Chapter 27: Stormlanders XIV

Mid 155 AC

The Dondarrion scouts had warned them of an approaching group, all mounted, coming across the border. The dust from their rapid approach had been sighted in the calm air of the late evening, and their approach took them through a ravine, with gentle slopes bearing large rock clusters, many taller than a man on horseback. After that, it would be open fields for leagues, and their mounts would never catch their sand steeds. It was a risk to attack, but riskier yet to allow them passage, and risk repeating the same toil for months once again. None wanted that, but to ride so far ahead, without additional forces, had been a risky decision.

It was at this ravine that Lord Greycairn suggested they make their own attempt at an ambush. 'For glory' he had said, for they had 'not received our share of it this entire time' in the Marches. Glory? What glory was there yet to be won? The Marcher lords had requested assistance from their fellows against Dornish raiders, and the desert dogs had been put down, killed or captured and awaiting their fates at the hands of one of their own. It was duty, not glory, that had brought them all out here, yet Greycairn only saw the influence and connections Lord Wytch was making, or allegedly making, and sought his own. Perhaps he thought it possible to convince Lord Swann of a betrothal, of Greycairn' heir to one of Swann's young daughters? The man had four, after all, 'plenty to pick from' Greycairn had said. As if one of the most powerful of Royce Baratheon's vassals would marry one of his daughters, all no older than eight, to some minor lordling such as Greycairn's heir. Lord Swann was more likely to marry one to a Reachmen than Greycairn.

Lord Wysp hissed in pain and anger at the thought of such politicking. Greycairn thought himself mighty clever, devising a means of leveraging a Marcher lord against Lord Wytch and his growing connections in this portion of the Stormlands. Best to save that for later, he had said, once we have returned home, but Greycairn and Galewood had thought him foolish to do so. They had been unsuccessful in their talks with Lord Baratheon, so the time was at hand to achieve some means of establishing themselves as victors, and not mere aides in this conflict. So, without his aid, they had set up the ambush from one spot, choosing it far too quickly for his liking. His own he had prepared with his men as best they could, stacking rocks to 'naturally' hide their outlines, and leaving two large paths out of it, so that they could not be hemmed in too easily. The other lords were behind them, attempting to arrive with all haste, but they had been so far ahead of them, 'for glory' Greycairn had said.

In the low light of the setting sun, the rays casting themselves spectacularly off the distant mountain peaks, the group had ridden into their midst, and with it, the trap was sprung flawlessly. Or it would have been, had Greycairn and Galewood not failed to have their own sentries describe the mass of men moving through the ravine in more detailed terms. As they sallied out from their hiding spots, forming quickly into a hammer with which to strike the enemy, the Dornish host quickly recovered from their shock and turned to them, moments later firing their bows from horseback and countercharging with sword and lance alike. Lord Wysp immediately called upon his men to join the fight, for as the two forces engaged across from him, he saw their numbers were evenly matched. Hundreds of Dornish against hundreds of Stormlanders, far more than they had been anticipating, and with his own forces charging their exposed flanks, it was sure to be a tough fight, but a winnable one at that…

The flap to the tent opened, the light of the torch temporarily obscuring the face of its wielder before his eyes adjusted to the sudden intrusion.

"Lord Wytch," he muttered, surprised and a bit relieved.

"Lord Wysp," the boy lord replied. In this gloom, even with the torch, he seemed no boy, but a man, the darkness of his purple eyes seeming to draw in the light around them. Even his flickering shadow seemed larger than it should, encompassing more of the tent with every passing moment. Then he blinked and saw no such illusion, no such specter of doom. The milk of the poppy was getting to him, that had to be it.

"How bad is it?" he asked. The maesters had been tending to him before, and the small group of 'medics' Lord Wytch employed, though rudimentary, had been busy helping the others as best they could. A local septon was performing rites upon those whose death was inevitable, and in the soft rumble of the camp, he could hear the man calling out to the Seven, notably the Stranger.

"They informed me your life is in the hands of the gods now," was the boy's soft reply, as he set the torch into a brazier and sat upon a far bench. "Greycairn has suffered a broken leg when he was knocked from his horse, and Galewood took two arrows to a shoulder, but both are expected to recover. I would wish to speak with you, however, before it is too late." He didn't sound too upset at this, but given their history, none could fault the boy.

"Yes, yes, of course," Lord Wysp said, hissing in pain. He knew those wounds had been deep, and some felt as if they were yet open.

The silence between them was a bit uncomfortable, for the boy stared him down with an expression that challenged what he knew of the young lord. He had heard he was polite, kind and readily friendly, but this cold, calculating look, this dispassionate stare that might have frightened the lesser-willed, it unnerved him. Did the boy come to gloat in silence at his fate? Did he know of his accomplice in what might have been? Or was the milk getting to him, rending his mind asunder as his strength slowly but surely drained from his body and mind alike?

"When you engaged the Dornish, what happened?" Lord Wytch asked, breaking the silence like a thunderclap.

"Even with the alert from the Dondarrion scouts, we didn't expect their numbers, nor for them to be moving as fast as they had. Four, almost five hundred of us, against four hundred Dornish? Should have been a tough fight, but a winnable one with our surprise and their confusion mingling. We had the armor, the terrain for once, we knew they were coming and we encircled them right at the start, a classical case of the enemy underestimating a foe."

"Entirely encircled?"

"Didn't see more than five of them ride out of that mess, and after the noose truly tightened, none got out. If only we'd thought to check our hubris, of all things, before the fight, but alas, we did not."

"Was there any sign of Alfrid Sand? Amongst the dead or the living who took flight?"

"No, whoever led them probably fled with those few, and even if it were him, that's the second time he's slipped from our grasp. He's liable not to risk a third attempt if he was, the Dornish might think him cursed. If it was that bastard, that's the last we'll have seen of him."

"Let us hope that either he had no hand in this or is among the dead, though the latter remains to be seen." The young man rubbed the back of his neck, as if he had just unburdened a great weight from him. One of the few failings of the boy out in this misadventure was the escape of that bastard. Given his otherwise successful actions, it was a wound to his pride more than anything. "What happened after those few escaped?"

Wysp chuckled, bitterly, the thought of his grieving family tainting his victory. "After we encircled them, we formed up and did what we did best. We fought, and bled, and died, and killed every last one of them."

"With great difficulty, I see," Lord Wytch replied. "Even with the numbers and the armor, you lost a great many men."

"You don't know the half of it, Wytch. Those Dornish, when cornered, they fight like mad adders, these even more so. No matter how many times you stab them, no matter how many arrows you put in them, there's still a chance they can strike back at you. I saw them stab good knights through their helms even as others took a limb or skewered them on a sword. It's like they knew they were as good as dead and sought to take us all with them straight to the seven hells. Not a single one surrendered, even as we shouted for them to drop their weapons. I've never seen men fight with both such unnatural coordination and reckless abandon, it was if they were possessed by some frightful thing." To say nothing of the paleness of their skin, something he'd not known Dornish to be capable of. It had been... unsettling how brutally they had fought. With no way out, the chaotic melee began in earnest as the horses began to die from under them. Men thrown from the saddle were either trampled by errant hooves or mercilessly stabbed by their enemies, and as the noose closed, so did the piles of dead or dying grow. Often slipping on the fallen as they fought, the formerly dry ground had become sodden with blood and churned to a reddish mud in the last light of the day. All around, the cries and screams as they killed the Dornish sounded in the ravine like a carrion call, bidding the vultures and crows to come to the feast that awaited them come daylight.

"You and the others lost more than just men tonight, but Stormlanders whose deaths could be said to have been in vain, Lord Wysp. Many good, loyal men, who have served your families all their lives, are gone now for this folly of a plan. Had you sent word of the enemy's movement, we might have coordinated a total encircling with far greater numbers and preparation, perhaps even a negotiating a surrender, with no need for such a bloodbath."

"Don't remind me, Greycairn wanted glory and rode us too far ahead," was his muttered reply. "Glory ain't worth shit if you can't live to use it. Our houses will takes years to recover from this 'victory' and in that time, you're liable to find no competition in the area, my lord. Power's shifted to you, boy, so take note of what happened here. It doesn't always take overwhelming might to overcome your neighbors, sometimes all it takes is for them to make a big enough mistake."

"Lord Wysp, even with out differences in the past, take solace in that I seek nothing more from your family than what you have already promised me. I would not wish to alter our deal simply because you find yourself… incapacitated."

His momentary stunned silence, brought on by pure disbelief, was broken as he laughed, despite how much it hurt, even with the effects of the poppy coursing through him. "I'm not infirm, boy, I'd dying for fuck's sake! Took an arrow in the chest, and two blows to my belly, and those are just the ones I remember! Armor kept them from skewering me, but I've busted ribs, and the maester said there's bleeding inside somewhere. I know I don't have time for pretty words and reassurances, just tell me what you're going to do."

"After this is settled, I'm going home. Visit my betrothed on the way there, look at the progress of our damming project, and return to Stormhall. I'll have been gone nearer a year than not by the time I'm back, there'll have been much done in my absence that I'll need to see to. Maybe even see how the prince has been doing in his bow practice."

"That's it?" Was he lying? Or was this boy truly that green to the games of the lords?

"Why, should I be doing more?"

Pacts were pointless when you were dying, and he hadn't been planning on leaving his family this soon. Yet the designs of men were nothing but afterthoughts to the will of the gods, and he'd not meet the Stranger with such a burden upon his back, one that had eaten away at him for years now. Should he meet his father after this life, he'd likely tan his hide for going with such actions, but he would deserve such a beating. "I've little right to ask this of you, my lord, but please, promise me something."

"What is it? If you're asking for some miracle cure of mine to bring you back to full health, I fear I have no such elixir."

"Piss on that, promise that you will take no action against my family or kin. I would see them safe until my dying breath, and if possible, beyond that."

The lord's purple eyes narrowed. "Why would I need to make such an oath?"

It's bBecause of what I'm going to tell you, boy. I'm dying, all for the 'glory' of jealous men, of the follies of our mutual neighbors. Piss on their glory and greed, I wanted to see my daughter grow into her mother's beauty and get her a good match. Now I'll never see that, nor my son have children of his own, or see my nephew grow into the new Lord Craggner."

Lord Wytch was dreadfully silent, his gaze slowly shifting into a mask of suspicion and restrained anger before he nodded. "Aye, Lord Wysp, on the honor of my house and the gods, old and new, I swear I shall see no harm come to the heir of your house or your kin through my hand or any that I command."

Lord Wysp coughed again, dark blood trickling from his mouth before he wiped it away. "I knew of Lord Craggner's plans. The others and I, we made a deal to see your father diminished, to check your family's growing wealth. Aye, I'll admit I was a bit covetous, we all were, but Craggner was mad about it. We had no idea he wanted the man dead, we certainly didn't, that's not the Stormlord way."

"You were part of his conspiracy." It wasn't a question, and the boy's growl reminded him of the low rumble of a faraway, yet encroaching storm. Were he not dying already, it might have frightened him.

"We hoped to injure him in some way, to force him to stay in Stormhall, and away from where he could grow his influence. In doing, we hoped to force him to rely on intermediaries for overseeing his lands and tempt others away from striking deals with the man. Craggner wanted his bastard legitimized and had sought your betrothed's hand for his bastard in the past. But then he went and had your father killed, and so we were stuck with him."

"For if the conspiracy was found out, he could quite easily drag you down with him." Casper's look of anger seemed to deepen with the shadows, a cold fury like that of the storm for which his house was named. Indeed, the shadows around him seemed to grow deeper, unnaturally so, but that must have been the milk of the poppy. There was no way the boy's eyes seemed to shine in the darkness, their purple hue becoming almost bright.

"So, after that mess, we watched and waited. Luckily for us, or so we thought, no complicity was discovered, but after the investigation found nothing, Craggner wanted to go right back to bringing down your house. We'd barely escaped discovery, and he wanted to get right back to it. We told him to lay low, to allow things to settle, I even advised him to let the matter go and see how else to achieve some of his goals, and then he went armed into Lowhill so soon after, and you know the rest."

"You tried to dissuade him?"

"Aye, but it didn't work he'd worked himself into too much of a frenzy by that point. Likely was listening to much to his bastard rant about it all. That boy had been nothing but ill for their house, should have been sent away the day he could hold a sword."

"When you were amassing on my borders, it was to, what, occupy my lands? See them divvied up in case I were to fall against Craggner and his forces?"

Lord Wysp coughed again, harsher this time, the pain in his chest increasing. "Aye, occupy, but not take, least not at first. We thought to have your sisters inherit in the worst outcome, and maybe marry sons or kin to them as part of a peace deal. Divide it amongst ourselves afterwards or place our own blood on the seat of Stormhall, it's been done before and wouldn't have raised many eyebrows. The Craggner's bastard survived and thought to throw my sister out of Cragghold to continue his father's legacy of hating House Wytch, and I decided it'd be best for us to aid you, now that our fortunes had turned. Better to recoup our losses as best we could rather than go down with a ill-born lunatic like he had become."

"I always did wonder how his bastard died," Lord Wytch muttered. "I'd promised him death, you know, after he'd threatened my family in Lowhill, but you took that away from me as well."

"I'd apologize, but he threatened my sister. No man threatens my kin or their rights and should expect to live."

"A sentiment I can share. Now, Lord Wysp, as to the names of your other collaborators…"

"I hate them both for this, they've robbed me of the rest of my life, but I would see you repeat your oath. As with my family, theirs had nothing to do with any of this, I'm sure of it. I'll not go to the Stranger having sent a vengeful spirit on innocents. Swear this to me, Lord Wytch." No blood of innocent families would be on his hands when he met his god.

The silence dragged on as Lord Wytch's look of anger was replaced by one of deep contemplation. Finally, after an unbearable silence, he whispered "…I swear I shall see no harm brought to the kin of your fellows, Lord Wysp. These lords, however, I shall never extend such a courtesy to."

"Aye, see them suffer for this, if you can," he said, his dark chuckle was interrupted by a deep, bloodier cough. "It was Greycairn and Galewood. They'll never admit they aided Craggner, but they were a part of this, as I was."

Casper's hands clenched a nearby chair, and without so much as a grunt, the wood frame snapped under his hands, the wood buckling and twisting as he pulled it apart. Yet the boy said nothing, and after tossing the fragments into one of the larger braziers, gave him a nod. The boy's look was murderous, but an oath was an oath, and he felt the young lord was no more an oath breaker than he was a survivor of this battle. If not, then, well, whatever would happen would occur long after he was gone.

"For what it's worth," Lord Wysp added, leaning back onto his makeshift bed, the pain in his chest intensifying. "I regret being a part of it, all of it. I've seen what you can do, what you have done, and wish I'd been a part of it sooner. Your cattle projects, your farming, your lumber, I could have benefitted from that just as much as you have. Would have been a damn sight easier climbing the ranks as your ally than your foe, and now look where my troubles have led me. Dying, in some tent in the Marches, far from home."

Casper slowly stood, towering over him in silence, and for a brief, moment, he feared the young man would strangle him. Yet after a dreadful pause, he simply nodded, and made to leave the tent, looking over his shoulder one last time. "Such is the price paid by those too blind to see what could occur, rather than what they fear will occur. Goodbye, Lord Wysp, for the last time, and take comfort in that your family shall be in my prayers this night."

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Shaded from the heat of an oppressive midday sun, Royce Baratheon sighed as he inspected the medical tents Lord Wytch had so graciously erected. Many a fine Stormlander lay upon bedrolls, their wounds tended to by maester and 'medic' alike. Setting splints, tending to wounds, removing arrowheads or the broken bits or spears or javelins, it was a constant morass of crying and screaming. The smell of blood was mixed with the pungent aroma of the strong alcohol Lord Wytch had brought, and he'd seen more than one man be forcefully held still when it was applied. An impressive number of injured men were believed to have good chances of making full recoveries, he had been told. Clean bandages aplenty were available, and the strong, oddly smelling alcohol Lord Wytch had supplied were supposedly the source of it, but he wasn't sure. That the medics constantly washed the tools they used on the men in both boiled water and the harsh alcohol might have had something to do with it instead. He still wasn't sure why they did that.

"Is this over?" he asked. He was tired, and wished to return home, to his family and Storm's End. There was only so much ruling he could do from the Marches and he knew there to likely be a massive backlog of tasks awaiting him. Thankfully, Ser Buckler was a capable man to aid his family in his absence and he knew his mother would have taken care of as much as she could in his time away. A courier would need to be sent to the king to ensure all knew of their sacrifice here. Let none say the Stormlords shirked their responsibilities for the southern border's security.

Lord Dondarrion, walking softly by his side, nodded. "Aye, this group of Dornish died to the last. We've found no evidence of why they arrived, but they did nonetheless. My forward scouts report no more masses of men along the border and are journeying as far into Dornish lands as they can, to see if this remains the case. They're the best I have, so I've no doubt they'll remain undetected. Without raiders behind me, I can focus once more on the border, rather than elsewhere."

"Then let us pray this was the last group for some time. Lords Greycairn and Galewood?"

"The maesters said they will recover, though if his leg doesn't set right, Greycairn might never ride into battle again."

"Lord Wysp?"

"Died of his wounds in the night. Lord Wytch spoke of his passing with sorrow, saying he was tasked with looking to the welfare of his family by the man, should they need it before the Wysp heir becomes of age. The death of a lord is no small thing for a family to recover from, and whilst Lord Wytch managed it, I believe we all know he is an exception."

"Aye, a good man, Lord Wytch is growing to be. Where is he, by the way?"

"Out in the ravine, helping tend to the dead. He said something about making the ravine into a 'warning' against further Dornish aggression through this area."

Leaving behind the injured and the dying, Lord Baratheon's horse took him down and away from their camp, to the narrowest portion of the ravine. All around, men tended to the dead, stripping the Dornish of any valuables and piling it onto carts for later, while also carting away the dead Stormlanders to be tended to by the local silent sisters. Cresting a small berm, he came before Lord Wytch, who was speaking with a pair of his captains, directing them towards the ravine before them. He stopped as he saw what lay before him. A great forest had sprung up since the morning's light, a forest of stakes twice as tall as a man, and upon each sharpened end lay a Dornish. The flies and buzzards already were swarming the opened wounds of the dead men, and as he watched, another stake was erected, the dead Dornishman flopping as it was set. He silently thanked the Seven that they had all been dead before this, for even Dornish rarely deserved such a fate.

"Alfrid Sand was not among the dead, my lord," Lord Wytch said. "We've found none bearing his features, nor any containing some sort of direction from him. If he was a part of this group, he escaped again. If not, then we've no reason to believe his involvement with this group."

"An omen of ill or good, all depending upon one Dornish bastard. I don't like such an unresolved matter, my lord, but it's the best we can do right now. What of this… forest of bodies?"

"A warning, my lord, against further incursion to the Stormlands, that is. Four hundred dead Dornish stripped of their belongings, to be left to dry in the sun, with markers indicating their crimes. Thanks to the angles at which they have been impaled, they shall not fall from the stakes for some time."

"There are many such ways into the Stormlands, Lord Wytch," Lord Baratheon said, some small part of him feeling disgust at the sight before him. Yet the larger part of him, the part that had tried to run down these desert savages and seen their acts upon the smallfolk of his vassals, saw only a justified end to such barbaric raiders. "Let us hope passing Dornish relay the message back to their masters."

"They will sooner than later, for the survivors of that first group of raiders have been sent home," Lord Wytch replied, dismissing his captains.

"You let them live?" That was surprising, and the memory of Lord Greycairn's talks of the Dornish in Wytch lands, unbidden, came to him.

"Well, they do still draw breath. It won't be an easy life for them, and they'll never raid again. Hopefully, the sight of them will deter more raiders from emerging from their desert strongholds."

"What did you do to them?"

The boy lord shrugged. "I offered two of them a choice on what part of their fellow's bodies were to remain in the Stormlands, and made sure their fellows all knew it. Their eyes, their cocks, or their hands; to never see their homeland again, to never beget children which could raid our lands, or to never raise arms against the Stormlands and her folk again, much as how your ancestor repaid the Wyls."

"So?"

"Doran and Lewyn chose the eyes, so that is what the bandits lost, and they all knew of the decision before the deed was done. The survivors are being led by them back into Dorne as we speak."

"What of those two?"

"As they chose eyes, I was graciously offered to let them choose which eye they lost. Can't have a blind man lead blind men through a desert, but I could not let raiders leave without facing their own punishment. The one called Edgar is at the front of this forest of stakes, however, as I made sure to leave a lasting impressing of his fate before they lost their eyes."

"As for Lewyn? Of what we discussed the other night?"

"Aye, my lord, I received word shortly before his eye was removed, from a courier bearing a flag of truce. It is as we suspected, but not as we feared, so a reprisal will hopefully not occur."

"Still, we best be wary, for his survival could bring a time of peace between our lands, or it could create a worse problem," Lord Baratheon replied. "It is up to the Dornish now on how to respond, and I pray to the gods they seek to leave us alone once more, to lick their wounds and sulk in their dusty dens. Come, finish your work, and then let us return to our homes. The battles are won, though at great cost, and I would see a return to peace along our borders."

The younger lord nodded. "It will be good to return home, but I must make a stop along the way. Lord Windhill received word from my betrothed, wishing for a visit, and I will not refuse a lady such a request."

Royce smiled at that. Finally, in all this shit, a sign of better times to come.

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Mylenda Windhill III

Late 155 AC

The smallfolk had gathered in great numbers from the nearby villages to see her grandfather and betrothed arrive, their shouts and cheers ringing over the hills and valleys like a storm. Ore Town had never seemed so clean as the two lords and their men rode through it, bold banners flying high from their standard bearers and buildings alike. Smiles, waves, cheers, they all joined in a continuous wave of noise as they passed from the main street onto the one that took them up to Windhall.

Her grandfather had never looked so young to her eyes. The years had seemed to melt away, and it was as if he were a younger man once again, returning home from some victorious battle during the Dance. His smile upon seeing her emerge from the throng of the castle's folk was perhaps the brightest she had seen in her life. His stature commanded respect and awe, and it was returned with great gusto by those awaiting him.

Yet her eyes drifted to her fiancé and found herself mesmerized. He was a tad leaner than she remembered from their first time together, as was her grandfather, but his hair had grown on this adventure in the Marches. Now long locks curled down his shoulders, loose from the confines of his helmet and as black as the ravens in their keep. The trimmed dark beard upon his face, once so sparse, gracefully curved along the edge of his jaw, and his smile upon seeing her set her heart all aflutter.

They dismounted before her, and after a quick exchange, as per the custom, she threw herself into her grandfather's arms for a great hug, which he returned, sweeping her off her feet, much as he had done when she was so much smaller.

"Aha! Mylenda, it is good to be home, I am sorry for having missed your nameday," he said, setting her down and looking her over. "By the gods, how you've grown, I'm gone a year and you've shot up like a weed! At this rate you'll be taller than me by the time you turn twenty!"

"Grandfather, Windhall is yours once more," she replied with a smile, rolling her eyes before turning to Lord Wytch. "Welcome to my home, my lord."

"An impressive castle, one that I am sure you know much about, my lady," her fiancé replied, giving the back of her hand a small kiss. "However, I'd much rather learn of it once we are inside, for our journey has been long, and I'm sure there's much your grandfather wishes to tell you."

"Indeed. Lunch awaits us, after you have freshened up, of course. You smell of horse, Casper."

"I thought it was more of the saddle and the road," he replied with a cheeky grin, but nodded nonetheless at her jest. "Lead the way then, my lady."

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Roast mutton, goat cheese, dark rye bread and platters of roasted sweetcorn were served alongside imported brandy, hard cider, and a great deal of good ale as Windhall's gathered guests feasted in its great hall. Much like the castle itself, carved into the face of the mountain it called home, the old stonework seemed like new amidst the festive atmosphere. Men sang of battles won and Dornish repelled, and of other songs so usually sung at such joyous feasts. It was a rare day that Windhall had been in such a festive mood, even in her younger years, and she was intent to enjoy it as best she could. As her grandfather finished his account of the final battle against the Dornish, for which he arrived only to bear witness to the folly of their neighbors, she turned to her fiancé, a pensive look disappearing as his Valyrian gaze met hers. When they had children, who would share Casper's eyes, their sons, or their daughters?

She blinked in surprise. Well, that was a strange thought to have…

"Have you any questions for me, my lady?" he asked with a smile. "Your grandfather has taken a good deal of your time thus far, but it is of no worry. I do admit I'm a tad envious."

"Envious?"

"You have a grandfather; one you have known all your life. I never knew Kennon Storm, nor my mother's grandsire, whoever he was. Yet I cannot find it within myself to be entirely envious, as I also find joy in seeing how your relationship is. My father did not speak often of Kennon, but from what I had gathered, it was not as good a relation as you have."

Mylenda nodded. "I thank the gods every day for him and continue to pray for his health. I should hope to have him for a great many years yet. As for your question, yes, I've been meaning to ask something of you, Lord Wytch."

"Here, amongst friends and future kin, Casper is fine, but only if I get to call you Mylenda, or if you'd prefer, Myllie."

As much as she tried to not, she snorted. "Myllie? Where did you hear that?"

"Oh, somewhere between the Marches and here," Casper said with a smug grin. "Can't say who told me, it would seem I've misplaced the man's name."

"My grandfather hasn't called me Myllie since I was five!" She turned in shock to find her grandfather chuckling into his tankard of ale, an unladylike whine emerging despite her best efforts. "Grandfather! Why did you tell him that?"

"Well, we were swapping harmless secrets, as we are to be kin someday," the older man said. "Besides, my sweet, you may call him Cas if you wish. His own sisters couldn't say his full name when they were younger."

Glancing back, her betrothed's ears reddened slightly at that. Interesting. "Traitor," he mumbled, his smile indicating it a mere jest. "Now then, Myllie-,"

"Mylenda, please."

"…Mylenda, you had a question for me?"

"Yes, Casper, I did, and still do. In your time in the Marches, did you meet anyone interesting? Did you meet with the Marcher Lords?"

He paused at that. "Save for a few of the Dornish I captured, can't say I met anyone I'd call interesting. I did strike several deals with Lords Dondarrion and Selmy, the latter of whom is going to put a good word for me in with Lord Swann, as they are cousins through his mother. I managed to secure a betrothal for Arenna to Selmy's second son."

"That is a good match, even if he will not inherit," she replied. Her maester had been particularly adamant she knew the families and houses of her neighbors, including those in the Marches, and while there were undoubtedly some she was forgetting, the line of Selmy she did not.

"Well, if the Selmy heir does not have a son, then his brother will inherit, and thus my sister will become the Lady of Harvest Hall."

"So then my goodsister may become a lady of a major house. What of Shyra?"

"No betrothals for her yet, but I'm anticipating they'll start trickling in after word spreads of our time in the Marches. Hopefully, we can find a good one within the Stormlands, I don't think she'd want to be too far from home."

How considerate of him. Though she had no experience on the matter, having a good relationship with your siblings could only be a benefit come the time to forge alliances. "What of these other deals with Dondarrion and Selmy?"

"Oh, much like our own, with a few changes. Both wish for roads from our lands to theirs, along with favorable deals where they have the first pick in how much food can be sent their way."

"The Marches are large, and the farther from water or kilns, the longer it'll take to build those roads. Will they cover their portion of the cost?"

Casper nodded. "The initial estimate would be near two years to build if we began now, and they are willing to front the cost of moving enough of our foremen and lead engineers to begin building the roads on their end. Selmy also wants to buy in to our growing beef and dairy industry, and Lord Dondarrion wishes to build windmills for improving his forges, as you have done here."

"We've done more than that," she replied with a smile as their lunch wound down. "The maester and I have commissioned a team of metalsmiths to create a sort of interconnecting gear system that the windmill could turn, but that could then work a series of ropes to continually remove waste rock from mines. Conveying such excess could most certainly aid in speeding up the process of mining."

Her fiancé nodded. "Aye, that it could. I'd not thought of that, but we've so little true mining areas in my lands compared to yours, it makes sense that you'd come up with the idea. I'd like to see what you've come up with if we have a moment."

"Better yet, my dear, show him the crypts," Lord Windhill said, washing down the last of his lunch with a small decanter of brandy.

"Oh yes, the Windhill crypts!" Mylenda cried, finding Casper's sudden confusion equally adorable and hilarious. "They've been around since the very first Windhill took up residence in these lands and made a name for himself. The histories say he was the youngest son of the Durrandon king of the time."

"That sounds like an odd sort of thing for betrotheds to visit…"

"Nonsense, my boy!" her grandfather said. "Come, Mylenda, I'll unlock the crypt and let you in. Take a pair of guards with you, though, for while it's no Storm's End, the tunnels beneath can be extensive for those that don't know their way!"

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The dark, dusty tunnels were as broad as three men, and near half again as high, so there was no chance of smashing your head into a low archway or finding yourself stuck in some narrow passage. Grandfather's father had been the last generation to afford having the place cleaned, so whilst there was some dust, it was nowhere near as bad as the stories she'd heard from her grandfather. So, with an errant cobweb or pile of dust popping up in places, it was a relatively clear place to explore. Still, it was an impressive place, even to her, a regular visitor, and even though it was less storied than, say, the halls of Stark or Lannister forefathers, one could still almost tangibly feel the weight of centuries in the place. How many footsteps of her same forefathers had echoed softly in these halls? How many of her kin had never been buried here, having been lost in battle or elsewhere, or had died before their time to be lord or lady of Windhall?

Though not told of in the great stories of the Stormlands, in these parts, the feats and often mythic acts of her ancestors had been inscribed upon the small plaques that adorned the tombs of the Windhill line. From the tombs of her grandfather's father, to before the Conquest, to before the Century of Blood, and further beyond, they stretched, doubling back on switchback stairs leading deeper and deeper into the ground. With luck, she might be the first Windhill Lady buried here in centuries, the first since "the days of Jeyne the Joyous," she told Casper.

He was managing being underground better than she had expected, but he seemed a tad on edge. The sturdy pillars had held these caverns for centuries and likely would for centuries more. Besides, her dead ancestors had never voiced their opinion on visitors, so she doubted they would now.

"Joyous?"

"Aye, she was a great patron of the arts, being both a skilled painter and sculptor herself, and her works often inspired great happiness and serenity. One of her sculptures still resides in the halls of some Volantene manse, or so grandfather told me, and the current Sealord of Braavos is said to have an original painting of hers locked away somewhere."

"Interesting," he replied as the ventured down the last set of stairs. "Who lies before us now?"

"The last hall is actually the first, belonging to the first Windhill and his descendants, Argillac, formerly of House Durrandon. He was said to have been a beast in battle, as the legends say he defeated no less than seven Dornish bandit kings in pitched battles."

"That's a great deal of Dornish defeated. How did he do it? Surely, they would have gotten wise to his methods, or was he some sort of tactical expert?"

"He was a victor of many battles, but the legends mention how his battle flail 'Whirlwind' was one given to him by his father the Stormking, one of apparently several at-the-time legendary weapons from the fabled Storm Armory. Most others, such as the lance known as 'Lightning' and the battleaxe known as 'Surge' have been lost to time, and even now, we don't know when or how they were lost. Argillac was said to have been able to cast darkness upon his foes with 'Whirlwind', and that no shield could withstand its relentless assault."

"A flail? Well, I guess even now, after so many centuries, some of us Stormlords still have some things in common. Is this his tomb?"

At the very end of this last tunnel, within which emerged into a hall, sat the large sarcophagus holding the bones of Argillac Windhill. His likeness, carved into a statue of granite taken from the first quarry, stood as a resolute guardian over the tomb that bore the body of its likeness. The pair of guards behind them, their torches held aloft, cast a soft light in the room, showcasing a great many trophies taken in this ancient man's life. Dornish bows, now long since missing their strings, were interspersed with helmets of fallen Reach knights, some old Riverland trident, and even an ironborn boarding axe.

Yet the last treasure was perhaps the most stunning. Atop a pedestal of solid marble sat the weapon, forged from a metal so black it seemed to simply absorb the light of their torches, the chain's links were inscribed in runes that she didn't know and doubted anyone alive today did as well. The flail head was longer than it was wide, with large spikes erupting from its ridged sides. It seemed unaffected by time, even this deep in the catacombs, and although the plaque bearing its name was worn by time, it was no less legible.

"Whirlwind, bringer of the storm," she said. Gingerly, she touched it, casting a quick glance at Argillac's tomb in case he showed disapproval. He hadn't, so she did, and the cold metal felt the same as it always had to her.

Mylenda glanced to her fiancé, who seemed entranced by it. "Would you care to touch it?" she asked, hoping her grandfather wouldn't mind when the guards eventually told him.

Casper reached forward, brushing softly past her as he stared at the ancient weapon. None knew the techniques of how to forge such a deadly creation, and as he reached for it, some small part of her positively hummed with anticipation. The shadows in the room around her seemed to retreat even further, as if the torches shone brighter, and in the stillness, she could almost hear the howl of a faint wind and the roar of the sea.

Yet after a moment, he shook his head, like a dog clearing water from its ears, and his hand retreated, and the darkness returned, and the faint sounds of wind and tide ceased.

"No, it wouldn't be right," he said as he took her hand instead, noticing her look of confusion and as much as she hoped she managed to disguise it, disappointment. Holding his hand was a nice tradeoff, though, so she wasn't terribly upset. "Perhaps another day, Mylenda, maybe once we are wed. I don't… it feels wrong to try and hold such an artifact when we've not yet become family."

"If that is your wish, my betrothed," she replied. "Then some other day, perhaps on the first time we rotate between our time in Stormhall and Windhall. There are other things we may do in the meantime, if you do not wish to linger here."

"Such as?"

"Would you like to see my grandfather's study? The rocking chair you sent him is still in there, and I'd dare say it remains his favorite."

He nodded with a small smile and gently squeezed her hand. "Aye, I'd like that."