Chapter 7: Maester Gorman II

153 AC

Lowhill was not a large settlement by any means, at least not yet. The sprawling nature of many often made them seem larger than what they were, such as in Oldtown or Kings Landing, for many structures were not purposefully built with structural integrity in mind. Here, in Lowhill, this was not the case, as every building had been thus planned for verticality, so as to use less space and allow for later expansion without the need to destroy old portions of the town to do so. Too often towns or cities would face a period of growth and decline, with the old portions being abandoned by most folk and becoming the refuge of the homeless and the nefarious. Lowhill, for its youth, would only benefit from remaining small and expanding as needed. Case in point, the newest and most extensive building to be made, far from any current development, but in time would be surrounded by it.

The walls were the first thing to come up for the building, fairly big ones too, given the multiple tiers it would bear, the framework reminiscent to some of the buildings he had stayed in at the Citadel. To withstand both weather and cold, they were to be thick, especially around whatever entrances there were to be made, and even thicker around whatever windows would be carved out. It was to be a dormitory, if he recalled correctly, though these were not sequestered high in the structure of the tower itself, and had the room to expand in ways that would likely not make it feel near as cramped. In fact, it seemed to combine several such locations into one, adding features to make it far more self-sustaining, and dare he say, practical. Lord Wytch seemed to favor efficiency and practicality over grandiose statements meant to awe, at any rate.

The layout was rather mundane, though served a clear purpose. His lord had detailed that the building would be divided into three main aspects, with those three further divided to make seven total, with identical layouts on each floor. On the bottommost level, one room would be the beds of the engineers, separated by thin but sturdy walls, where every man would have his own small room. Moving down the hall, they would enter what Casper had called the 'common room' for everyone, attached to which the kitchen and storerooms would be. Finally, a pair of opposite rooms, one a library and the other a collective study, would form the last of the building's base structures. Any rooms further levels up had yet to be determined, but as the numbers of men employed here expanded, the living quarters, among others, would need to be expanded.

In addition, the outbuildings, such as several storehouses, a large garden, what Casper had called a fitness area, and a series of smaller buildings, mostly habitation for the smallfolk who manned the facility, had all already been completed. No sense in building something when the means of supporting it had not yet been achieved. He had seen lords do this and wind up running out of funds, turning a promising project into a money pit, or worse, an unfinished piece of work that went to waste. As it were, there preparations of Lord Wytch were not only necessary, but practical to a point where it gave him an odd sense of pride.

This all would serve as the basis for the Stormhall Engineering Corps, or S.E.C. as Casper called it. An odd name, but it fit the description of the future building's purpose. Eventually, with the hiring of additional masons and workers during the seasonal periods, all manner of construction could commence in Wytch lands, starting in Lowhill and radiating out from there. Roads, bridges and the like would be redone in size and durability, to where eventually no road in Wytch lands would be a dirt one, save for those in the forests to the north and east.

One of the more important aspects was the large furnace within the grounds of the future facility. Here, thanks to his designs and his lord's approval, batches of Wytch-stone would soon be made every day, so long as the supplies had not run out, the primary being their current source of fuel. This would replace the current, smaller furnace used in Stormhall itself, as the fire risk had been deemed too great to both expand the size and number of furnaces and continue operation within the structure itself. With the furnace now set to be separate from all else, a fire would not destroy everything, making rebuilding a quicker affair.

Granted, making the stuff would take far longer than utilizing it, and the list of things that would be using the strange creation was ever-growing, so work would tend to be a slow but steady progress. Already, they'd been mixing and firing batch after batch, sealing it in large clay pots. They'd tried barrels and cloth bags, but moisture would always seem to seep in, turning it into piles of lumpy rocks or worse, one big lumpy rock. For now, kiln-fired pots seemed to be the way to go, and even now, the storehouse that had just been finished was ironically built out of the very same Wytch-stone it was storing.

"It is… unusual, but not without merit, given its intended purpose," Ser Buckler said, as the local masons directed the workers. "It would likely not have the strength of stone itself, making it rather ill-suited for certain types of castles, but its potential uses more than likely make up for that. What is the next building after these are completed?"

In the weeks since his arrival, Ser Buckler had proven himself to be an intelligent if shortsighted man, and while he was no doubt could easily understand something, he seemed rather impatient at times. Even if he were only here to aid in Lord Baratheon gaining an insight into the proper running of the crop rotation changes, there was an undercurrent of a more personal, unknown reason. Using this knowledge for the benefit of his own family, perhaps? Or for that of his lord? Hard to say, and Lord Wytch had mentioned not to make anything of it unless something potentially problematic were to arise.

"The sept of Lowhill," he replied. As religious as any man, Maester Gorman knew that appeasing the masses of smallfolk with a sept would cement the Wytch name for generations. While there were no plans to make it as large or ornate as that of the Starry Sept of Oldtown, the sept of Highgarden, or even the ruined sept of Kings Landing that Maegor had burned near a century ago, it would likely be the greatest for leagues around. Sponsoring the construction of one would also win over the Faith even more than young Casper already had. Gods, any more goodwill and some lords might think he was trying to earn a saintly moniker before his majority.

He did sometimes worry for his young lord. He put in more work than most men twice his age, and seemed to work even when he wasn't. Perhaps it was trying to make up for the work his father would have accomplished, were it not for his untimely death?

"A sept?" Ser Buckler asked. "A fairly ambitious construction for a young house and an even younger lord."

"Weren't we all filled with such dreams at his age?" he asked, with a touch of melancholy. "I'd dreamed of being a knight myself, but in the end my father determined my skills with the blade were worth far less than my skills with books and counting coppers. So, to the Citadel I went, and that was where I stayed until my arrival in Stormhall."

"My father thought much the same, though I was at least able to attain knighthood," the castellan replied, rather snootily at that. "Still, my position as my liege lord's castellan does offer me a chance to serve my liege, even if far from a battlefield. So then, this sept, what does he plan to do with it?"

"Well, aside from the various aspects of a traditional sept, Lord Wytch has determined there will be seven seven-sided buildings connected together to form it, a sevenfold blessing if you will. It'll likely be the largest single section of the town, with the Engineer facility likely a close second. There's to be a library tower, the sept itself, a small septry and motherhouse, a large medicinal herbarium, a small hospital, and what Lord Wytch calls a primary school."

"Primary school? As in for children?"

"Indeed, he mentioned that such a building would be run by the septas, to provide a basic education to the smallfolk of the town, or at least to the children of whose parents can afford it. I'd advised him against it being free, the children that will be taught mustn't be simple farmers or shepherds, but merchants, blacksmiths, crofters, those with skills that could only be improved with an education. He eventually relented, mind you, but it was contentious for a time there."

"What would be taught that the smallfolk could actually use?" Ser Buckler asked.

"Primarily their letters and numerals, but there is also a gymnastics course that focuses on maintaining a healthy body, a religious course for a healthy spirit, and a mild history course of these lands, as well as those of the Stormlands proper. Very simple, mind you, compared to what a lord or lady is taught, but it does offer opportunities for the more valuable smallfolk to better themselves. There's even be talk of a few classes for adults, taught by the septons, for those interested and with the coin to spare, tradesmen and the like."

"The cost of this?"

"Nothing too extravagant even for smallfolk, but enough to deter the lowly and retain those with skills. All of the proceeds go to the sept itself, to pay for the material needs of those dwelling within. Anything additional is donated to aid in running a soup kitchen, specifically at Casper's request, even though the septons wanted it to go to him, as a show of their gratitude."

"The smallfolk will love him for that, few lords notice the plight of the hungry until they are knocking at the door."

"Indeed," he said, pointing to area near Stormhall itself. "Now then, I believe you wished to see the beginning of his main distillery, atop that small hill? The barley crop for the 'whiskey' is nearly ready for harvest."

"Indeed. Where is Lord Wytch, anyways?"

"Off on a jaunt towards the lands near his borders. It seems that his scouts have found something of note near the spot his father was mortally wounded."

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Stormlanders IV

Catching the men by surprise had worked in their favor, most being out of their armor and drinking away their misbegotten gains. The camp, however, was far too fresh to have been that of the miscreants responsible for Morden Wytch's mortal wounding. It wasn't what his lord had been looking for, but Roland knew that any justice that was to be done would have to be at his lord's own hands. It seemed that whomever these bandits owed their allegiance to, they'd no longer felt the service was paying enough, and had resorted to other tricks to unlawfully gain whatever they had desired.

As it turned out, this had including holding up a band of merchants moving from Lord Craggner's lands into his lord's, claiming they were simply 'collecting the tolls owed to Lord Craggner' for safe passage out of his lands. Unlikely, given that this wasn't in that lord's lands to begin with, but then again, bandits could be as intelligent as they were clean.

Not at all.

There had been a dozen of the men, Stormlanders all, but now there were only seven, the others killed in the fighting as he and his men had descended upon them. Off to the side, his young lord was retching behind a tree. Thirteen was a young age to kill a man, even if they'd deserved it.

"My lord?" he asked.

Young Casper waved him off, the last wave of coughs ending. "I'll be fine, Roland, I'll be fine. Just… didn't expect that at all."

His lord hadn't vomited at the killing, but in the aftermath, after realizing there were bits of brain matter in his hair. Not many lords he knew used flails, and the heavy one Casper had been flinging around had certainly ended the bandit whose brains and skull had splattered everywhere. Of the seven bandits, most of them looked rather resigned to their fates. They'd clearly been dodging the law for some time, going by the professional setup they'd had, but now… they knew what awaited them. A few, however, seemed indifferent to their situation.

"We'll start with the first one," he said, motioning to the armsmen. The burly Stormlanders dragged the man forward, none too gently, and threw him before Lord Wytch.

"Your name?" Lord Wytch asked.

"Ain't tellin' ya."

He moved forward to strike the man for his impudence, but Lord Wytch waved him off. "Come now, let's not start things like this," the young man said, rather amicably. "I am Casper of House Wytch, lord of these lands and vassal to Lord Royce Baratheon. What is your name?"

"Like I said, ain't tellin' ya."

"Well then, that's a shame, I'll just have to think of one for you. I know, what about Robin? You look like a Robin to me. So then, Robin, why did you think to collect another lord's tolls in my lands?"

"We was just doin' our job."

"Banditry is not a job, Robin, those are temporary, and I believe it's more of a lifestyle for someone like you. So then, you were looking to charge tolls. This is new, I must admit, I've yet to hear of merchants being charged for passing into or from my lands. I certainly never instituted such a rule, nor has anyone under my command done so."

"Lord Craggner's collectin' tolls, simple as that," the thief replied.

"Indeed, I'll have to write him on the matter, see if you're actually his toll collectors or just some robbers. Now, again, why in my lands? If Lord Craggner wanted his tolls, would he not make sure the collectors stayed in his borders?"

"Ain't talkin' no more."

"I see," Lord Wytch said, motioning to the burly armsmen. They dragged the man back to the others, and dragged a different one forward.

The conversation was much the same with this one, only he didn't say a word, merely spitting on Lord Wytch's boot. For that, he would have kicked the man in the gut, but his lord, again, seemed to pay it no mind. The next, however, was not going to be like his friends.

Roland winced at the sight of him. The man was splattered in the gore of one of his fellows, and looked about to faint, trembling like a leaf in an autumn storm.

"Your name?" Casper asked, wiping his boot on some grass.

"Royce, milord."

"Ah, a name! Good. Now, Royce, how much does Lord Craggner value your lives?"

"What?"

"Banditry comes with a price, Royce. Now, will Lord Craggner vouch for your services, and declare this an easily-settled misunderstanding, or are you all lying and merely trying to find an excuse to get off lightly?"

"No, milord, Lord Craggner hired us he did, swear on the Maiden herself," the man said.

"I see," Lord Wytch said. "Now then, this puts me in a quandary, Royce. You see, you and your fellows may be who you claim to be, which puts you as men of my neighboring lord. Now, I don't know about you, but most lords tend to hold onto their hired help quite tightly, especially if they are the capable sort. Hard to find talented men these days, so I've heard. Due to this, I don't wish to execute you outright, as that might cause me trouble. Yet I cannot just let you go, you were trespassing and attempting what could be called banditry in more ways than one. So, I'll tell you what I'll do."

"Yes, milord?"

"I'll send word to Lord Craggner. If your story is sound and he vouches for you, I will see you and your fellows suffer a befitting punishment, and I'll pay a fine for killing the men who fought back. However, if he declares you to be in no service of him, and mere bandits, well, things will get worse for you lot, as lying to a lord and falsely claiming employment carry with them a great number of punishments. To think nothing of what else your banditry has cost me and my smallfolk."

"We work for him, swear on the Maiden, milord."

"As you've already said. So, for the time being, you seven shall be my guests in Stormhall. My dungeons are rather empty, but somewhat cozy, considering the alternative."

"That bein', milord?"

"I have you dig your own graves here, kill you all, and bury you without so much as marking where you lay. Quite simple, don't you think?"

The sound of liquid pouring greeted his ears, and Roland suppressed a smirk. The bandit had pissed his breeches, and judging from the looks of a few of his fellows, they had as well.

"Good, I think we understand each other," Lord Wytch said, patting Royce alongside the face.

Motioning to the armsmen, Lord Wytch moved back to his mount as his men grabbed and bound the men together, forming a line behind one of the pack mules they'd been using. Anything else that had been found was being collected and sorted by the trackers with them, be it coin, weapons or whatever else struck as having some value to it. It was a long walk back to Stormhall, but they'd likely make it within two days. As young Casper put it, plenty of time to admire the scenery and make plans for the future.

"Milord, why not execute them?" Roland asked, moving his mount alongside his lord's.

"I know I could, that I have every right to, but that wouldn't give me answers," Lord Wytch replied, a rather… cunning look in his eyes. "Dead men tell no tales, Roland, or at least they don't unless you know how to question them. Lord Craggner was at odds with my father, the Dornish moving through his lands into mine were set upon by bandits, and now, men claiming to be his toll collectors try to do so in my lands? It reeks of connections that should not be, a conspiracy if you will."

"What will you do?"

"Hold them, and play this out. If Lord Craggner indeed hired these men, I'll see them summarily punished but released back into his custody. If not, well, the Wall could always use some more recruits, or barring that, an example to be made to the smallfolk. In either regard, it'll be a setback for Lord Craggner, and a boon for me and mine."

"Apologies, milord, I don't follow."

Lord Wytch smiled. "If these are just bandits, there will be no questions as to why they were on my lands. Such is the way of bandits, moving from safe place to another, much like schools of fish of herds of wild goats. Yet their claim means that they somehow know of Craggner's toll collection, meaning his hall is possibly compromised and thus he potentially employs untrustworthy men, men who could tell secrets of his or that of lords he knows. However, if they are indeed Craggner's, then there will be questions from his other neighbors, as to why his men were trespassing. Just as well, they might even ask themselves if they too must look to their borders to make sure such coin isn't being pocketed by their neighbor."

"So in either case, Lord Craggner will lose face, or perhaps even face questions himself, should word of this get out," Roland finished. "A cunning plan, my lord, but I must remind you that Stormlords tend not to settle matters so underhandedly. Lord Craggner may call for a trial by arms if his situation is exposed, or threatened to be."

Lord Wytch was silent for a few moments. "What would be my odds of winning, by your estimate?"

"Against Craggner himself? Not likely, as he is more than two decades your senior, and has the accrued skill of that many more years. However, dueling a lord as young as you could be seen as dishonorable and even dangerous, as most lords would be unlikely to support actions taken by a man willing to fight what would be seen as a child. The chance that you could beat him is also to be considered, as losing to such a young man and young lord could lose him respect and prestige he has managed to accrue thus far."

"Then what of his bastard, the one sharing your namesake?"

"I know little of Roland Storm, but if he is in the personal guard of his father, then he is perhaps skilled enough to be so, or conversely, placed there by matter of his birth. Either could be the truth, or perhaps neither."

"Then we'll have to find out which is the case, as if Lord Craggner does call for a trial by combat, his most likely champion will be his bastard."

"Aye, my lord."

"Then I'll just have to train harder in the yard, to be ready if that time comes. Tell me, how well do you know the quarterstaff?"

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Ore Town was a rather suitable reflection of the lands of the Windhill line. Old, craggy, never very prosperous, but never short on supply or good cheer when it called for it. A tough life, to be sure, but one filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Jon Windhill knew his family's history eerily mirrored young Lord Wytch's. His original progenitor, one Argillac Windhill, had been the youngest son of the Durrandon king of the time, and had earned his own fief for slaying seven bandit kings marching out of Dorne, or so the stories went. An early start to their fortunes had been the discovery of readily-available ores in their mines, and the beginning of the long line of mining towns throughout their mountainous region, some continuous ones as old as the Windhill line itself, and others as distant a memory as the rains from years before.

From atop the battlements of his keep of Windhall, he had an excellent view over the town and its surrounding mines, roads and what scraggly pastures supported his herds of sheep this high into the hills. Enough that the beasts never went hungry, but never enough to support the kinds of herds that the lower lands could. Further out, well past the boundaries of the towns, and far lower into the open plains, lay the farms that supported the entirety of his lands. A green carpet that stretched to the northern horizon, he had thought that everything had been done to improve the yields.

Now, though, he knew differently.

The very first plow and seed drill had been put to work, bringing the fallow fields back into production. However, with it being so late into the season, planting normal crops had been determined to be unlikely to succeed. Instead, as Lord Wytch had mentioned, growing clover for his sheep had been selected for the first few fields.

Then they'd run out of clover seed. Laughable, given that it was not to feed his people, but in more worrisome times, such a lack of foresight could be costly. After some discussion, cabbage had been selected for the replacement crop, growing quickly and, as luck would have it, likely coming into its own as the harvest season drew near. With luck, they could store and feed it to the sheep as well as the clover, should they run out of room for it for themselves.

He'd seen the notes on the matter from Lord Wytch, after venturing to Stormhall a short time ago to thank him in person for the rocking chair, and to discuss the known older lords he might be able to sell the device to. After, Lord Wytch had taken him aside and gone over the specifics of the crop rotation, and unless he'd been fouling up the numbers for a great many years, the increase he'd have on his own lands would be substantial. Enough, perhaps, to no longer need to import food during droughts or poorer years. Such a notion would have surely pleased his father, had the man still lived.

That, of course, had not been all they'd spoken of. The first shipments of worked iron were heading to the forges of Stormhall, ready to be turned into the iron plows needed to expand farmland in both lands. A great deal of copper, already smelted and refined enough to be shaped however, was also on its way for the distillery expansion. He'd sampled a taste of the aged whiskey Lord Wytch had made years before, and while it burned worse than anything he'd tried in his life, the pleasant warmth in his chest and the wonderful aged flavor had seen him purchase three barrels of the concoction. Lord Wytch had, however, warned him of its potency, and the possible problems that could arise from drinking too much of it. As he was not looking forward to drinking himself to death, a very real possibility with this stronger brew, he'd promised to only drink it on occasion, and not every night.

Jon thought back to the plans back in his solar, ones drawn up by the young lord as a courtesy and thanks for the newest shipment of coal on its way to Stormhall. With the often steady winds afflicting his lands, the building of the windmill outside of Ore Town had been a priority long since completed by his ancestors. Certainly, replacing pieces and parts, or even the entire structure itself, had been a generational task, sometimes only needing to be completed once a century. Now, though, with plans for wind-driven bellows for the forges and some kind of wind-powered 'conveyor' for the mines to remove excess water or transport ore to the surface, much of it courtesy of Casper's maester, it seemed brighter days were ahead for Ore Town and the Windhills alike.

"Grandfather."

"Yes, Mylenda?" he asked, turning to his heir.

"The maester and I have been going over the road to be built from Stormhall to our own keep. While Lord Wyt-, I mean, my betrothed, has taken to covering the costs of its construction, I am curious as to how many of our smallfolk will be included in the project, or if our neighbors will make issue of it. Road building is expensive, and if Lord Wytch has a way to complete the process faster, and make the roads better, then he will likely be approached by other lords to do the same for them. Or, they might send out for men who have worked on them, looking to bribe the workers to do the same for them."

"Aye, it's a possibility that young Casper has found something to speed up the process," he agreed. "Just as other lords might look to poach his experienced men. Yet, worry not, Mylenda, for while they may know what to do in building the road, the smallfolk will have little idea what to do other than that. The grading, the slope, the correct use of materials, it would all be lost on them, I believe. Fret not, if all goes well, then by your wedding, our lands will be near as prosperous as his, thanks to our future joining of houses."

"I see," she said. "Will it hurt?'

"Will what hurt, sweetling?"

"The bedding? The ladies mentioned the ceremony during that merchant's wedding you oversaw, but I'd been too tired and had gone to bed before the end of the feast. The maester explained it, as did the septa, but they were never married themselves."

He suddenly wished for a glass of whiskey, a big one. Gods, he wasn't cut for this, this was the talk of the women in his life now long gone, but by the gods, this was his granddaughter, he would do right by her as best he could. "Hard to say if it will, your grandmother, gods bless her soul, would have known more about this than I. Your mother too, I gather."

"Yet they are gone," she said, without a tremble of her lips. She was strong, having lost the former before her second nameday, and the latter not long after that.

"Aye, they are, but from what I can recall, do not worry about it," he said. "You're a Windhill, a strong girl, and likely to be an even stronger woman. Some lords are as gruff in all facets as they seem, but others, well, young Casper does not seem to be that sort. He'd have likely not been on my candidate list for you if I suspected him of being the straying or malicious kind. I doubt he will force you once the time comes, and who knows? Perhaps you both will enjoy it."

She shrugged. "Perhaps."

"Now, then, would you like to see the new windmill plans? They're in my solar."

Mylenda nodded with a smile. Sharp when it came to her numbers, for sure.