytch man was going to deliver these, but came down with a small fever, so I went in his stead."
"My thanks, Borros, I'll be sure to let Lord Wytch know of your kindness."
"I also passed a small caravan of men bring what looked to be wagons of tools and woolen coats not far back. I'm assuming they're yours, and unless they have trouble, they should be here by nightfall."
"Excellent, we can hand them out tomorrow morning and resume our work," the prince said, as the guard, satisfied, turned over the scrolls to the prince.
Ser Thorne, ever keen eyes on the prince, noticed a mixture of happiness and confusion contort his face. "My prince?"
"One of these is from Lord Wytch, and the other from Lord Baratheon, but the third… it bears the mark of my cousin Naerys. Why would she write to me?"
"News has reached us of the birth of her daughter Vaella," he replied, as the courier went to find something to eat. He'd stay with them for a day or two, while the prince wrote his returning letters, and then leave with them for Storm's End. It was a good system, one that seemed to lift the prince's spirits, no matter how exhausted he might be at the end of a day. "Perhaps she is writing to you on her?"
"Perhaps," Baelor replied, opening the letter from Lord Wytch first.
Thorne softly chuckled at that. Though the prince never outright said it, he'd clearly come to regard the young Stormlord as an older brother of sorts, looking up to him and his accomplishments. Considering that Daeron never wrote to Baelor these days, it was perhaps fitting he'd found someone else to serve in the role, and though some might find it troubling, the Kingsguard had come to accept such a strange circumstance in the young prince's life. Whereas some might try to influence or control the prince using such a relationship, Lord Wytch seemed to prefer helping to bring out the boy's best, while mitigating some of his earlier… eccentricities. Baelor trained with a bow every morning the weather allowed, and every night before supper would spar with him or some of the other guards, with axe, staff, or sword. Though the prince had taken so long to take up arms as to worry others, Thorne was pleased by his progress and determination to improve, hoping it would continue as such.
"Ser Thorne, I believe I have a solution to our turnip problem," the prince said, closing Lord Wytch's letter with a smile on his face.
"Oh?"
"Lord Wytch mentioned that his own crops have suffered from this sudden cold spell, having lost a decent portion of the latest harvest. He writes that in such cold times, that not only turnips would be best for growing, but also carrots, leeks, peas, and spinach. He also mentions plants called kale and radishes, the former of which I've never heard of, and though I know of smallfolk collecting and eating wild radishes, I'm not sure I've ever heard of growing them as a crop."
"We shall have to see if there is another name for this 'kale' plant, as many plants have different names for them, depending on who you ask," Thorne replied. "As for the radishes, I too have heard of wild ones, but never of a domestic variety. We shall have to ask the maester in Storm's End of this, or barring that, write a letter to the Citadel. If such a crop exists, then surely they must know of it."
"Any new crop that can grow in these areas, or anywhere in Westeros, would be a boon to everyone, smallfolk and nobles alike," Baelor muttered. "If only our merchants overseas could be encouraged to find such crops and bring enough of them back to begin planting here. After we are done, I must speak with Lord Baratheon on the idea, I doubt he would like it if I tried to purchase untested plants from across the Narrow Sea."
Many hours later, when Baelor had finally drifted off to sleep, Ser Thorne pulled a small scroll from the lining of his coat, unfurling it in the dim light of the crackling fire. His correspondence with the other Kingsguard was nothing new, but the subject matter was enough that keeping it secret from the prince, for now, was a necessity.
King Aegon was ill, more than Baelor knew. His consumption had aged him in months what it might take a healthy man years to accomplish, and he grew ever weaker as the weeks continued. Aegon had lost his appetite almost completely, and the king's weight had declined sharply, to where he appeared frail, where once he had been strong. A near-constant fever saw him confined to his rooms, and other than the grand maester, he refused to see anyone, save for the queen and his brother.
Lord Hand Viserys was worried, his brothers in white wrote, and both Daeron and Daena were nigh distraught, the latter especially. By all accounts, this cold snap had worsened his condition already, and it was likely only a matter of time before he passed away, and Daeron assumed the Iron Throne. The preparations were already being made, according to his brothers, though few outside of the Red Keep knew this.
Alliser glanced over at the prince, sleeping soundly after a long day of writing replies to the letters his friend and family had sent. What should he tell him? The other Kingsguard stressed that bringing the boy back to Kings Landing now would be good for him, but he was not so sure of that. If the king were dying alone, away from family, what did it matter if Baelor was there or not? The poor boy would be distraught enough when news of the king's illness and then death reached him, it would do no good for him to be in the Red Keep, so close to his father, yet barred from seeing him. Yet he would need to be there for the coronation of Daeron, whose regency was still undetermined, and for once his family would be there alongside him, mutually supporting each other in this time of grief.
Burning the scroll in the fireplace, he sighed. He would tell the prince come morning that his father was sicker than he knew but give no specifics on it. Baelor would be upset, surely, but it would not take long for him to refocus on his project over such dark thoughts. If Baelor wished to return to the Red Keep, then he would need to speak with Lord Baratheon on the matter.
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The Green Oak, they called him, and it was a suitable nickname, Olyvar thought, as his founding Oakheart ancestor was said to have been sired upon a giantess by Garth Greenhand himself. Strong and large, he was an imposing member of the Kingsguard, having been sworn in only a few years ago, during a short banquet the King had managed to attend. He had proven himself in the small tournament to choose the one who would replace the fallen Kingsguard Bennar, who had died from a bout of consumption in his old age. Now, alongside his sworn brothers, he defended King Aegon and his family, sworn to never bear sons, hold lands, or take a wife, and to advise and protect his king's secrets. Many of those oaths had come easy to his lips, for he had never envisioned himself presiding over Oakheart lands. That lay with his older brothers, and he would gladly leave the task to them. Sons were trouble, he knew, he'd been a hellion in his younger days, and he hadn't the patience to raise them, let alone daughters. Keeping his king's secrets was easy, as the man held them tight to his chest, and protecting him was uneventful these days, as he had not been around for the Secret Siege. Yet the last of his oaths, of no wives taken, had never been a consideration of his. Women he appreciated for the duties they bore, and even felt a touch of respect for them, but Olyvar never found to be as alluring as others claimed them to be. Not even the queen and her daughters, nor the Hand's daughter, could draw more than a glance from him. That side of him that felt this way, only one other knew, and it was here, in a secret, unused room in the lower halls of the Red Keep, where he found himself alone with the one he called his own. It was a tragic love, for more reasons than he cared to count, and one that could not last, but let no one call him Qarl Correy come again. Should his love be needed by others, Olyvar would respect his wishes.
Curled up beside the one who held his heart, he softly smiled. "When are you to marry?" he asked. They had not spoken of it before, but after such a… nice time together, basking in the glow, it would not hurt to talk of such things, right?
His younger lover shrugged. "I do not yet know, Oly. Soon, I would think. People might come to suspect if it does not occur, but no lady has yet to catch my eye, either."
"I love that you should be so blessed as to be able to love both men and women alike, a trait I am afraid I cannot share. Yet I must admit my jealousy, though it shall never come between us, does arise whenever your sister fawns over you."
"That she does," his prince replied. "Yet it will be good for Baelor to marry her instead, I think. Daena will be good for my brother, and hopefully he can temper her wilder side with his newfound ways. I know father and uncle have a small list of potential queens for me, but until then, Oly, only you shall share my bed… when possible."
"For that, Daeron, I am most grateful. As your future Kingsguard, the oath that I swore to your father will remain as it was for you. Greatest of these will be that I keep your secrets."
Daeron smiled as he arched an eyebrow. "What of keeping me safe?" he asked playfully.
"That is a foregone conclusion, my prince. Shall it become required of me, I shall gladly die for you, Daeron."
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Stormlanders XVI
Late 156 AC
The expansions to Oretown had been a long time coming, and the roaring fire in his solar kept away the chill from seeping into his bones while he looked over the reports. The hot cider helped, though he was careful not to drink too much, lest he need to use the privy too often. Damn this cold and unexpected winter, it would throw the scheduled road and similar projects into disarray, but there was little else anyone, even Lord Wytch, could do about it, save for adapting and moving on. A good lesson too, one they had so recently found applicable to another problem of theirs.
It had not taken longer for Casper's captive to break, both from his gaoler's 'persuasions' and the isolation Casper had told him the man was experiencing. Lord Windhill knew that a man's word may not be worth much when spoken under duress, but given the circumstances of his imprisonment, it was no wonder he'd so readily broken, trying to save his own skin in the process. After his confession, Ryck was then publicly hanged for his crimes of attempted murder, attempted theft, and assaulting guardsmen, the latter the first of its kind for Lowhill. Lord Windhill freely admitted he envied that idyllic nature of those lands, wishing his own to be like that, and slowly but surely, they were becoming as such. Hunger amongst the smallfolk was almost a thing of the past by now, the sheep flocks were haler than ever, and the wealth flowing between their lands was something he'd not imagined possible for such small holdings. Were they major lords, like Swanns or Bucklers, then who knows what they'd have been able to do?
After Ryck's demise, and shortly after he had departed for Windhall with his granddaughter, the one called Emily was questioned by Lord Wytch, as to her origins and purpose in all this. According to Casper's letter on the matter, she was merely the help, looking for some coin to aid her family back in Kings Landing. In exchange for her cooperation, her family would be retrieved from the poorer streets of the city and given a chance to earn their keep in Lowhill. As punishment for her crime, though, she was to join the motherhouse as a septa for the remainder of her life, never to leave Lowhill unless allowed to do so by Lord Wytch himself, under penalty of death no less. Jon had thought it a bit too charitable, but the thought of executing the woman was also a bit too harsh for his tastes. Taking a hand would have been simpler.
Still, Ryck's confession, recorded by a pair of scribes for evidence, had sent the young lord into a short rage, one Jon had never seen Casper display before. In a later letter, Casper's earlier assumptions during the faire had put the master of Ryck as the Tyrell bastard that his maester had offended all those years ago. To the maester's clear satisfaction, it turned out that man was dead from an accident no less than three years before, meaning he had no connection whatsoever to this plot. Thus, unless there was some convolution none of them could decipher, the Tyrells remained unconnected as well.
As luck had it, due to a habit of eavesdropping, Ryck had found out his employer was himself employed by two quite different, yet rather coincidentally linked houses. Houses Fossoway and Darklyn currently shared blood, with Lady Fossoway being the sister of the current Lord Darklyn. That two houses had married across kingdom lines was nothing new, but that they had joined to attempt to steal from Lord Wytch was rather unexpected. House Fossoway had come up with the idea, paying in gold they had, and Lord Darklyn had in turn hired the man who hired Ryck. It was an odd alliance, to be sure, but one now that they were sure of.
In a return letter, Jon theorized House Fossoway must want roads of Casper's quality without having to pay another lord for them, as they had walked away from negotiations with his granddaughter once Casper's family origins came to light. According to Ryck's testimony, he had overheard the Darklyns mention they also wanted the material for their own roads and other projects, looking to add, among other things, crushed charcoal and then call it 'Darklynstone', so that they could pass it off as their own creation. That apparently was the part that had made Casper break a bench over his knee, from both the rage of the attempted theft, and from the fact they would fiddle with the recipe for mere aesthetics.
Houses Fossoway and Darklyn were now both on Jon's 'watch' list, and if he caught any of their ilk snooping around his own lands for similar reasons, they'd face a much harsher penalty than Lord Wytch could inflict on them. He had the accrued prestige from a lifetime of service to call in a great many other Stormland houses, and even a few outsiders he had befriended in his time during the Dance. Most of his generation were infirm by now though, so it'd a limited call of support, but still a strong one at that.
Sighing in his rocking chair, he barely stilled his hands as he reached for a piece of parchment, the shakes coming in worse these days. Maester Gorman and his own maester had told him he likely did not have much time left, but he was secure in the knowledge that his heir would marry a good man. With luck, their second son would carry the Windhill name, and the two houses would remain as close allies through family ties for generations to come.
Yet despite his impending demise, Jon carried on as a lord should, reading the latest report of the road leading to the area around the dam project. Which, by the way, was now finished. The great wall of Wytchstone was finally complete, and all that remained was for rain, snowmelt, and the stream that passed into the area to fill its great depths. Mylenda had thought of using some of the great urns that had transported the powdered Wytchstone for Oretown's main road to transport whatever small fish they could net from the nearby streams for the first batch of stocking. She'd written to her betrothed on the matter, and he'd thought it quite ingenious. The name for the lake was yet to be determined, but with luck, it would be a name to be remembered for generations to come. As for the dam itself, something unexpected had occurred. The smallfolk of lands often trailed behind friendly armies, usually residing in tent cities that moved with the men. With the dam project having taken so long to build, a village had sprouted along one of its slopes, these camp followers building permanent homes from the timbers no longer needed to prop up portions of the dam. While rough and rather ill-planned, the natural progression of the village's growth had seen smallfolk from both lands fill it, primarily farmers and a few craftsmen here or there. This would likely be only the first of several villages to sprout up along the lake's borders, once the fish stocks were large enough to support them.
Come to think of it, with the size of this future lake being truly spectacular, they would be needing fishing boats like those used along the coasts to harvest larger quantities. Making a note of this on a piece of parchment, Jon returned to the report. The roads from Stormhall to Windhall were finally completed, and once winter was finished, the roads to the Reach and eastern Stormlands could continue in earnest. To think that he had a part in building the best roads the Stormlands would ever know was as humbling as it was satisfying. Now, if only he could say the same for the progress out into the Marches. It was slow and tedious in comparison, given the sheer distance between settlements. The materials, from what he understood, needed water in their construction, and digging wells every few miles was as difficult as it was risky. Transporting the water needed with unused wine barrels seemed to do the trick, but that slowed down construction considerably, and thanks to this sudden cold snap, those barrels would likely freeze and burst, further setting back their progress. At least the portion of the road coming out of the Marches was facing fewer issues. Being closer to Dorne and its hot climate, even in winter, was helpful sometimes.
Setting the report aside, Jon rose from his rocking chair, albeit somewhat unwillingly. He was no longer as limber as he'd once been, even a few short years ago, and holding the edge of the table, he willed the shakes to cease. Gingerly moving along, he moved towards the door, only for the world to suddenly spin, and then everything went dark.
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When he awoke, he was no longer in his study, but in his bed, with the maester by his side and his granddaughter pacing at the foot.
"My lord," the maester said, noticing his open eyes.
Jon tried to speak but found his throat awfully dry. Why was it so dry? Why was he so thirsty?
"Grandfather, the maester said you fell in your solar," Mylenda said, coming to his side and taking his hand in hers. Why did he barely feel the touch of his heir?
"Indeed, you did, my lord," the maester said, looking rather sorrowful. "You appear to have suffered a lapse in your constitution, one I am afraid you are unlikely to recover from. Your palsy, I fear it has spread faster than we thought. The guards who came upon you said you were unresponsive after hearing your fall, and from what I have been able to determine, your body is failing you my lord. You may last days yet, or mere hours, but I fear there is little I can do."
"Water," Jon muttered, the act of speaking as taxing as riding down the Dornish bandits. Mylenda offered him a small cup, which he drank as best he could, given that his neck did not want to move as easily as it had before.
"Grandfather, what are we to do?"
"Fetch the papers, maester," he groaned, wondering why he felt so little. He could barely move enough to grab his granddaughter's hand. "It is time." As the maester rushed from the room, Mylenda moved closer, gently stroking his large, scarred hands. To think, he had once been able to carry her, cradled in the crook of his arm. Now, she was near a woman grown, and he was not going to see her again, for hopefully many years. She had earned the right to a long life, he hoped she would enjoy it.
"Grandfather," she muttered, tears forming in the corners of her bright eyes. "I… I do not know if I am ready."
"I wasn't," he muttered. "You'll be a better lady of Windhall than I was ever a lord, if you're even half the woman I know you've become. Though you will be the last Windhill, let that not discourage you. Casper will see to your health and happiness in ways I could not, and with the blessings of the gods, you shan't be the only Windhill for long. Bear strong sons, and stronger daughters, to carry our name into this next generation, and remember me fondly, if you can."
"Always, grandfather," Mylenda whispered, as the maester returned to the room.
As the maester wrote the words he spoke, detailing his declaration of Mylenda as his lawful and true heir, Jon felt miles away, wracked with guilt. He should have had a few more years yet, he would have seen the outcome of so many great things to come to their family. Was this penance for his crimes, those accrued in his long life? Of the men he had slain in battle, of the smallfolk whose protection he had neglected during the harsher times? Of the secrets he bore, some that had been passed down by his father before him, and his, so on and so forth? Some he knew Mylenda had discovered for herself, she was a smart girl like that, but the most important only he yet remembered.
He counted himself lucky that Mylenda bore no cousins that might try to usurp her. His children had died too early to give her such relatives, and the descendants of his long-dead siblings bore less of a claim than Mylenda ever could, their names long since something other than Windhill. He knew this gamble was great, but Mylenda would endure this time of loneliness, as their family had for generations. He only wished he could stay a little longer, to see and hold a great-grandchild in his arms. Yet he also looked forward to this end, this lasting peace in the arms of his ancestors and departed loved ones.
This clarity of his demise convinced him of the necessity of his next, and likely final, actions. Dismissing the maester, and feeling his already-depleted strength leaving him, he motioned to Mylenda, who leaned in close. There, with the last of his strength, he spoke of ancient secrets of their house, of mysteries she would find the answers to deep in their catacombs, and how to access the hidden room in his solar. He also spoke of his greatest regret, asking her for forgiveness even as his eyes began to grow heavy.
The silence before she spoke was the longest, and deepest, he had ever known.
"I forgive you, grandfather. Be at peace and know that I will always love you, no matter what the future holds."
With a content smile on his lips, and the last of his burdens released from his mind, Jon Windhill, the last lord of House Windhill, breathed his last, and passed from this world.
A/N: so ends one of the story's actual main characters (sorry Morden Wytch, you don't count), and a twist I hope I'll be able to write decently. The fact that Daeron was likely married for years, yet preferred to go to/stay at war, was always surrounded by men, and managed to not father a child (with his unnamed queen) in the 4-ish years he was king leads me to think he may have been a bit like Richard the Lionheart: possibly somewhere on the spectrum of sexuality leaning away from one corner or the other, perhaps not to Renly's extent, but it's still possible. Unless a more detailed account by Martin is written, it's all up to our interpretation, which I hope does not bend too many readers out of shape. I mean, this is fan fiction! If we fanfic writers were to write everything as it was supposed to be, then what would be the point of writing it at all?
Chapter 33: Mylenda Windhill V
Early 157 AC
As per the agreement set in the betrothal, her time to marry Casper had come, a mere moon after her grandfather's passing. Mylenda had seen to the vigil and then burial of Jon Windhill amongst their many ancestors deep in the catacombs, safely sealed away from the world outside. Now the Lady of Windhall, it had fallen to her to send forth the ravens and couriers to her lands and her neighbors, informing them of the passing of her grandfather and her inheritance of his seat. She had sent these the very day she'd left for Stormhall. Her position as the last Windhill, even one betrothed to Casper, would still undoubtedly bring suitors calling now that her grandfather was gone, to attempt to claim her and her lands for their own in some way. Second sons, errant knights, even older lords looking to spread their line into another house, she had expected these to arrive, and sought to head them off in their attempts.
How she'd managed to stay strong from her grandfather's passing for as long as she'd had still eluded her. She'd not cried much when he died before her, nor during the vigil and burial, nor even the short week of grieving she'd allotted herself. Yet when she'd finally arrived in Stormhall and Casper held her in his arms, expressing his sincerest condolences, Mylenda had been unable to hold back her tears. Jon was the man who had raised her longer than either of her parents, having been her whole world for as long as she could remember. Though hazy from her youth, her memories of him were happy ones, of a time when life for her was less about sorting parchment detailing their lands, and more of the fishing trips they took to cold streams weaving through alpine meadows amongst the nearby mountain peaks.
Her soon-to-be goodmother had sent out the invitations shortly after her letter had reached them of her grandfather's passing. Janyce Wytch could be a formidable lady when pressed, she had noticed, and had spent most of her time with her during the preparations, ensuring Mylenda's say in the quality and variety of food and drink to be served at the wedding feast. Mylenda was unsure if this was how a traditional wedding was to go, but she had no reference, having never attended one in this way. Her lessons on the matter in Windhall had been terribly insufficient, now that she had time to recollect, and the sheer number of details going into a single day were almost frightening. That may have also been the grief latching onto whatever other emotions were bubbling to the surface today. It would take time for this new wound to close, as it had for the loss of her mother years before, but she was a Windhill, she was strong, and would overcome this.
The Seven must have taken heart to her situation, for the cold of the past weeks had faded away, a pleasant warmth seeping back into the lands. It was not spring, for no records had ever indicated a winter so short nor comparatively mild, and it was then that the ravens flew from the Citadel, declaring the cold period as a 'merely unseasonal chill' and ensuring everyone that it was still autumn. Many smallfolk were already beginning to call it the 'Year of the False Winter' and had taken to replanting the lost crops with great gusto. Others were not so quick to celebrate, despite the warmer days returning quickly, and instead both planted crops for winter and tended to those that remained viable after this sudden chill. Luckily, livestock had fared better than most of the more delicate crops, taking shelter in barns, forests or windward hills to escape the winds of that brief cold.
On the morning of the wedding, when she rose from her maiden's bed, she came to realize that she would not return to it as Mylenda Windhill. Instead, she would find herself in her marriage bed, as Mylenda Wytch, née Windhill, with all the titles and power that entailed, the first of her womanly duties now fulfilled. She broke her fast in private that morning, seen to only by her maids, who then aided in dressing her, the cream dress hugging her wonderfully, yet thankfully loose enough she could still move with ease. Their giggles and chitchat seemed distant as she looked herself over, as she found it hard to pay them any heed other than smiling and nodding along. Not long after, escorted by the captain of her personal guard and the few men she'd brought from Windhall, a man by the name of Edric, she meandered down to the main courtyard, expecting a horse to await her. Instead, it was a fine, rather sturdy carriage, a little ostentatious but not overly so. Within were her only companions, Lady Janyce and her soon-to-be goodsisters Arenna and Shyra, with her captain and guards riding beside her. The journey down to Lowhill was a silent one, for even the two girls across from her seemed unusually subdued, though from their looks they were awfully excited as well. This was the day their brother was to marry, after all, but the frequent looks from their mother were likely what was keeping them in line.
It was not a somber ride, but it did give her some more time to think. Was she excited? It was hard to say. There was a knot in her belly, like the one she'd have right before she was to receive petitioners back in Windhall. Yet Mylenda wouldn't say she was worried either; it wasn't as if Casper was going to call the whole thing off. They had gotten along splendidly before today, why should they not continue to do so after? Perhaps it was merely the stress of the big day mixing with her remaining grief. She was looking forward to the feast, at least, the planning that she'd been a part of promised it to be one to remember.
Entering through the town gate, she found a colorful assortment of Windhill and Wytch banners intermingling along the street, the streamers strung between them alternating between the colors of their respective houses. Everywhere the smallfolk stood, they were singing, led by septas or septons in holy chorus. She couldn't quite hear the words of those old hymns, but she imagined them to be simple, free from the additional trappings of places such as in the keeps of the Reach or the Crownlands. Out here in the Stormlands, simpler was often better her grandfather had said, and lasted longer in the minds of the smallfolk.
At the front of the sept their carriage halted, and opening the door, Captain Edric gingerly helped the four of them exit it. More banners of Wytch and Windhill flew about the place, and the crowds outside were softly roaring their names, waving small banners as guardsmen passed out small bags of pennies to the children. Her betrothed's generosity seemed to know few boundaries, except those of common sense, but his smallfolk loved him all the more for it, and hopefully, they would come to love her for it as well.
The sept itself was positively humming with song, the Andalic hymns coming into full force as she entered, all eyes suddenly on her. All the nobles and wealthiest merchants in Wytch lands, as well as a few Stormlords from nearby lands, had arrived to witness this. All were dressed to impress, some in fine shining armor and others in expensive suits or dresses, to showcase status and wealth as well as the significance of their attendance. Though Janyce had told her it would all be taken care of, she'd been planning on Captain Edric giving her away. Yet as she approached the altar, she found a man standing in the place of her grandfather she'd never have expected.
"Lord Baratheon?" she nearly gasped, barely managing to come to terms with what she was seeing. Her Lord Paramount stood dressed in the livery of his house, a fine suit the likes of which must have cost a fortune, and beside him stood Prince Baelor, similarly dressed in the colors of his house. How had she not known they would be here?
As if reading her expression, her lord took her hand and softly chuckled. "We arrived just after supper, my dear, and rose early to discuss matters with your betrothed. We would have arrived sooner, but we were delayed by a small squall near Storm's End. Do you have any objections to me being the one to give you away?"
"No, no, of course not, my lord," she said, fighting back a stammer that was entirely unlike her. "I would be honored to have you stand in for my late grandfather, as I am sure he would have."
With a nod, he took her hand. Beside him, Prince Baelor looked to her and smiled, a slight tinge to his cheeks. He was taller than she remembered seeing last, and had filled out slightly, but was still just a boy in her eyes.
"You look quite pretty, my lady. Surely the gods smile on you on this most special of days, for your beauty to shine so brightly."
"My thanks, my prince." Was he blushing? By the Seven, Prince Baelor was blushing at the sight of her! "I hope the journey here was not too difficult."
"Anything for Cas-, I mean, Lord Wytch, my lady. I count him as a dear friend and wouldn't miss this for anything."
"You flatter me, my prince." Come to think of it, he appeared to be trying to keep his eyes on her face, but when she looked away to admire the candles around the statues of the Seven, from the corner of her eye, she saw him glance down before looking away, even more flushed. Well, more like straight at her, she was significantly taller than him after all, and that had brought his eyes about level to… oh. Well, he was just a boy, and she'd heard a pious one at that, so no harm in his glances.
Another round of horns sounded, soft and clear, and from the side emerged her husband, moving to the altar with purposeful, lighthearted steps. He was almost unrecognizable to the man whose arms she had cried into, with his short beard trimmed further, his often-unruly hair combed, and dressed in as fine of clothes as Lord Baratheon but in the colors of his own house. Their house, she realized, as he wordlessly sidled up to her. An older septon approached the altar before them, escorted by a pair of young curates, not much older than the prince. Holding aloft a pair of incense burners, one stood behind the septon, whilst the other retrieved and opened a large Seven-Pointed Star. Retrieving the book from his assistant, who began to softly chant scripture with his fellow curate, the septon looked to her, and then Casper, and then began.
The prayers that followed, spaced with soft singing, seemed to stretch on for days. She would repeat the prayers, as did Casper and the rest of the gathered faithful, and after those were finally done, they exchanged their vows. Mylenda vowed to be by Casper's side through feast and famine, and he said the same. She said she would give him counsel, and he replied he would heed her word above all others. He swore to protect her with his life, and she to give him sons and daughters to carry on their legacy. Other vows they swore, some the septon mentioned, others that one or the other had thought of in the days leading up to the wedding. The septon gave them more vows to repeat than they'd thought of, and she found it a bit unfair how often the man mentioned that she would be faithful to Casper, whilst only mentioning that once or twice to him.
Finally, just as her knees were starting to ache from standing still for so long, Lord Baratheon stepped forward as the septon finally finished. With a grace she did not know the large man possessed, he removed her Windhill maiden cloak from her shoulders. Prince Baelor handed to Lord Wytch another cloak, this one bearing the Wytch sigil, and Casper then replaced the one their liege had removed, bringing her under his protection.
As one, the pair of them spoke. "With this kiss, I pledge my love."
Casper added "I take you as my lady and wife."
She replied, "I take you as my lord and husband."
Their lips met in a tender kiss, one that for the briefest of moments, Mylenda was certain she heard the entire world fall away, feeling only her now-husband's skin against hers. As they pulled apart, the septon loudly proclaimed over the songs, his voice ringing through the sept, that they were now 'one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever' to the gathered crowd. The great cheer and thunderous applause that followed brought a smile to her face, as well as her new husband's. She was no longer Mylenda Windhill, but Mylenda Wytch née Windhill, Lady of Stormhall and Windhall. The stress of the past month seemed to fade away as Casper drew her in for a tight hug, one she gladly returned.
The journey back to the castle was one of great merriment, with Casper and her riding side by side amongst crowds of cheering smallfolk. Entering the castle itself, the festivities continued, as wedding gifts were presented in the great courtyard, the relatively small main hall too narrow to host both the feast and the gathering. A pair of prized broodmares from House Wysp, a strong warhammer from Lord Baratheon, a bolt of fine silk from Prince Baelor, and a great deal of other gifts were showered upon them. Some were practical, others were trinkets or artifacts from distant lands, and a few were thankfully practical, such as a Myrish far-eye, courtesy of an unknown sender from Kings Landing of all places. Yet as much as she enjoyed these, she was glad when they entered the castle keep, for the great feast laid before them in the main hall brought some relief to her growling stomach.
She'd not eaten since breaking her fast, and it was well past midday. With lighter fare to start, progressively growing more lavish and delicious, she could barely contain her glee at the prospect of trying so many things, for truly, there was a great deal to try. Delicate wings of chicken, seasoned with garlic and lightly coated in honey, small cakes made with flour from ground sweetcorn, the 'Dornished eggs' she'd heard of so much from her grandfather, and green beans in small bowls of thick cream soup topped with cheese and fried onions were only some of the first course served. Yet as much as she wished to fill herself with these delectable treats, Mylenda restrained herself, knowing there was more to come. The guests were certainly delighted by these wondrous creations, given the number of toasts they received on the food alone thus far.
As she finished her small meal of the first course, she glanced to her now husband, who had likewise eaten as she had, sparingly, saving room for more. They'd spoken of the tradition of some for a pigeon pie, but they'd agreed it would be a rather dismal dish. Live birds in a pie? They would be leaving quite the droppings whilst trapped in there, and who would wish to eat that? She lost track of how often he joked about such traditions being rather disgusting, and she could hardly contain herself at some of his quips.
Soon after the first course finished, as the ale, beer, mead, and other fine vintages flowed freely, the second course arrived. Roasted chestnuts wrapped in crispy bacon and topped with a thickened cider, small breadwytchs of fresh buttered rolls filled with slices of ham, fried rolls of flour stuffed with shredded carrots, cabbage and onions, and a whole host of other dishes that set her tongue and imagination alight. Truly, the culinary delights of Windhall did not compare to her new home, and she was eager to explore these new opportunities as they arose. Who had created these wonderful dishes? She would have to ask Casper if they were simply from this region of the Stormlands, or from further north. He'd ventured far wider than she had, after all.
After the second course, the music rose in intensity, and the first dance was held. With Casper leading her, she merrily joined him, their dance coinciding with a plethora of others. Ser Tygor, one of the Westerman knights in service to them, danced merrily with his Dornish wife Jynessa, while her grandmother tended to their infant daughter. Lord Baratheon was not yet dancing, having claimed at the head table 'to need more drink yet for it' and, in his stead, Baelor was trying his best to keep up with her goodmother Janyce. Even when he stumbled, he pressed on, and once he rotated to become her dancing partner, she purposefully slowed, to which he gave her a quick but appreciative smile. He did step on her feet more than she would have liked, but it wasn't terrible, so she paid it little mind.
The night grew closer as the feast went on, with more food, drink, singing and dancing lasting well until the final portions of the feast were served. Even with all eyes on her whenever she danced, Mylenda cared little for their stares, smiling and laughing away as she exchanged partners, most often dancing with her husband, and then most perhaps with Baelor or Lord Baratheon. As her feet grew tired from the evening, and she relegated herself more to the head table, she noticed guests were beginning to drop like flies, some having to be carried off by their fellows, either full of food or drink. Fuller than she'd thought, even having restrained herself to small portions of everything she wished to try, Mylenda could not help but have a maid serve her a final slice of pie, the strawberries within reminding her of the ones her grandfather would have picked for her nameday celebrations. It went well with the 'whipped cream' served by another maid from a chilled cask.
"The bedding! Time for the bedding!" a guest cried, perhaps one of the knights, and just as she finished her pie, a small troupe of men rushed up to her. Casper was pulled from her by a similar group, this one of maids and the wives of the many knights and local lords. The shocked shrug he gave her was rather funny, considering just how many ladies were pulling him along, compared to her own posse. It was an… unusual experience, as most of the men pulling her clothes from her were so drunk from the latest rounds of brandy and whiskey, she was certain half had fallen to the ground in a stupor and had been left behind as she was 'escorted' to her new chambers.
Ducking in as a rough pair of hands unexpectedly shoved her backside, she stumbled, only to be caught by her husband Casper, who looked rather surprised at her sudden appearance. The drunk shouts through the door, some of the suggestions bringing a heat to her cheeks, were mercifully muffled by the thick wood as they moved away from it. She also noticed a good deal of them were the voices of ladies, likely the same that had taken her husband up here. "Given how few I saw push you in here, I take it the women who brought me along were apparently not quite as… intoxicated as the men were," he whispered, sounding as tired as she suddenly. Yet his touch, naked now that she noticed, gave her a tingle from her toes to her head. "Well, here we are."
"Yes," Mylenda replied. "Well… shall we?"
"Only if you wish to," her lordly husband whispered.
"Do you not wish to?"
Her sudden fear was immediately brought low by his soft chuckle. "Of course I would wish to lay with my lady wife. I just thought, with how long today has been, that if you were too tired for it, that we could cuddle instead?"
"Cuddling sounds nice," she said. They'd often snuggled up together during their courting, but now she wanted none of that. He opened his mouth to reply, only for her to silence him with her finger. "After we have consummated, husband mine. It is our duty, after all."
With that, he picked her up, amidst giggles from them both, and carried her to his bed.
No, their bed.
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Baelor VIII
He arose groggily, his eyes still heavy and his head aching a bit as he pulled on some simple morning clothes. He'd not slept well last night, a mistake he sought to rectify immediately.
"Too much cider before bed makes for poor sleep," the prince muttered, wiping his eyes. The dreams he had had were rather vivid, like something out of a tale, yet he had no inclination as to if they were prophetic or not. He was unsure if he should worry about a tree playing a banjo, or a turkey walking along the ceilings of the Red Keep. There'd even been one about a talking donkey walking beside a rather large green man, yet the last of his dreams, the one to fade as he awoke, did give him a sense of uncertainty, as it revolved around his sister Daena.
Or, at least, he thought it was Daena. That was what the woman in his dream had called herself, and he certainly saw the resemblance to her, what with the indigo eyes, that confident smile, and her lustrous silver-gold locks. Yet she wasn't the Daena he knew when he had left, but older, as he had been in the dream as well, well into their teens and possibly early twenties. She'd been a gorgeous woman, one he could scarcely believe to be real, with a body that gave him pause even now. 'Daena' been in the process of pulling off their clothes when he'd awoken…
The thought of the action made him blush. He loved his sister, but didn't think of her like that, even if his older brother had said it would be a natural feeling for a Targaryen. Whether it was or not, it mattered little to the prince, as while he'd read of the forbidden nature of such acts in his Seven-Pointed Star, he was just the latest in a long line of such couplings that the Faith had made little issue of since Maegor's time. Perhaps it was not so bad, for the last 'pure' Targaryen had been his great-grandsire King Viserys I, and even then, he was not sure if that was the case, as the Conciliator's mother was technically a Velaryon, as was the Conqueror's mother…
His headache dismissing such errant thoughts, he lifted the covers, and upon moving around, he felt an odd sensation down below. Pulling back the sheets further, he found himself… sticky. What was this? Had he pissed the bed? Sniffing, he detected no such foul odor, but a different one, a musky one at that. What had happened? Girls were known to experience their moonblood and ruin sheets, but he'd heard nothing of boys doing the same. It didn't look like blood, and certainly was not urine, he hadn't wet the bed in years…
He would need to find answers, yet who could he ask? This was more personal than he wanted to admit, and a part of him feared the response of others upon learning of his… condition. Would he be ridiculed or falsely consoled, to keep his mind from something that could be a major problem? Was it some sort of disease he had unknowingly caught whilst completing his project for Lord Baratheon? Who could he go to about this, discreetly, that he trusted?
Lord Wytch, of course! His friend was discreet and would never judge him for such an ailment. As it was still morning, there as a good chance he would be down in the main hall soon. Leaving his bed and dressing himself for the day, he found Ser Thorne ready, seemingly unaffected by the night before. That, or he did a better job of hiding it than a young prince.
"Good morning, my prince. Did you sleep well?" he asked as they left for the main hall.
"Not so much, Ser Thorne. I've decided there is to be no more cider before bed, especially as much as I had last night." Between needing to use the chamber pot and his strange dreams, he'd swear off cider altogether for a suppertime drink.
"Well, that was your first bout with any drink stronger than a child's beer, and you did drink quite a bit. Does your head hurt?"
"A little, but I can manage. Will Casper and his wife be there to break their fast with us?"
"I'm not sure, my prince, but we shall see. It can be considered poor form for the host to not arrive the morning after his wedding, but it is often seen as good luck that he does not so readily leave his marriage bed. A strange contradiction, no doubt, one that I will never have to experience myself."
"Ser Thorne, if you don't mind me asking, how do you handle a headache such a this? It is not terrible, as I feel it would have been had I imbibed a stronger drink, but there must be a way to be rid of it." He didn't want to spend the entire morning with such an ache between his ears.
"Drink plenty of fluids without alcohol in them, my prince, and be sure to eat enough, but not too much. Other than that, it should fade all its own."
To Baelor's immense relief, upon entering the main hall, he saw the new Lord and Lady Wytch seated at the high table, softly discussing something as other guests filed in. The servants were already wheeling out small carts, some of them laden with casks of fresh milk, juice, and herbal teas. Others carried platters of crispy bacon, sausages, sweetbreads and, to his curiosity, pans of yellowish cakes. Upon being seated, he was served a slice.
"An egg cake, my prince," Lord Baratheon said, sitting beside him as everyone began to eat. "I asked one of the maids before you arrived. Eggs are beaten into a bowl, then mixed with herbs, diced ham, chopped vegetables and cheese, and then baked in a pan until ready."
Taking a tentative bite, the prince found it delicious, and finished it just as Lady Wytch began to converse with her new goodmother. Unlike last time, he sought to seize his moment.
"Lord Wytch?" he asked, resisting the urge to tug on the older lord's sleeve as a child would, rather than a prince of three and ten.
"Yes, my prince?" Lord Wytch asked.
"May I ask you something? Something… personal?" he added, lowering his voice after leaning closer.
"I don't see why not." Lord Wytch leaned as well, lending him his ear. "Is something the matter?"
"Last night, I had a strange dream, that of myself when I was older, and a woman who called herself Daena. Daena is my sister, and she looked much like her, only older, and I… I awoke with a weird substance upon my bedsheets after the dream ended. Is it possible that I am having a moonblood?"
Lord Wytch seemed perplexed for a moment. "Boys do not have a moonblood, my prince, not even Targaryens. Was it bloody? Perhaps urine?"
"No, it smelled nothing like that, but I am worried anyway. Is it something I should have the maester investigate? I would not wish to let it be, only for it to turn out to be some foul affliction."
"No, no, I see no reason for that, my prince. It is a perfectly natural thing for a boy your age to be experiencing, as he becomes a man. I know many who didn't have it, yet I know I did a few years ago, and I'm fine yet."
Baelor looked to his friend, confused. "I… I am afraid I don't follow. How can this be natural? I've never heard of anyone else suffering from this malady. Nothing in any of my books mentions such a reaction."
"It is no malady, my prince, nor is it something you should consider yourself as suffering from," his friend replied with a low chuckle. "Others also were unlikely to tell you of this, for they might find it embarrassing. Tell me, in this dream with this older 'Daena', were you excited?"
"Excited how? I was incredibly happy to see her for some reason, especially when she hugged and kissed me, and then she was pulling on our clothes… then I woke up and found my sheets all sticky."
"I see. My prince, as you have heard, girls become women once they begin to have their moonblood. This means that they can start conceiving children, though most lords would wait for them to be a bit older to try, as the maesters say there are great risks for women trying to have children too early in life. Around this age, it is much the same for boys, only for a different reason."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, what do you know of making children?"
"That when two adults copulate, a child can be conceived under the right conditions?" At his friend's look of surprise, he added "I read about it somewhere, I think in the Maiden's portion of the Seven-Pointed Star." He'd usually skipped over the more… detailed parts of his book before, but he'd managed to read them now that he was older. It still left him feeling odd, though.
"I see. Well, it could be said this is the boy's equivalent, as his body is getting ready to be able to help a woman conceive. Not many boys younger than you have children, yes?"
"Likely not. So, boys go through this as they change, as girls do, to get ready to have children?"
"Exactly."
"Then why were my sheets sticky?"
"Merely you were so excited in your dream that you, well, 'released' as you would into a woman. My guess is that your body does not yet know how to fully control such urges, especially under the lull of sleep, but I would not worry too much. It will go away once you are older."
Were he not secretly mortified that he had 'released' at a mere dream, Baelor felt greatly relieved at this new information. To think he'd believed he could have some strange disease! Yet it his friend had had the same when he was his age, and seemed fine, then there was nothing to worry about!
"Thank you, Casper, I feel much better now. I was worried for a moment there, as foolish as that sounds."
"Fret not, Baelor. If ever you should need my advice on such matters, let me know. It seems to me most boys do not wish to talk about it, but you will always have my ear, should you have need of another opinion."
His curiosity now sated, and his worries eased, the prince returned to his food, feeling much better.
Much of the early morning was a mirror of the wedding feast, though far more subdued and quieter. Softer music from lyres and flutes floated through the air as everyone ate, drank, and recovered their strength. Many guests gave additional gifts, or were thanked by the newlyweds for the ones they had received. Several lords, such as the young Lord Wysp, had sent representatives instead of arriving himself, and they were given sealed scrolls for their lords, to discuss further deals in the future. His position at the head table gave Baelor an earful of all of this, and although such dealings had grown to be a fascination of his, especially where development was concerned, the fact there were so many was a bit off-putting. Why did Casper not have his own clerks to handle smaller matters? It seemed a bit inefficient.
As the morning feast wound down and the wedding guests departed for their own lands and keeps, Lord Baratheon had deigned they would spend another night before returning to Storm's End. Baelor, with little else to do but practice, as he had run out of books, went back down to the yard with a bow and quiver. A curious thing, he had discovered, was that whilst his eyes and hands remained steady on the target, his mind could often wander to other matters, something that had become more and more frequent these past few months. Yet it didn't distract him much from his tasks or the accuracy of his bow, so he let it be. Now, thoughts of his dream, of this older 'Daena' filled his mind, unbidden, but not unwanted.
Not so long ago, the temptations of the flesh would have been appalling to him, for the mere thought of carnal relations was sinful to him. Now older and hopefully wiser, he saw the need for it, even if the thought remained a tad distasteful. As he now knew the changes to his body were natural, having seen and learned from Casper, then the changes to his mind, of eventually wanting children of his own, would no doubt come to him as he grew older. He was determined to not fight these, for to not accept the nature of the world, what the gods had given man, would be a tireless and eventually ineffective struggle for him to undertake. It would be better for him to exert his time and energy on tasks that would benefit more than just his perceived piety, for as Casper had shown, the blessings of the gods came to those who performed good deeds through action and ruling, not prayer and fasting. Such a man who had come so far from so little clearly was smiled upon by the gods, so to earn their favor, he would have to do the same as his friend.
How he would do that remained a mystery. He was a prince, and thus had access to wealth most other sons of lords would not, but would anyone listen to him on the matter? Or would they take advantage of his wishes, and seek to enrich themselves with prestige or gold at his expense? He'd seen the lackeys in court, moving between whichever groups they could best use for their own ends. He didn't want that, but he would be forced to be a part of it as a Targaryen, regardless of whatever projects he might be able to convince his family the necessity of. At least Daeron would likely listen to him on the matter, as he could be an encouraging brother when times were hard. He'd gotten Baelor's book back from Aegon's cruel hiding place after all, and he loved more for it.
Yet as a prince, and Daeron's possible heir should the worst come to pass, or his brother's future wife bore no sons, the throne could also fall to him. The thought of suddenly becoming king terrified Baelor more than the prospect of sex ever could, for how could he assume such responsibility? Six kingdoms would fall under his rule, as would the teeming masses that called them home. Kings were expected to be great warriors, philosophers, stewards or at the very least charismatic or strong. Even with his growth these past two years, in both mind and body, he was no natural charmer like his brother, nor a serious politicker like his uncle, or even a fighter like his grandfather Daemon. He was Baelor the 'Blessed', the Pious Prince, and what did he have to offer that would be a boon to his family, rather than a problem? He still recalled the looks and whispers his family had when he was around, or when they thought he wasn't paying attention. Would they even recognize him upon his return? Or would they assume this was just him acting out, as Daena had done whenever she didn't get what she wanted?
Speaking of Daena, why had the woman in his dream called herself that? He had no inkling of who his future bride would be, but if it was to be Daena, then… why? Surely marrying her to Daeron would be a better way of keeping the power within the family, whilst also allowing for a greater degree of alliance with the rest of the kingdoms? Yet there had been no mention in any of his letters from his cousins, nor in the talks he remembered back at the Red Keep, of anything detailing future marriages. Daeron would be married first, surely, and then he would, but to whom?
Emptying his quiver, he surveyed his work. Every arrow, save for the first, lay stuck in the direct center of the target, with the initial being slightly off, as he had failed to account for the wind shifting to a southeasterly direction. Nodding in satisfaction, he motioned for one of the yard servants, who quickly retrieved them for him. With a smile of thanks, he continued his practice, his thoughts once again drifting to other matters. Only this time, rather than his dream, it drifted to his work in the lands right outside of Storm's End.
The completion of his project neared, to where he was certain the land would be producing its first crop of radishes come a few moons from now. Lord Baratheon had allotted him a small sum to hire merchants to scout across the Narrow Sea for such a crop moons ago, which he had through chance found in the possession of some Ibbenese whalers in Braavos. It was a crop they grew in great abundance, given the cold of their island home, and his men had managed to secure enough seeds to sow a field. The care for the crop, the whalers had told his men, was like onions and other such root vegetables. He was grateful they did not need anything else to tend to them, for his men hadn't have the time or funds to learn all about radish farming.
He'd still yet to find anything called 'kale', so for now, he paid it no mind. As for the rest of his project, he'd received the right to settle a group of smallfolk into the buildings that had been used for the workers, some of whom had elected to stay and tend to the land. He had originally thought to settle them with poorer smallfolk from Kings Landing, but his foster father had dissuaded him. Moving smallfolk who didn't know the land to an area on the cusp of winter would be disastrous, and that filling it with Stormlander stock would be wiser for now. Perhaps once it was more settled and thus able to support a wider variety of skills, he had reasoned, to which Lord Baratheon had agreed, but for now, they had allotted just enough smallfolk interested in settling to fill the houses and leave no fields or paddocks unattended.
A curious thing was the smallfolk's reaction to his oversight of the project. By now, his 'Blessed' moniker had spread from Lowhill and Wytch lands, and the smallfolk near Storm's End had been all too eager to ask for the same blessings he had 'bestowed' upon people elsewhere. He'd blessed several marriages, more than one nameday, and even had said a few words at the funeral of an old woodswitch who had apparently been born during the early reign of the Conciliator himself. Yet the most striking thing was what the smallfolk were beginning to call the settlement he had inadvertently made simply to house his workers: Prince's Point, so named for the large jutting rock that served as part of the hill overlooking the farm fields. It was here that Baelor had had the manorly house and a watchtower built, with the remainder of the buildings trailing along or slowly down the gentle slope of the hill's far side. Should he be given other such projects, would the smallfolk likewise begin naming them for him? A small part of him liked that idea, of leaving behind a legacy that would long outlast him. Yet, even as he thought of that, some other part of him thought it was a bit too… self-glorifying, of looking to leave a legacy for one's own sake. Not long after befriending Casper, he had become determined to mimic his friend, so that any legacy he would leave would be for the smallfolk and lords alike, not for his own sense of self.
Even with that in mind, the fact that his project was finally ending gave him a sense of accomplishment he'd frankly rarely had. Only his improving skill with the bow and axe in the training yard were comparable. Baelor loved this feeling, a deep satisfaction of a task completed successfully, and despite the weary nature of it, he looked forward to his next trial. What would Lord Baratheon have him be a part of this time?
As he emptied his quiver once more, he turned to see Lord Wytch approaching him, a look on his face that immediately told him something was not right.
"Yes, Casper? What is it? Is everything all right?" A lump was forming in his stomach that he could not explain.
His friend seemed to be in a state of shock. "My prince, we've received word from Storm's End. A raven was sent shortly after our arrival last night, and it came just this morning. Lord Baratheon is keeping the news from the remaining guests, but all will know soon enough, for surely the ravens have flown from the Red Keep to elsewhere."
"What has happened?" Unbidden, Baelor gingerly pulled Casper into a hug, anguish beginning to arise in the lump in his belly. No, no, something was wrong…
"Your father, the king… he is dead. It was his consumption, by all accounts, and he passed away last night in his sleep. I am sorry, my prince."
A/N: in all honesty, there wasn't much the SI could do for the Dragonbane. Tuberculosis/consumption was historically a bitch to treat all the way until relatively recently, so unless they were able to pull some magic out of nowhere to fix it, he wasn't going to recover from it. Also, we're almost near the end of this arc, then it's back to Dorne for big, big things. Stay tuned!
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