Chapter 9: Maester Gorman III

Late 153 AC

The mood of the sky had grown to match the feeling in the town. Where before it had been a bright and sunny day, with a cheerful disposition, now an ill wind blew in from the east, and sickly clouds hovered at the barest edge of the distance horizon. The sounds of the surrounding lands had seemingly vanished, from the mooing cattle and the bleating sheep to the sounds of construction and the low rumble of smallfolk tending to their tasks. Lowhill was not a large enough town to yet afford walls, meaning there was little defense against someone just riding into it with ill intent. Case in point, the odious intrusion of a neighbor was one the local guard was, for the time, unable to stop, and judging from the disparity in arms and armor, likely one they were unwilling to do without a great deal of aid. The mood in the town market was tense, a thick miasma of hostility permeating the air itself. Not a man had a drawn weapon yet, be it sword or bow, but the potential for bloodshed was there all the same, and it truly would be a bloody fight. The smallfolk had retreated to a safe distance, none standing in the way of the group of men before them, many peering from the relative safety of their homes.

Lord Craggner had his men, perhaps thirty in total, surround the exits of the manor containing Lady Wytch and her two daughters, though none had tried to enter its grounds. if these scoundrels were not silent, then they were jeering, either at the Wytch guards or at the Wytch family itself. The guards with the family were far too few to defend against an overwhelming assault, but they were grim-faced Stormlanders all, ready and willing to do what needed to be done for their liege lord's lady mother and sisters. They would likely all be dead before the ladies could be so much as touched, and even outnumbered, their arms and armor were nothing to scoff at.

The sound of marching feet brought attention away from the milling troops. From the slopes leading to Stormhall came Lord Wytch and as many men as he could muster on such short notice, among them the prisoners that had begun this entire debacle, all bound but otherwise unharmed. Craggner had more knights with him, but Lord Wytch had over thrice as many men, and even with some being only dressed in greaves and chainmail coats, they had many crossbows with them. It would seem that Roland's assessment of Arstan's usefulness was not quite accurate, and judging from the sudden wariness of the opposing lord and his men, this gamble had suddenly taken a far, far different turn. Any new house might try to appease their offending yet prestigious house, to avoid some sort of feud, but Casper was taking no chances it seemed. Blood feuds had developed over lesser events than this.

"Lord Craggner," a partially armored Lord Wytch called from his horse, his calm voice carrying rather well for a boy of three and ten. "I would have gladly invited you into my hall to discuss the matter of the men I have with me, with offers of bread and salt to boot, as my letter dictated. Why have you come to Lowhill, with a panoply of knights bearing arms against me and my kin?"

"My men bear no arms for a fight, they are merely armed for their own protection, as my personal guard," Lord Craggner replied with an unsightly smile, theatrically looking up and down his gathered troops. "They have done no wrong, and I, as their lord, have done no wrong either. Besides, what gives you, some petty upjumped lordling, the right to kill and detain my men? Looks to me that we have an overreaching boy who knows nothing of what it means to be a lord, but instead feels it within his power to be a strongarming thug and murderer."

"I am no such monster, for the same right you have to defend your lands and smallfolk from the predations of an unjust cause is one I share, as given to my father upon his swearing as lord of these lands, by witness and permission of Lady Elenda Baratheon years ago," came his lord's reply. "Your men, as you admit they are, were illegally bearing arms and occupying my lands, exacting harsh tolls from merchants that were no longer under your protection or jurisdiction. Do you deny this?"

"No, they ventured a bridge too far, yet that does not give you the right to kill and imprison men sworn to my house. Sending them on their way after educating them on their error, and relieving them of the misbegotten tolls, but not slay and imprison them."

"Such a right is just when they are suspected of being bandits, and reacted accordingly. Even if they had not known they were in the wrong lands, surely seeing men bearing my banner would have given them the time to raise your own? Sought a peaceful reconciliation, rather than immediately going for their arms? they did not react as poor, lost soldiers might, but as a hostile force. I could not risk my men attempting to calm them when they immediately acted in violence."

"How can I be sure you did not set upon them immediately, and not give them the chance to do so? Ambush them when they were in the process of determining their whereabouts?"

"Your banner was not found amongst their possessions, there is evidence of their camp within the area for far longer than being merely a 'lost patrol' along our border, and their own confessions may suffice for their actions."

Lord Craggner sneered. "Under duress of torture, no doubt, ad the banner was likely lost to your care. Why should I accept your word as anything but the lies of an upjumped brat from a line of upjumped bastards?"

"Lord Craggner!" Ser Buckler called out, marching through the crowds of soldiers until he stood by Lord Wytch's side. Even if not dressed for battle, the man carried himself with a great deal of authority, as bestowed upon him by his lord paramount. "What is the meaning of this?"

"I have come to claim what are rightfully my men, and to put a stop to this travesty of justice. This boy," he added, pointing at Casper, "has done me and my house wrong with his actions, and I seek justifiable restitution."

"Despite your claim to have come to settle this peacefully, you've the men for more than just protection. Some would say you have come fit for battle."

"You can never be too careful these days, Ser Buckler. Morden Wytch perished in his own lands from a lack of protection, I myself will not fall victim to the same issue. It takes a great deal of skill and good breeding to prepare against such dangers, of which it would seem the former Lord Wytch lacked in both."

"How did you come by my lands so quickly?" Lord Wytch asked, admirably ignoring the insults thus far.

"As a courtesy, from one far more experienced lord to a boy masquerading as one, patrols are important in one's lands, even when at peace. My men and I received barely a passing glance from the smallfolk, and met no one to challenge us on our journey here. Besides, even though I've not been in these lands before," he added, his grin growing from dangerously smug to downright malicious. "It's so easy to get turned around in unfamiliar lands. I had sent a messenger ahead, perhaps he was waylaid by the same bandits that ended your upjumped father?"

"Enough!" called Ser Buckler, his anger as evident as anyone's. Surprisingly, Lord Wytch didn't seem angry, his face remaining rather placid, but even from his spot, Maester Gorman could tell that the lad was gripping his reigns with every ounce of strength. "You overstep your lordly bounds, Craggner. Gallivanting uninvited into another lord's lands is far removed from your lordly rights, or anyone's for that matter. Were this another lord's town, this would lead to a blood feud at minimum, or a war at worst!"

"No more than the unlawful seizure of another lord's men, and besides, Lord Wytch just said we were invited," his bastard Roland Storm called, to some jeers from his fellows. "We just happened to arrive sooner than expected, the bread and salt are not even here yet. What kind of host does not have those prepared for such illustrious guests?"

"Ser Buckler, I must reiterate, this is a mere disagreement betwixt neighbors, nothing to concern Lord Baratheon over," Craggner added, casting a glance to his son.

"It hardly seems to be the case," was Buckler's reply. "Keep the king's peace, and be off back to your lands. Lord Baratheon will know of this, one way or another."

"I shall not break the peace, but I'll not leave until I've my men, and the payment for the deaths of those in my service."

"You shall have your men after they have received the justice due to them. Banditry on another lord's lands is a serious crime."

"They've no such crime against them, merely your unreliable word against mine own. They were simply misdirected and lost, and set upon by an ujumped little lordling with something to prove."

For all the insults, Gorman was impressed by Lord Wytch's lack of heated response. Yet, he could tell from his posture, the boy was reaching a tipping point. "If they will not receive justice from me," his lord said, after a few moments of silence, "then you must pay recompense for the cost of their actions. Not only were merchants tolled unjustly, others decided to turn back, rather than lose their goods, costing me trade."

"I gladly shall, only after they've been returned to me. I've even taken the liberty of determining it beforehand, if you proved reasonable," he said, hefting a small bag of clinking coins. "I'm surprised you are, in all honesty."

"They shall be returned only after my family and their guards are released from your siege."

"Siege? Ha!" Craggner cried, theatrically throwing back his head and giving a false laugh. "What siege engines do you see here, boy? What ramparts, what ditches, what defenses against a sally? My men have yet to draw a single weapon, yet you treat them as if they've been trying to break down the doors this entire time!"

"Release them," Lord Wytch said quietly, barely heard across the market square. "Or your house ends this day."

"Is that a threat?" the lord's bastard replied, striding the line between fabricated outrage and sneering jest, unintimidated by the boy's words. The raising and cocking of a great number of crossbows, their gears clacking like so many raindrops upon a tiled roof, however, took much of his bravado.

"Nay, I don't make threats. I make promises, bastard."

Silence for a few more moments reigned, before Lord Craggner made a motion with his hand. His knights moved away from the manor, all looking rather pleased with themselves. Several of the Wytch knights, with a nod from their liege, moved to the manor, their passage temporarily blocked by sneering Craggner men before they parted way and allowed them passage.

The intensity of the scene lessened slightly as the guards within the manor followed out, closely packed around Lady Wytch and her two daughter, the latter of whom seemed in a frightful state, softly crying at the men towering over them. Soft jeers and ugly looks from the Craggner men followed them as they passed by, some making crude gestures or pretending to spit at the fleeing forms, earning laughs from their fellows.

Dismounting, Lord Wytch pulled his lady mother in for a hug upon them reaching the safety of his troops, before doing the same for his little sisters, fiercely whispering to them as they began to cry in earnest. His mother, after a moment, disengaged their reunion and moved deeper within the lines of soldiers, the men letting them pass with nods or quick bows. Maester Gorman knew it would be best to check on them later, perhaps give the children small doses of dreamwine if they could not find sleep tonight, but for now, he moved up to his lord's side.

"Now, for my men," Lord Craggner said. "Before I change my mind."

Without a word, Casper remounted his horse and, handed the rope biding the lead prisoner, slowly moved towards the center of the market, flanked by two of his most skilled knights.

Lord Craggner's bastard, without guard, moved forward as well, meeting them in the middle.

"Don't try this again," the bastard said, with a fierce grin, as Lord Wytch handed over the rope. "Else we'll raze your hall with your family inside it, and make you watch before we behead you."

"Threaten me or my family again," Lord Wytch said, "And I won't kill you, not quickly, at least."

"Oh?" the bastard said, arching an eyebrow as he turned to leave. "How so? Poison? That seems so unlike a true Stormlander. But then again, you're just some upjumped smallfolk, whose stain will never leave and whose blood will always be no better than mud."

"If I were a betting man, I'd give you one day, your father perhaps two, he seems the stronger of the pair." Without another word, Lord Wytch turned around and left. The bundle of coins in the bastard's hands were thrown to the dusty ground, and gingerly, as the former prisoners were led off to spare mounts, Maester Gorman picked it up.

Rejoining Lord Wytch, he looked up from counting the bag of gold. "My liege?" he asked as Lord Craggner and his men left, turning their backs without another word, the tension in the area bleeding as they did so.

"Yes, maester?" Lord Wytch asked, his tone unusually soft, almost a whisper, like a serpent sliding through grass.

"What… what did you mean by how long they'd last?"

"Maester, it is up to a lord to decide the punishment of criminals, is it not?"

"For his lands, yes, though within reason."

"Other than war, what would be a valid reason to see a man suffer as long as possible until he expires?"

"Gods, I'm not sure," he muttered. There had been books on the matter in his time at the Citadel, but it was different in every kingdom, and even so in differing portions of those same lands. "Whatever the lord deems necessarily harsh a crime?"

"That was what I thought," Lord Wytch said, waving his fist. The great host of men began to move back up towards Stormhall, a large rearguard keeping an eye on Craggner's disappearing cadre. "This was no assault of men, but an intimidation act, maester. He came not to harm me, but to damage my credibility, to make me appear weak before my men and his own, to show that my new status and favor gives him no pause in his disdain for my house's origins. He cares not that I am a lord as much as he is. Come, maester, we've work to do, preparations to make."

"Preparations for what, my lord?"

"For war."

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Kings Landing I

The heat rolling off of the Red Keep was especially stifling that day, so it was a great thing that the cool breeze from off Blackwater Bay filtered into the various rooms within, easing the burden upon those inside. Namely among them was the brother and Hand of the King, Prince Viserys, who sighed as he looked over the messages come through that day. Pirates off the Stepstones disrupting shipping between the Free Cities and Kings Landing, a sickness plaguing the Iron Isles, a food shortage amongst the Riverlords still trying to rebuild their devastated farmland, Dornish lords raising the tariffs on select goods because of a boom in local production, word of Lord Royce Baratheon beginning to plant fallow fields, there was just so much to take in, and so much to deal with. Being Hand of the King was much like being king, he supposed, though without the glamour, the final say and with a great deal of scrutiny that a king usually managed to avoid.

It fell to him to deal with the issues of the kingdoms, for his brother had been struck with an even greater bout of resolute melancholy than usual, and had sealed himself within his chambers. How to get through to him had never materialized, for on some days, not even the queen could reach her despondent husband, a rarity given how she had been the only one to gain his favor in that great catastrophe of a ball all those years ago. Convincing the man to eat was a challenge enough, even for him, and his nieces and nephews seemed as troubled as he was over their father's actions. Certainly, the 'Broken King' was a malicious, yet rather direct description of Aegon III, and while his children grew used to it, it certainly did not help their growing personalities.

Case in point, much to the annoyance of the grand maester, young Daeron had snuck off from his lessons on the histories of the Reach and Westerlands to train with the Kingsguard assigned to shadow him. The man was hopelessly infatuated with the boy, treating him like his own son at times, entirely inappropriate for such an esteemed position but unlikely to change. It was hard to dissuade the prince from a decision once his mind was made, and he was so easily able to convince people with his quick wit and charm. Even he could see that Daeron would make for an inspiring and charismatic king, and likely have a huge swath of people under his thumb from that alone. He spoke and wrote at great lengths of the glory of their house, though often abandoned the details of such projects to lackeys or friends, preferring to remain fixed on the larger issue.

The princesses he kept little track of, Daena off doing whatever she felt like, likely shooting a bow down in the training yard, much to the consternation of the septas. that and riding, oh how that girl loved to ride through the streets, her sworn shields often run ragged trying to keep up with her. Little Rhaena was the darling of those aforementioned septas, perfectly polite, prim and proper in her studies, and little Elaena was too young to do much of anything but walk around and look rather adorable. His youngest niece was still too young to feed herself, and despite it not being queenly, he smiled whenever the queen fed her during one of their private family meals.

Precocious little Baelor, with no friends or active hobbies to distract him like Daeron or Daena, had asked to help him with his work as Hand. While a polite and dutiful little boy, the paleness of his skin and lack of interest in worldly pursuits other than the Faith of the Seven worried him. Yet he'd allowed it, if only to humor the young lad, confident it would pass and that perhaps he would find a missive that would spark some sort of interest in the prince. One never knew what one was truly interested in until they were exposed to it, after all, be it warfare, trade or the bureaucracy of the capitol.

So far, he'd had no such luck. The missives that he'd deemed unimportant enough for little Baelor to look over had been read and placed in their own small pile. There'd been few questions and even fewer discussions on the matters, often being resolved quickly enough that the boy had taken to praying whenever he had free time on his hands. Perhaps getting him out to see some of the kingdoms would do him some good, time on the road might give him a little color at least. Wouldn't be any good for the prince to be ghostly white, the smallfolk might think him an albino and cursed by the gods. Such thoughts would reflect badly upon House Targaryen, especially in times where sentiment towards the reigning monarchs must be positive, for the safety and security of the realm and their house alike.

Looking over another note, he arched an eyebrow as he finished, and handed it to Baelor, to see his reaction. This one… it might be something, but he needed to be sure.

"Yes, uncle?" Baelor asked, finishing his little prayer before opening the note.

Gods, did he have to do that every time? If one were to count and file every word Baelor had ever spoken thus far, Viserys was willing to bet a good third of his speech, if not more, was said in prayer or reference to the Seven Pointed Star. Not even the septons he'd met in Kings landing spoke so often in prayer. "You might find this one interesting," he muttered.

He watched as the princeling read the slip of paper, his eyes carefully gracing every word but growing slightly wider as he did so. Eventually, Baelor finished, likely rereading the message just to be sure, given his extended silence, and looked up to him.

"A sept? A house is building a new sept? Such a thing is not common at all in Westeros, as it takes a great deal of work to build and then maintain one."

Indeed, whilst many smaller settlements had their own septs, news of a sept as potentially large as this one were few and far between across the whole of Westeros. "Aye, and as we both know, the message mentioned it was going to be a great thing. Not splendorous, mind you, given the costs involved, but if I were to guess, it'll likely be the largest in the Stormlands."

"This House Wytch, they do not sound like any house I've heard of before Are they named for formerly practicing foul magicks?"

"Nay, Lord Baratheon mentioned them some time ago, named for a sudden and powerful wintry storm. The current lord's grandfather earned them a keep and a title during the Dance. His son managed things well, but from what Lord Baratheon mentioned in his letters, it is the current lord, the third generation, that is behind the sept's building."

"So they are a new house?"

"Indeed, my prince, one of the newest in the kingdoms, if I recall correctly. Now, is there anything you'd like to add? Surely you must be able to gleam something besides the obvious from what you read."

"Septs are costly endeavors to build, though they are entirely worth every copper spent as both a tribute to the Seven and as a place for the people to worship within them. To support them, the infrastructure is needed to support a good number of smallfolk, and the reciprocal care between a sept, the local smallfolk, and its patron lord often allow for a greater degree of worship and reduced costs in its upkeep."

"Yet if this young and newer lordling is managing to build one…?"

"Then either he has the funds for it, remarkable given the age of his house, or he has something that can create the sept itself faster than otherwise, as there has been no talk of magic being used to create such a thing," the prince replied. "The note mentioned it was likely to be finished rather quickly, giving credence to the latter possibility of some new or different material. Perhaps they have found a vast deposit of good stone close by, and have created a quarry to take advantage of it?"

Viserys gave a delighted nod, seeing the spark of interest in his nephew's eyes. "Now then, in either case, such a sept will likely still be under construction, perhaps for a few more years. Who knows just everything that will go into it? What wonders will it inspire in the smallfolk, and in the pious lords who may make a pilgrimage to it upon completion? The Stormlords are faithful to the Seven, having married into and slowly accepted it, unlike the conquering Andals in the Vale or Riverlands."

Baelor was silent for a few moments. "Would it be permissible, uncle, to visit this sept for myself?"

Time to be the unsure man, he'd found it the best way to ensure a child's decision on such a matter. "I'm not sure, Baelor, surely you should ask your father for this? Would he be adverse to this stay in Stormhall for any reason?"

"Surely not, a pious young lord would not dare to provide anything but the best for a prince of the realm, and surely father could see the benefit of my stay there. It would do well for the Stormlords to see one of their princes visiting and overseeing the construction of a holy site such as this."

"A holy site is it? I'd have thought it was just being started. Most sites only tend to become holy after a great deal of pilgrims have visited them, or in the rarer case, some miracle or sign of the Seven is seen and recognized."

"It will become holy, for what site would not be when a prince of the realm oversees it, and perhaps is the first to pray within its finished walls?"

Well, at least the boy had embraced the 'staying' portion, even if it hadn't been his idea originally. Perhaps some time away from the capital and in the presence of a true-blooded Stormlander would do the boy some good. Gods knew he listened to the local septons far too much, and did far too little in all other regards. They might even manage to have the boy pick up something in the training yard other than a book.

"You will have to ask your father once his melancholia abates, but I see no reason why he would deny your request," Viserys replied. "We would, however, have to inform both Lord Baratheon and Lord Wytch of the matter, as passing over the authority of either would not be taken well by our lords as a whole."

"Surely the prestige alone from hosting a pious prince would earn Lord Wytch a great deal of influence?"

"Indeed, but you would also be well away from the capital, likely with only a single Kingsguard by your side. You would be in an entirely new world, so to speak, away from everyone you've ever known. Of course, that is the way things usually go, and seeing as we've been unable to find you a proper lord for you to squire under… perhaps fostering alongside young Lord Wytch would be for the better?" It could be useful in making a friend of an up and coming house.

"As for Lord Baratheon?"

"While some would find it insulting to not be considered for fostering a prince, the man is a practical one, less likely to be taken by what some might see as slights, and seems to have developed a rapport with the young Lord Wytch. I am certain he will take no offense to the matter, likely seeing it as merely being the fascination of a young prince looking to develop his piety. A prince dwelling within his lands would no doubt be cared for to the best of the host's abilities. Instead, as part of our agreement, should this be allowed, I'll have someone look into this oddity of planting his fallow fields, as our summer has been fair and the maesters have yet to predict the arrival or length of the coming winter."

"Surely going against the laws of the Seven, of giving the land rest from our labors, would keep Lord Baratheon from doing so?"

"Perhaps, or perhaps he has found a way to appease the gods in doing so. They would likely not allow for his crops to grow well otherwise if they were displeased with his actions, yes?"

"Of course, uncle. I shall try and ask father tonight when I bring him supper. Surely he wouldn't refuse his son entrance to his quarters?"

"Surely not, but best we go together. I've the need to ask him of several things for the coming future, most notably, your betrothal. We've been discussing it for some time, but have yet to reach an agreement, as we have with your brother Daeron. For now, though, if you so wish to go, then be off with you. I'm sure this lonely man can deal with all of these messages by himself," he said, patting the middling pile of notes he had yet to go through.

Baelor was silent for a few moments, the subtle guilt trip as hidden as a snake in long grass. "May I leave once we've gone through them?"

"Certainly, my prince. Now, here's one from the men of the North, let me know what you think of it."

Baelor's slight tremor of disgust almost made him chuckle. The boy's focus on the Seven, and ignoring the other faiths of the kingdoms, would earn him no favors from them. Then again, he was just a boy, the spare prince, and letting his faith stew a little would do no great harm. It wasn't as if the Northmen cared about the Seven much anyway, save for their Manderly vassals.