Chapter 14: Maester Gorman IV

Mid 154 AC

The body before them had been a sheep rustler, some brigand wandering down from the border near the Reach looking to pilfer a prize ram from one of Lord Wytch's herds and sell it for a great amount back towards where he'd come from. As it turns out, rumors had circulated towards that region of Stormhall sheep being twice as large as their counterparts. Preposterous! Perhaps a stone or two heavier, but not twice as large! Chalk it up to the rumor-mongering of smallfolk and merchants alike.

It was just too bad the brigand hadn't thought to have an accomplice with him as a lookout during the attempted theft. He likely hadn't expected to be run down by a sudden patrol as he entered a paddock, as when did any lord bother sending one to some unnamed village, even if it was only within a few miles of Stormhall? Most lords tended to focus around their primary holdings, especially their own homes, and lands were large enough that one could hide almost anywhere and not be noticed.

As distasteful the smallfolk and even some lords might find it, studying the dead was a worthwhile endeavor, to better learn about the body in all its forms. The humors, the effects of miasmas, the development of a worthwhile vademecum, it all mattered in the study and practice of preventing or treating diseases. Lord Wytch had, for the most part, been entirely too focused on matters within his lands, and not within his household, nor within himself, and Maester Gorman knew that correction was needed.

Every day was going to include lessons sorely lacking from the young lord's schedule. Some the lad seemed to naturally excel at, such as mathematics, logistics and economics, young Casper seemed to struggle coming to terms with aspects of courtly etiquette, tactics and most of all, medicine. Case in point, teaching the lad on the human body, for as surely as he was going to someday go to war, he would need not only where to strike a man, that knowledge being courtesy of the master at arms, but also how to take care of himself on a hopefully distant battlefield.

However, something rather unexpected occurred during the lessons of wounds.

"Maester?" the young lord asked.

"Yes, Lord Wytch?"

"Why do you bandage wounds with boiled wine?"

"It is not entirely known how or why it works, but many believe that since wine can last for a long time without becoming undrinkable, there must be something within it that prevents the intrusion of foreign objects, such as dirt or ill effluvia in the air."

"Would that be the alcohol?"

"Perhaps," he replied, stroking his chin. "Wine is much more liable to inebriate a man that mere ale, and that which has more alcohol does indeed induce drunkenness faster. Yet how does it keep a wound clean?"

"I have a theory of my own, if you wish to hear it."

"Certainly, my young lord."

"Alcohol gives us a drunken state, but if you were to give it to an animal, it is liable to kill it. Could such be the same for miasmas that cause disease? If they cannot infect wine, let along stronger vintages such as brandy, perhaps the alcohol kills that which is not accustomed to it, such as men? There are things animals may consume harmlessly that can kill us, and much the same in reverse, such as garlic."

"That certainly is a possibility, my lord. For instance, boiled wine has been in use for some time for treating certain wounds, but I'm afraid I do not recall many texts on the matter of how it works, simply that it does."

"Well, boiling wine removes the excess water, leaving behind a solution higher in alcohol. In essence, its much the same as making brandy much like my own, but far cruder. What if a higher percentage of alcohol were to be used? Perhaps even distilled as much as possible? Not for drinking, but specifically for cleaning wounds, to prevent the intrusion of effluvia?"

Now there was a thought. "How would one go about distributing such a thing, my lord? Many would jump at the chance to drink something that would allow for getting drunk sooner, and keeping soldiers out of such supplies would be troublesome."

"Keeping it in special caskets, perhaps fortified wine barrels, or even larger glasses, if such a thing is available, and then making sure those are off limits to anyone but a maester or someone similarly trained for treating wounds. We would need to test it out, somehow, to be sure it is not an expensive waste of time making the stuff."

"If we distill a small batch, perhaps it could be used the next time someone in the training yard cuts themselves on something? Now back to the dead fellow here, as you can see here the rustler died after the rope was stretched taught around the neck, restricting his air flow and preventing air from reaching his lungs."

"Indeed. Maester Gorman, have you ever dissected a body?"

"Dissected? Good heavens no, a dead animal on occasion but never a human myself. Other, less squeamish maesters and acolytes have, but I saw little reason in doing so. Studying the dead without desecrating their remains is a tricky business, my young lord, and I'd much prefer them to be whole rather than in pieces."

"Just a thought, maester. Please, continue."

With that, the lessons continued, the young lord taking an additional note on a piece of parchment, the details of which he had not yet been able to see. Perhaps his young lord was thinking of writing a book? Such were often the flights of fancy of young lords, believing they'd come across something that would change the world of one field or another.

After having the waiting silent sisters come to properly give last rites and dispose of the corpse, he followed his lord to their solar, after washing up of course. The soap left his hands feeling quite clean, especially under his fingernails. As they then sat down, young Casper moved several stacks of parchment around, pulling some of the sheets off and sorting them into his orders of business. To some it may have seemed chaotic, but there was an elegance to it, where the young lord could find whatever he was looking for with minimal effort.

"Maester Gorman, before we go over the accounts, I'd like to ask you something a bit… personal."

"What is it, my lord?"

"What do you know of dreams?" For once, the young lord seemed rather unsure of himself, in a way that was rather jarring. Normally he seemed so composed, so sure of some venture or project, and even if it hadn't worked, it'd still serve as a lesson to be called upon at a later date. Now, though, this was something else.

"Cause, interpretation, or something else?"

"Perhaps whatever correlation there may be between what causes them and why it affects me so. As you know, ever since my return from Cragghall, I've been subjected to what must be strong dreams, given that I must thrash around something fierce, with how my bed looks come the morning."

"Aye, the maids have made mention of such."

"It only happens on the night of a full or new moon."

"Do you recall the dreams the first time you had them?"

"No, that night I'd drunk myself to sleep, to try and forget a rather… uneasy truth I'd come to terms with. Call it guilt or the simple realization of an action that would have been incredibly poor on my part."

"Do you remember them now?"

"For the most part, but they often make little sense. I am usually high in storm clouds over fields of green, circling a great fortress of stone, but sometimes I see a great expanse of sand, parching my tongue at the mere thought of it. Other times I am in the midst of a great expanse of hot and humid jungle, the likes of which flow red with blood. Lastly, for now anyway, I occasionally see what could only be the Wall, a massive line of ice, and beyond it castles of wood and stone surrounded by animal skins and thick forests."

"Well, the first sounds like Stormhall and then the second as Dorne, and the last likely the North, but I've no idea of the third one. Perhaps Sothoryos?"

"Why would I dream of such things? Each time it is the same, yet each time there is something just slightly different, such as the aftermath of a great battle, or clouds where there were none, or faces of people I've never seen before. I've seen those castles of wood and stone burn, yet I've also seen them built, and the jungles teem with life, and yet be as still as death at other times."

He paused for a moment, mulling over his young lord's words. "Perhaps, if your grandfather was indeed sired by a Baratheon, it might be a relic of the supposed dreams Targaryens and other Valyrians potentially had? Daenys the Dreamer was a direct ancestor of Orys Baratheon, if he indeed was a bastard brother of Aegon the Conqueror. There is still conjecture on the matter, and likely will be until they've passed well into myth and legend, but if it is the case, therein could lie the cause."

"Yet many times these dreams seem to have no prophetic purpose. I simply see lands I've either always or never seen, and each time, as if it were a creation of a painter, with brush strokes being added on occasion, and yet while the painting grows clearer and clearer, it is never complete."

"Lest you seek a woods witch or some kind of hedge wizard, both of which I'd recommend against, they would likely be more able to interpret such dreams. As for me, I know only that you experience them upon a full or new moon, yet do not recall them if you are not sober. When drunk there is no recall, but I would recommend not imbibing so much just to avoid them. In the end I would not give it too much thought, my lord, perhaps it is simply stress and worry over things out of your control, and the timing of it all is merely coincidental?"

"Aye, perhaps," the young lord said, before picking up a piece of parchment. "Gods know I've plenty to worry about in my own lands, rather than in lands I've never visited. Onto more current items then, namely, the losses from our latest storm."

A great and terrible gale it had been, sweeping out of the east, funneled by Shipbreaker Bay and heaved out over the lands. As far inland as they had been, it likely had not been near as severe as elsewhere, but the damage, as well as the losses, had been extensive. Collapsed barns and village cottages, flattened crops, animals and the occasional smallfolk drowned from flash floods, old dirt 'roads' turned to stretches of impassable mud… it had been nothing short of a major storm, yet thankfully nowhere near disastrous as it could have been.

The Seven had been merciful enough to not send a great funnel cloud to tear through the lands. In fact, most storms this past year or so had missed them or dissipated on the eastern horizon, a most curious thing. Now, it seemed, they were no longer so lucky to avoid them so readily, and would need to prepare for the next one, should it strike hard and fast.

"Several outlying villages have been written off as total losses, flooded so greatly that the smallfolk managed to evacuate only what they could before the waters carried off their hovels or buried them in silt. Most have only their families, the clothes on their backs, and what few animals they had with them."

"Settle them in Lowhill, we've hit a low point in migration from the hinterlands and now have homes waiting to be filled. There's plenty of work available, so they shouldn't struggle to find it. What were their occupations?"

"Primarily farmers, a blacksmith or two, a few crofters and weavers, but little else."

"The farmers will be assigned to the southern fields, they've the largest tracts of nearby land and the fewest current laborers. The blacksmiths, did they specialize in anything?"

"Primarily the tools the farmers and crofters used, nothing more than shovels, axes, scythes and nails I would wager. There was little need for most other things in those villages."

"Send them to the Wytchmill, I've need of expanding our production of such necessities. Now that the Wytch-stone production is exceeding its need, due to all of our building needs, we're starting to run low on other building materials. What of our crops?"

"In the surrounding areas, we've lost near three fields of feed corn, the rest being sheltered by the sloping hills to the east, and around ten fields of wheat have also been heavily damaged or are total losses. A field here or there of barley, beans or clover has also been lost, but some might be recoverable with time. Other reports are less damaging the further west into your lands one ventures."

"A pittance given how much we have growing, though still an issue. We've need of that corn for our cattle, and the wheat, whilst not a great loss nowadays, will surely lead to the bakers closing ranks on the prices of bread. We've managed to reduce it so much, simply by having so much available, so we might see a slight rise in the price if we continue to lose fields to more storms."

"The cattle, my lord, were unaffected for the most part. A few calves here or there drowned, but overall, nearly nine-tenths of your personal herds have survived the storm with nothing to show for it. None of the smallfolk tending to other herds have reported losses, but given they herd the animals behind eastern hills, they were likely protected from the worst of it."

"Excellent, the cattle will be the beginning of our beef industry, and already we've seen the aurochs bull's size inherited amongst his offspring. After the next calving, we'll begin distributing the cows and larger bulls to the ranchers out in Highmarsh, with the remaining bulls being divided between the largest and smaller ones. Any small bulls will be grown to marketable size and culled for the autumn festival. The largest will be kept to continue expanding the herd sizes."

"What of the smashed fields?" Maester Gorman asked.

"Save what can be, but don't have the smallfolk waste too much time on it. Even if it is not ready for human consumption, the ruined crops can still be fed to our animals. As for the barns, salvage what food can be from the ruins before it spoils, and we'll see about rebuilding them. Digging the barns partially into the side of a hill might offset the damage from future storms so long as the hill doesn't give way."

"I agree," the maester said, as the young lord turned over another piece of parchment. "You will be pleased to know that, barring near the current sites of construction, your roads have held up very well. Some have been covered by errant debris, but clearing them is simple enough to not worry."

"Aye, if we were in heavy forest country, I'd be more liable to fret over that," Lord Wytch replied. "A redwood coming down across a road would be a disastrous delay to travel, given just how big the damn things are."

"Lord Galewood likely has knowledge of dealing with such an issue," Maester Gorman said.

"Indeed he does, yet we've not spoken since my departure near a year ago, and I see no reason to commence with one unless problems arise in our dealings. Now, as I needed to transfer the road workers to Lord Windhill recently, and have not been home for a few weeks, how goes the construction of the sept's boundaries?"

"Even accounting for the delay in materiel from the storms, as well as the slowing of work from the same issue, the sept should be ready before the coming of winter, if we face no further setbacks. The living quarters of the septons and septas for both the motherhouse and septry have been completed, and with the Wytch-stone allowing for a greater degree of verticality to the buildings, our initial estimation of how much room was to be needed has decreased somewhat, especially around the areas meant for the gardens and vineyards."

"Excellent, be sure to account for new space for the flower gardens. We've no need to make for more work for those dedicating their lives to the Seven, and whilst the sweet smell will hopefully help to soothe their minds and bodies alike, the additional flowers will supply the honeybees when the garden plants are not in bloom."

"As for the sept itself, the walls and ceiling have been completed, but the need for the windows is still paramount, my lord, and the interior remains unfinished as a result. The orders for the glass panes have been made, but it will take a great while for them to arrive. While not Myrish glass, the glassmakers of Westeros are more than adequate for this task, and the panes should arrive within a few months, barring delays from other storms."

"If we had our own sand like that along the coast or in the deserts to our south, with which we could make our own glass, such delays would not occur," young Casper said. "Yet we've none of the stuff, and must focus on doing what we can with what we do have, rather than lament on what we could do with that which we have not."

Wise words from a wise boy. More than once, Maester Gorman had wondered how things would be if he'd been born to a richer or more powerful family, perhaps even the Targaryens themselves. Yet even if such things were not meant to be, then what he had done now, as a very young man, would only be compounded as he grew older and hopefully wiser. "As for the marble," he continued, "the latest shipments have just arrived, and the sculptors are at work with the designs drawn between you and the septons."

"How goes the primary school?"

Ah, yes, the primary school. More like 'the bane of his existence' school, not because of the idea of it, no sir. He was actually surprised how well it was being received from the wealthier smallfolk who could afford to send their children there, as well as by the septas and septons running it. Sorting children by age had been a natural change to the initial structure, but the addition of the gymnastics and other physical courses had been a blessing in disguise. Already, according to the master at arms Roland, the spry youngsters who seemed to have a natural agility to them, especially when compared to the other children, could make for good recruits for Lord Wytch's light cavalry forces in a few years.

It was the bane of his existence because of what his fellow maesters had replied to him of once he'd informed them of it. It'd been the smallest thing, them being for once interested in the development of Lowhill, as few towns grew as fast as Lord Wytch's had, and the mention of a public school for children had some rather upset. Many didn't care, and a few seemed intrigued by the idea, but of course the most upset were both the fewest and loudest, as well as most likely to correspond with rants in writing. Whilst technically the monopoly of knowledge and wisdom in Westeros, the maesters saw themselves not simply as teachers, but as the guardians of knowledge and the guiders of it to the right people, namely the nobility. For there to be a simple school for simpler children, why, therein lay a potentially dangerous path that might see them challenged many decades down the road. A group such as theirs did not last for thousands of years by not thinking ahead to the future often, and with a great deal of detail.

He'd invited them to come see for themselves that it was no threat to them, that teaching smallfolk to read and write would only allow for more scribes or skilled workers, but they'd yet to decide to do anything on it, the indifferent or intrigued outnumbering the outraged minority by a great deal. As long as their damned letters ceased telling him the foolishness of it, they could kiss his backside for all he cared on the matter.

"It is going well," he finally said. "The parents have been thankful for the meals served to their children, though there has been undercurrents of resentment amongst the poorer smallfolk, who cannot afford to have their children attend, either by necessity or because of the cost."

"An issue which could have been avoided in we'd gone with my idea that all are welcome, not merely the children of merchants and craftsmen," Lord Wytch said with a quick glare, before returning to his stack of parchment. "Be that as it may, I am glad to hear it is running smoothly. Gods above know we don't need more surprises."

There was a knock at the solar. At Lord Wytch's beckoning, a guard entered, looking rather excited.

"Yes, what is it?" Casper asked.

"My lord, banners have been sighted to the east. They are of Lord Baratheon's personal sigil."

"Oh, well that's good," Maester Gorman said. "We were sent a raven ahead of his progress through the Stormlands some time ago. A promotion of solidarity amongst the lords, given the… unpleasantness of the happenings near a year ago. We'd not expected them for a few more days."

Indeed, the staff had been driven into a near frenzy by Lord Wytch's lady mother Janyce, whose fussing over what her daughters would wear had caused three different fights and resulted in two broken chairs, three broken hairbrushes and a great deal of pouts from the young Wytch ladies. Now, with them so close, perhaps she would be so focused on what to do properly, that she would no longer stress over her daughters as much.

"There is another banner with them, my lord, that of House Targaryen."

Perhaps not.

Lord Wytch was silent for a moment, shock eventually giving way to an odd expression of weariness. "I'll greet them, have Roland fetch my guard and bring my mother to me. We've a reception to prepare for our lord and whoever rides with him."

"Rumors amongst the merchants have it being a crown prince, Baegel or something."

"Baelor," the young lord corrected, before putting his head in his hands, if only for a moment. Then, without another word, rose from his seat, looking every inch the lord he was. "Well, maester, let's get to it. It appears we've not only our lord paramount, but a princely guest to prepare for as well. Summon the kitchen staff, we've a feast to prepare."

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Baelor I

The journey through the Stormlands had been rather boring, in all honesty. Endless tracts of either tall trees, mossy rocks or green grass as far the eye could see. Many of the smallfolk they passed were engaged in simple everyday work, living simple lives as a result, stopping only to pay their respects to their liege lord and a prince of the realm. Much the same could be said for the numerous holdfasts they'd spent many of their nights within. Simple, filling dishes, extravagant for Stormlanders to be sure but nothing like the feasts he'd seen in Kings Landing. Not that many were ever held, his father rarely saw the need to entertain as such, unless it was a most special occasion. The beds were better than he expected, but he saw little reason to complain on the matter. Much the same went for his company. Many of the pages and even the older squires oft avoided him, his princely status likely intimidating to such untraveled youths. Others had occasionally tried striking up conversations with him, only for them to lose interest at his sermons on the Faith and the pitfalls they all faced.

Was he wrong to preach to them as often as he did? He lived his life enough as an example, and actions did, as his uncle told him, oft spoke louder than mere words. One day, perhaps they might come to see that his life of piety would serve as an inspiration, rather than as mere gossip amongst the maids. He prayed every night that their veil of ignorance would one day be lifted.

After leaving the last holdfast, one Wysp if he recalled, their gathering had once more journeyed through tracts of windswept rocky plains and grassy valleys that seemed the same as the last one they'd ventured through. Camping in a low lying area to avoid the winds at night, he thanked the Seven for being merciful enough to avoid sending storms upon them until they were well within the safety of castle walls.

Cresting a hill the next morning, after a night's rest under a beautifully starry sky, they came across a large camp of what appeared to be smallfolk, busy digging out a large trench and then filling it with gravel and large stones, in layers no less, guarded by four patrols of men in Wytch livery. Behind the work camp stretched a great stone path, larger than any he'd yet seen so far from home, and ahead of the camp lay a large stream, one which already the beginnings of a bridge were beginning to take form over.

"We've come to the lands of House Wytch, my prince," Lord Baratheon said, noticing his curious stare after they'd forded through a shallower portion of the same stream, one of the Wytch patrols joining their gathering and serving as their coming guides. "Lord Wytch has been undertaking a massive works project to build roads within his lands, better ones than it had already."

"Are roads not terribly expensive to build and maintain?" The Kingsroad was often a large dirt path he'd been told, wide indeed, but with little else to show for it in many parts of the kingdoms. Many such roads had been the norm since he'd departed Kings Landing, and this was the first time he'd seen one worth writing to Daeron and his sisters about.

"Normally, yes, but Lord Wytch is said to be a young man of keen mind and pious wisdom, a rare but powerful combination in a house so young, my prince. Many different lords in many of the kingdoms will maintain their own roads, or simply let the smallfolk do so, but rarely do they invest as much as Lord Wytch has. Yet were it not for some of his innovations years ago, his house could never afford to build these."

"Innovations? He is an inventor?"

"Of a sort, yes, though it would depend upon who you ask, my prince. Some say he is clever, others that he has a disgraced but brilliant maester in his castle creating all these so-called 'wonders' the smallfolk speak of. Others say him to be blessed by the Crone and Smith, with a few further saying he carries blessings of the Warrior, given his victory over his neighbor the previous year."

"I see," Baelor said, as their gathering left the old worn dirt road and ventured onto the 'Wytchroad' as the men in charge of the smallfolk had called it. "What was his most recent 'invention' then?"

"Hard to say, my prince, most everything he's created he did so these past few years, but nothing that I've heard would qualify as 'new' these days," Lord Baratheon replied, their pace noticeable improved upon the interlocking stones beneath the hooves of their mounts. "He did mention the previous year of needing many pines from Lord Galewood, but other than for possible construction purposes within his castle and his towns, I can't quite fathom why."

"An inventor lord? Sounds rather dubious," the Kingsguard riding alongside him replied, the one his Lord Hand uncle had convinced the king to send along. The man was either a Toyne or a Thorne, he couldn't remember which. Their Wytch guide, along with some of his men, turned to look upon the Kingsguard, but otherwise said nothing.

"Why so, Kingsguard?" Lord Baratheon asked.

"It is unseemly for a lord to involve himself in the aspects of creating something so mundane, best to leave that to maesters and other folk. He should be focused on his ruling instead, and if he declares to be doing both, then he is either a liar or is lacking in one area. It is nigh impossible for mortal men to dedicate their entire focus on two tasks without one suffering for it."

"The Seven bless those with gifts that may be used for good or ill, Kingsguard," Baelor said, noticing the Wytch men make a few faces at the knight's words, mostly disapproving glares. "It is not unreasonable to assume they could bless one with the wisdom and fortitude to accomplish both tasks equally."

The knight mumbled something, but said nothing more as they journeyed on.

Cresting hill after hill, they passed by village after village, the smallfolk tending to their fields and animals as they were wont to do. Days more of this they saw, yet there was an energy to these smallfolk that seemed unlike those of before. They seemed more alert, but not in an alarmed way, merely more… ready and willing to accomplish their tasks. None of the previous smallfolk had been sloth by any means, but here and there, villages were tending to pens of cattle and sheep equally, with others installing fence posts to expand pastures and even erecting the occasional barn. Were it not for the Stormlander looks, the distances between settlements and the knowledge of where he was, Baelor would have assumed he'd somehow found himself in the Reach.

On what Lord Baratheon said was their last day before reaching Lowhill and Stormhall itself, every village they came across was larger than the previous, and the road seemed to be larger and sturdier than before, even if they appeared much the same. Many groups were travelling about, from merchant caravans departing or entering Wytch lands to small patrols making rounds to even groups of workmen moving from one destination to another. Pastures ranged to the horizon, as did a great variety of crops, some appearing damaged by storms yet others unharmed. Every village house was no hovel-like construct, as he had seen elsewhere in the Stormlands, but looked to be a rather cozy cottage of brick and mortar walls, and behind every house was a garden filled with all sorts of plants, many he did not immediately recognize.

Then again, before fostering in Storm's End, he'd never left Kings Landing before, and had not paid much attention to his surroundings on his journey to the Baratheon seat. What else was there to see in Westeros that he had never laid eyes upon before?

Cresting the last hill, amongst a group of workmen building what appeared to be a tavern connected to a short but stocky tower of some kind, the scene before him near took his breath away. It was no Kings Landing or Storm's End, but there was something to it that just seemed completely unlike anything he'd come across on his journey thus far, something so idyllic that the Seven themselves must have been smiling upon it.

In the valley below lay a town surrounded by fields of unusual density and neatness, stretching up and past the pastures alongside the road they'd been travelling upon. Barns and attached homes dotted the landscape like small keeps of their own, some singular and others in small clusters. The differing depths of greenery from the fields, of so many shades that he had no names for them, intermingled like the brushstrokes of an indecisive yet undeniably talented artist. Flocks of sheep frolicked in fields surrounded by strong fences, bordered by grassy pastures contained shaggy cows larger than any he'd yet seen, their errant moos carried softly on the breeze.

The town itself had an impressive set of walls, whitewashed and gleaming like marble in the light of the sun. Within the town, from portions he could discern even from this distance, lazy trails of smoke rose from chimneys in a large cluster, with other, wispier ones emanating from seemingly random portions. Near the center of the town stood a tower, taller than any he'd seen since leaving Storm's End, atop which was a great open platform that seemed at odds with the construction's otherwise completed nature. At the base of the great tower he saw what could only be the grounds of a sept, but from this distance, it appeared unfocused, and not for the first time, he'd wished he'd brought his Myrish far-eye he'd deigned to leave behind for fear of breaking it. It'd been a nameday present from his father, one of the few he'd received that he'd used frequently, often to look out at passing ships or birds from his rooms in the Red Keep.

"Lowhill, my prince," Lord Baratheon said, sounding not awed, but rather a bit impressed. "The largest town in all Wytch lands, and to think, near a decade ago, it was simply a large village, sleepy and uninteresting, or so Lord Wytch has told me."

"Is that Stormhall?" Baelor asked, pointing to a large construction overlooking the town from a hill. It didn't appear to have any real walls to speak of, strangely, and the buildings present, though indistinct from this distance, seemed orderly enough.

"Nay, my prince," the lead Wytch guide replied. "That be the Wytchmill, the source of our lord's many creations. Plows, tools, seed drill, and many other things come from there."

"Why is it not within a district within Lowhill itself?"

"I do not know, I suppose you will need to speak with Lord Wytch on the matter, my prince," Lord Baratheon said, motioning to the road ahead of them. "It would appear he has sent a host to escort us the remainder of the journey."

The horsemen in Wytch livery met them on the outskirts of Lowhill's surrounding fields, far down the gently sloping eastern hills of the valley. The road had transitioned from stone slabs and gravel to one of bricks, though these ended where the roads diverged into different directions, at great intersecting lines of travel. The signs directing the roads mentioned places such as Highmarsh and Timberstone, names that held no meaning to the young prince.

"My Prince and Lord Baratheon, Lord Wytch bids you welcome," the captain of their new escort said, the old one bidding them farewell as they set about returning to the border. "If you would follow my companions and I, preparations have been made for your arrival, and the feast will commence soon after you have settled in."