Chapter 28: Baelor VII

Late 155 AC

It was a momentous day for the lands of House Wytch, and indeed all the Stormlands, for the last of the Dornish raiders had been defeated, and now the victorious lords were returning east. Rumors circulated faster than the smallfolk could alter them, of daring traps, heroic charges into the fray, vicious fighting, displaced villages and new, wondrous futures once the rebuilding in the Marches was completed. The eyes of the rest of Westeros would be on the Stormlands for the time being, as news of such martial prowess would surely impress those in safer, quieter lands. The banners of Houses Wytch and Baratheon had been sighted cresting a hill in the distance earlier in the morning, and the in-progress preparations by Lady Wytch, begun the day before, had been driven into a frenzy. All manner of the Wytch household, from maids to cooks and men at arms to stable boys were scrambling about, ensuring everything was completely perfect for the arrival of their lord and his liege.

Baelor had dressed himself in his best clothes, despite the protests of some maids wishing to help him. They'd cited something about princes not needing to dress themselves, and while he was a prince, he was no helpless babe! There'd also been the small ordeal with Lady Wytch's attempts to comb his lustrous locks into some semblance of order, only for most of them to spring out of place as she neared completion. He had not had it cut in some time, and so she'd decided on a single, large braid to hold it together. It was a bit odd, but he liked it, it kept his hair out of his eyes and made it easier to see his archery target.

Standing near the young Wytch girls, their looks of excited glee matching the one he managed to hold within him, the prince looked to the gates as a great roar came from the slopes of the castle. Like rolling thunder, the cheers of the gathered smallfolk, merchants and men at arms alike rumbled through the stonework, growing closer with every passing moment. Then, with a bellow of horns, the front of the column rode in, the Baratheon and Wytch sigils flapping in the stiff summer breeze.

It would be the last for some time. Ravens had been sent out from the Citadel, bearing the news of the onset of the coming autumn. None knew how long it would last before they sent out the white ravens signifying that winter was upon them. None knew how long the winter would linger nor how harsh it would be this time. Would it be a terribly cold and icy winds that claimed lives of livestock and Westerosi alike across the continent? Or would it be a cool, dry period, with occasional snow and otherwise calm days this far south?

As Lord Wytch and Lord Baratheon dismounted from their horses, looking identical to the heroes from old tales, Baelor banished such thoughts of cold from his mind. Now was the time of celebration, of joy, and of returning friends! Even if it were tinged with a touch of sadness, as he would no doubt soon return to Storm's End with his foster father, he was happy to have met and made a friend in Lord Wytch.

"Lord Baratheon, your return is most welcome," Lady Wytch said, offers of bread and salt at the ready.

"It is good to be closer to home, though my journey is not yet finished, my lady," the lord replied before turning to him. "My prince, it is good to see you again."

"Likewise, Lord Baratheon," he replied with a polite bow. "I look forward to hearing of your time in the Marches during our supper."

"Aye, you're liable to hear a lot of that in the coming months. Best to hear it now, from men who were there, rather than through the rumor mill," his lord said, a tad mysteriously, before making his way towards the keep, one of the squires leading his horse to the stables. Business as usual then, leaving him to his own devices, but he understood his lord needed refreshment after such a long and grueling journey. Still, a bit of affection would have been nice.

He looked back to see Lord Wytch embrace his mother and sisters, drawing them into a fierce hug amidst fiercer whispers. There was a pang of jealousy he crushed as soon as it'd flared deep within, but it had been there, nonetheless. His father had never hugged him like that upon some return, nor had his brother or sisters, though the younger were too little to do so. Only his mother had given him such affection, and maybe some of his cousins at times. Not Aegon, for sure.

As they broke apart amidst even more excited whispers, ones he could not quite hear, he got a good look at his friend, and noticed something odd. Was… was that a beard? He'd thought it a mere trick of the light, but no, his friend had managed to grow a beard! Incredibly short, and none too thick, like those of old men, but it was there.

Would he be able to grow one, once he was old enough? Did he have a weak chin? He'd heard that growing a beard was the surest way to hide one, and that some men were looked down upon for bearing weak chins…

"My prince," Lord Wytch said, offering his arm, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Clasping it as best he could, Baelor managed to suppress a wince as they gripped one another. His friend, however, did not, surprise showing at his strong grip. "Lord Wytch, it's good to see you again."

"Likewise. You've got quite the grip there, my prince. Time in the training yard?"

"As much as I can with regard to my other duties, Casper," Baelor softly replied with a smile.

One eyebrow nearly disappeared into the thick black locks his lord had grown out. Had it really been a year since they'd last seen each other? He seemed so much older than he remembered, his sun-kissed skin standing out amidst those curls. "What duties, my prince? I wasn't aware of allowing my mother to assign you tasks."

"Nothing of the sort," he said, as the rest of the yard filed towards the keep. Supper would not be for some time yet, and it would do for his friend to freshen up. "I've started on a project that I've sent to my father. I hope to hear back from him soon."

"Truly? All by yourself?"

"No, Maester Gorman helped me quite a bit. I've seen how you've managed to turn backwater lands into a new center for farming and production in the Stormlands. I'd like the same for the Kingswood, but with its timber and other resources."

"The Kingswood, eh? Mighty ambitious, looking to harvest and manage a forest larger than the holdings of some major lords. Anything else?"

"Just farming in the Crownlands around the Blackwater, but I thought I'd start with the forest. We'd need so many tools to plow and sow the additional farmland."

Casper nodded. "Then you've thought this through, my friend. Come, let us go inside, my mother said the feast is still being prepared and that you've other things to tell me."

"Yes, yes, I've done so much!"

"Then I'll gladly hear of it during supper," Casper said playfully wrinkling his nose. "I smell like the road and need a good shower. I'll hopefully only be a bit busy before supper, mother said there's a pile of work on my desk that I'd best get to sooner than later, but unless more comes up in the meantime, it shouldn't take me the rest of the day."

Baelor managed to turn his crestfallen look into one of understanding. His uncle often had much work to do, so her understood that duty oftentimes overtook personal wants. Still, Casper probably had so many stories, he couldn't wait to hear them! "Of course, Casper, we'll talk then. If you finish early, you can find me in my room, I'll be reading."

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Yet Casper didn't come to his room before supper, no matter how much Baelor prayed to the Seven for it. The pile of work must have been great, for his friend arrived in the great hall just before supper was to begin. Even as Casper sat down, a great bell rang in the crowded hall, and platters upon platters of food and drink were wheeled out on small carts between the great tables.

"Those carts are new," Lord Baratheon muttered, a bit perplexed.

Lord Wytch nodded. "Aye, but I had nothing to do with them. One of the older maids, according to mother, was having trouble carrying too much at once. Turns out, her husband is one of my premier carpenters, and made one of these for her to help push loads from the kitchen staging room out into the hall. Well, mother noticed how much they could carry, yet needed so little effort to push in comparison, and placed an order for several more."

"Wouldn't work somewhere with kitchens on a different floor than the hall, but on a level ground? Aye, damn useful I'd bet."

From there, the men meandered on to the stories of their times in the Marches as the first course of small dishes were served, stories that Baelor found fascinating despite his wishes to speak of something else. The Dornish he had met in Stormhall were of an entirely different variety, if what these raiders did was anything to go by. Hearing of Casper's methods against the raiders and his capture of their group offset the slightly ill feeling in his belly when he heard of what happened with the second set. Impalement? A harsh crime for harsh deeds, and he thanked the Seven the men were dead, but why would Casper do such a thing?

Was it to warn the Dornish to stop raiding? His friend made no indication he'd enjoyed it, but his uncle too had had to make many uneasy decisions as Hand of the King. Perhaps it was one of those situations where it must be done, even if one did not wish to do it? He'd known his father and uncle to disagree on situations and decisions in the past, but something like this was unheard of. He'd not read anything like this in the Seven-Pointed Star…

After finishing with the first course, the next was brought out, bringing a slight lull to their stories. Here was his chance, he could interject-

"In regard to your work after we arrived, anything interesting?" Lord Baratheon asked.

Unnoticed once more, the prince closed his mouth, his words dying on his tongue.

"Reports that needed my input, for the most part. A small band of hedge knights and yeomen have offered their services in exchange for lands to tend to. However, other than Luthor in Highmarsh, a position it took him years to earn, our family hasn't had such attention from skilled men before, and although they all bring something to the table, this is a first for us. Would you have any suggestions, my lord?"

Lord Baratheon was silent for longer than Baelor expected. "Well, I see no harm in allowing them to settle, but I'd be wary of their intentions, my lord. They've come from out of the Stormlands and could bring any manner of intent with them."

He knew a lord was made more powerful by the number of vassals he had at his disposal, but paradoxically was also weaker if said vassals maintained little rapport, were disloyal in some way, or were near as strong as their lord was. The tales of House Frey and the conflicts in the Riverlands had been eye opening to the prince, and the plights of House Tully therein. Here was his chance! "If I might have a suggestion, my lord?" he politely spoke up.

"Yes, my prince, what is it?" Lord Baratheon replied, turning to him.

"These knights and yeomen undoubtedly bring skills that could only improve the lands and the strength of House Wytch, but as you implied, they could also be dangerous; spies for kin or original lords, men seeking to take advantage of a young and, in their eyes, inexperienced lord's hospitality and goodwill. Granting them lands to tend to themselves, perhaps in fortified manors but little else, as Ser Luthor has done, would be better than giving them oversight over villages immediately. Let it be a test of their character and how they provide for themselves before they are entrusted with any of your smallfolk."

"As men of skill, war is the surest way to profit, through spoils or prestige, but in times of peace, such options are not always available," Casper added with a thoughtful nod. "They would need to prove themselves able to not only support themselves in war, but during this peacetime we have taken great care in maintaining. This would mean managing finances, production of goods and services, and upholding both laws and maintaining their reputation so that others would be willing to do business with them. A man known for skimping on payment or gambling away funds is far less trustworthy than those who seek investments and improvements to what they already have."

"Aye, giving manors to landless knights can be a troublesome investment," Lord Baratheon agreed. "Too often they let others run things for them when they're not off on hunts, visiting kin or attending tourneys. It is easy for them to fall to vices that see their smallfolk mistreated, and some will go far in keeping such troubles out of the notice of their lords."

"Hence a system of rewarding both loyalty and ingenuity. I've been meaning to implement them for some time now, but with the troubles since my father's death, and now this trouble in the Marches, I hope to have some peace for a few years now."

"What system?" Baelor asked.

Casper smiled. "Something akin to fairs and tourneys of my own, though obviously far smaller and more suited for my lands, held perhaps twice a year, or at the beginning of every spring and autumn. The first, to lift the spirits of those who have survived the winter and to celebrate the coming of summer, and the other to celebrate the bounty of summer and as a preparation for the coming of colder times."

"What would these fairs have? I have heard of them taking place in the Reach and the Riverlands, but not for some time," Lord Baratheon said. "The Dance set back a great many festivities in a great many lands, and I'd wager a good number are just now returning to some semblance of normalcy. Gods know we could use such festivities to brighten the spirits of the kingdoms once more."

"I would have simple things for the most part, my liege. Archery competitions, horse races, wrestling, games of chance and skill, perhaps even a melee if we've enough contestants for it. For the smallfolk, competitions and subsequent prizes for prized livestock, largest crop grown, and a chance for them to mingle with folk they'd likely never see from different parts of my lands. The most important, however, would be the ingenuity it could bring."

"Ingenuity?" Baelor asked, his puzzled expression mirrored by Lord Baratheon.

"Ideas and inventions, my prince. Even the simplest farmer could find a way to improve the means of accomplishing something. Much as I saw the need for a better horse harness and took the steps to make one, a farmer could create a better wheelbarrow to help haul his produce into his house because his back hurts, or his wife isn't strong enough to do it by herself while with child. Or a shepherd might make himself a better hat to shield the sun from his eyes but keep rain off his shoulders during a spring lambing."

"Or a blacksmith might make a contraption that lifts a larger drop hammer to tend to his work than he could lift himself," Lord Baratheon added as the food arrived before them. "I've not heard of such fairs in the Stormlands before, but they sound reasonable, and surely occur elsewhere in Westeros. They would draw hundreds or thousands of people into Lowhill or wherever they were held and would likely also draw in merchants looking to ply their wares. Such seasonal and celebrated gatherings would be a great opportunity for a man to make a great deal of coin."

"They could also draw in men like these mentioned hedge knights looking for lords to serve," Baelor said, his stomach rumbling as the round of dishes, this time a large slice of smoked pork, surrounded by crunchy garlic bread and cheese-stuffed green peppers, was laid before him. "For good or ill," he added. "Now, as to the project I was doing while you were gone…"

"Of course, my prince, but let us eat first," Casper said, digging into his meal. Lord Baratheon nodded and began, joining the rest of the great hall in their feast.

Holding back a sigh of disappointment, Baelor nodded and started at his pork; slowly cooked since before midday, on a great bed of oak chips, smoked to a consistency where he didn't even need a knife to cut it into pieces. Lord Baratheon hadn't had the time for him before the feast, and Casper had been too busy for them to talk before, and now his project was being overshadowed by the feast. Would they have time for him later? Or would this be like the Red Keep, where others took precedence over him?

Silence overtook them as they continued to eat, the food and drink plentiful and varied as before. Minorly ribald songs came from the varied knights, many trying to keep in line with the rousing chorus. Ale, cider, and brandy was consumed amidst great platters of Timberstone pork, seasoned breads, charred greens, and a whole host of other foods. Maids laughed with good cheer as the men playfully poked at them or received their drinks, and more than one man was so deep in his cups, already, that he'd be falling asleep at the table soon enough. Yet this was distant to the boy prince, for his mind was abuzz with a worry that had creeped into his belly, unbidden and determined to ruin his day.

He had not yet heard from his father on the matter of his project. Even with his time with Maester Gorman, and input from many of Casper's notes on Timberstone, he had felt he'd forgotten something not long after he had sent the courier. Yet what could he do without appearing foolish? Send another, hopefully faster courier, to intercept or join with the first? Or had the first courier simply been delayed, and his father hadn't received the plans yet? Would uncle Viserys like it? What about Daeron, or his mother? Or was one of them sitting on the letter, waiting for a time to speak about it?

Was he foolish for trying to do something so soon? He was a prince, yes, but he had only just turned one and ten. What else could be expected of a one and ten boy who hadn't even had a friend before he'd left home? Was trying to make a name for himself pointless this early in his life? Should he go back to the Seven-Pointed Star, which had given him so much comfort in the past? Or should he continue this journey into the unknown, never to return to the sheltered boy he was?

Not to mention the return of his friend and foster father being sullied by their inability to spend time with him before the feast. He knew they hadn't chosen to, that duty had called them away, but it still hurt. Lord Baratheon was a fair and just lord, the kind most vassals would wish to have. He kept the king's peace, ensured fairness amongst deals, and stood by the rights of his vassals. Casper too was a good lord, wise for his years, pious, and willing to be the first to lend a hand to a sheltered, ignorant prince who had known so little of the world he lived in. Had they forgotten him, in their time away? Perhaps he should have written to them in the Marches?

No, no, foolish boy, they couldn't have written or received messages, the raiders were too dangerous for lone couriers and they were too far to use ravens. Seven help him, did they think he'd simply sat in Lowhill's sept or his bedroom the year they'd been gone? No, no, of course not, he'd been practicing with bow and axe, the staff and shield, even using a sword as much as he could. He was behind the other squires, yes, but he would catch up, couldn't he? He was still young, there was yet time before he was expected to be in the training yard to impress others, and not just train for himself. To calm his nerves amidst this flurry of thoughts, he turned to his friend, struggling to find some words to ease his inner turmoil. What should he start with, before leading back into his project? The Marches? Yes, of course, Casper had been there for near a year, of course they could talk about that!

"So, what was it like in the Marches?"

Casper shrugged. "We often didn't see sign of people for days at a time, smallfolk or otherwise, as it is a vast land, even less densely populated the most other parts of the Stormlands," he said. "The grasses are tall, some of them tall enough to hide a man atop his horse. Most of these were in the valleys, though, and the rest of the landscape is either medium grassland or marshy terrain. We found few trees out there, so we always had our wood with us and reuse it as much as possible. Most of our cooking fires had to be made with dried grass or horse dung."

The prince wrinkled his nose at the thought of the smell. "What of the smallfolk?"

"They don't have near as many farms, not enough streams for irrigating, and most of the farms they do have are small, just enough to support themselves. What they do have, are pastures, and large flocks of sheep."

"Would the environment be good for cattle, like yours from that aurochs bull?"

He smiled. "Aye, my prince, I could see fields of cattle one day making their home out in those grasslands. Even with the coming winter, so long as the dried grasses aren't set ablaze, they should support such beasts year-round. Lord Selmy is most open to establishing his own herds of cattle for meat and dairy, as is Lord Dondarrion."

"How did you come by them? I've heard tales they are a most independent sort."

"My sister Arenna is to be betrothed to Lord Selmy's second son soon. They'll not marry for many years yet, but in the meantime, we've other deals I managed to secure, such as a readily available supply of food in leaner times, and first pick of harvests to aid in supplementing the crops lost to the raiders. Now," he said, after finishing his smoked pork, "what was this idea of yours we were talking about? Something about the Kingswood?"

Baelor silently thanked the Seven. Finally, a chance to prove himself to his friend! "The Kingswood is a large forest, bigger than any south of the Neck, or so I think. There is so much waiting in there that could be used to the advantage of the Crownlands, Kings Landing and House Targaryen. With your maester's help, I put together a huge plan for my father to look over. With it, we could start doing the same in the Kingswood that you've done near Timberstone, but on a much larger scale."

"Maximum harvest for minimum impact upon the forest? Would you be replanting sparsely, to encourage natural growth, or would you expand the perimeters of the forest with tree plantations?"

"Both, as you have, depending upon the feasibility of the area. Inside the forest, we would replant and leave some of the larger trees to reseed the area we cut, just like I saw in your notes about… 'conservation' I think? Along the edge of the forest would be best for the tree plantations, though with a gap, so the seedlings aren't shaded out when trying to grow. I know you told me some kinds of trees grow in shade or sun, and others can't handle shade at all."

"Good, an excellent combination of forward thinking and practicality," his friend replied. "What of the Kingsroad and other paths through the forest?"

"I proposed we build them in the style your roads have been, either through rebuilding them or creating entirely new ones. They would need to be wider though, to allow carts and caravans to pass one another once in the woods."

"What of where the road ends? On the Blackwater Rush, opposite the River Gate?"

"Oh, the wood would not go directly to Kings Landing, but a short journey further upriver. Here is where the sawmills and lumber yards would be."

"Not directly near Kings Landing? I was assuming that is where you'd find your laborers."

"No, the noise and fire risk so close to the city would be too much. Yes, workers would need to leave the city to work in the lumber yards, but it wouldn't be that far of a walk. They would then float the finished lumber on barges down to the harbor, where they could be immediately used by shipwrights or craftsmen within the city, as moving logs by river would be faster than trying to carry them over land."

"Why not simply float them down in great rafts? Lash the logs together and float them like great chunks of ice?"

Baelor shook his head. "That many logs could damage any ships should some rain push them downriver and into the harbor faster than anticipated. We'd also stand the chance of losing logs or jamming the river, meaning fishermen and ships that came farther upstream would not be able to pass."

"You've given this a great deal of thought, I'm proud of you my prince," Casper said, smiling as he finished his brandy and gentle ruffled his friend's hair. "What about during winter?"

The urge to squeal in delight, as he had heard the Wytch sisters do when they saw puppies, was immediately and brutally crushed in his soul. There was no way he'd live that embarrassment down, and it was unbecoming of a prince to act that way. "Well, if the river doesn't freeze, we can continue with the barges. If the river freezes enough that we can't float them, I'm not sure. Break the ice?"

"Perhaps, perhaps. Where will the money come from to fund all of this?"

"The royal treasury?"

"How full is the treasury?"

"I… I don't know. A good bit?"

"Is it? The damage from the Dance was severe, and I have no idea just how empty the coffers of your family have been since it ended. Did you manage to come up with a sort of expense report, detailing how much coin might be needed for each part?"

"Yes, Maester Gorman and I tallied it, based on your reports in Timberstone."

"Would the price be the same as in the Crownlands, that much closer to Kings Landing?"

Oh, he hadn't thought of that. "I… I don't know. I didn't think it'd be that different."

Casper nodded. "It may not be, and for all we know, the coffers of your family have recovered since the Dance. Yet never assume anything if you can, my prince. Assumptions are the first step towards failure. It always, always pays dividends to research and prepare for something, even if you don't know where to start."

"As plans are useless, but planning is essential," Baelor finished, recalling that passage from his little book.

"Exactly. I'm sure your father or uncle are going over it now as we speak. Did you, by chance, receive anything from them for your nameday?"

"No, but their letter did mention they had a surprise waiting for me at Storm's End for when I return. I hope it's something nice, I like surprises."

At the edge of the hall, a man dressed in Targaryen livery appeared, drawing his attention. Casper too followed his gaze, as the man, escorted by a pair of guards, approached the head table.

"My lords, my prince, I bear a message," the man said.

"He's been searched, my lords, he bears only a scroll," one of the guards said, a captain by the look of his clothes, who handed it off to Lord Baratheon.

"Aye, looks to be from your uncle, my prince," his foster father said, the seal of the Targaryens shining brightly on the dried red wax.

Eagerly, Baelor took the scroll and unfolded it, eyes tracing over the familiar handwriting of Viserys as the courier went to join the festivities. Yet as he read the words, he was unsure why he didn't understand them. How… how could they not understand? Had his uncle and his father not read the letter in its entirety? Did they not see the potential for their house, or for their smallfolk? Or did they still think him the pious little prince he had been before his fostering, placating him with words whilst turning down his ideas as infeasible, when they most certainly weren't!

Struggling to hold back a gasp as he barely finished the letter, he managed to choke out, just loud enough for others to hear, "I suddenly feel tired, Lord Baratheon, may I retire to my room for the evening?"

Even before the lord paramount could gather what had happened, he quickly and loudly thanked him, and rushed off from his seat, tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes as he dropped his scroll. He rushed past servants and guards alike, a surprised Ser Thorne close on his heels as he reached his room and ran inside, throwing himself upon his bed, his fluffed pillow smothering his cries.

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Hours may have passed by the time he had cried himself hoarse, or was it only minutes? He noticed for the first time that the rays of the setting sun had been replaced by candles and faint rays of moonlight, and a cool wind, perhaps the first of autumn, blew gently into his room from his open shutters. He had heard muttering whilst he lay there but had neither looked nor cared to listen too intently. As he wiped his nose, Baelor felt someone sit on the corner of his bed.

"Go back to your post, Ser Thorne," he muttered, wishing he had something to drink. He hadn't cried this hard in a long, long time, not since cousin Aegon had ridiculed him for finishing the Seven-Pointed Star that first time.

"He still is, and I must commend him for that. He even refused food to watch over you."

Baelor turned and looked up from his bed. "Casper?"

His friend, still dressed for supper, nodded softly. "How are you holding up, Baelor?"

He… he'd called him by his name. Not 'my prince' or 'my friend', but 'Baelor', and for the life of him, he wasn't sure if this was a first or not. He couldn't remember a lot of things now, the contents of the letter still upsetting him enough to pull a fugue over his thoughts.

"Come, sit by me," Casper added, patting beside him.

Slowly scooching over, Baelor nestled himself against Casper's side, a breach of decorum that he frankly didn't care about. His friend pulled him closer with a strong yet gentle arm, and in return Baelor hugged him, perhaps harder than he had ever hugged his actual family, burying his face into his friend's strong chest. Aside from his mother and younger sisters, this kind of affection was rare in his family. For some time, his throat dry and his eyes puffy and red, they sat there, silent as passing clouds that shaded the light of the full moon outside. It wasn't fair! Daena went off and did as she pleased, and both Daeron and Aegon seemed to never have to answer for anything they did, be it failed lessons or going off into Kings Landing all they wished. Father rarely did anything with any of them, even less so with him, and his uncle was always running the kingdoms in his father's stead, rarely having time for anything but work! Only mother made time for him, and now with Elaena needing attention, he'd been left to his own devices up until his fostering. Yet for all the others did or didn't do, he, the pious prince, the 'Blessed', couldn't even be taken seriously on such a project he'd come up with. One to aid and strengthen his family, but no! It wasn't 'feasible' and 'spoke of flighty idealism' that 'bore no need' at this time.

It was all so unfair!

"You dropped the letter when you left supper," Casper finally said, breaking the silence.

"Did you read it?" Baelor mumbled.

"It wouldn't have been proper, but I didn't have to, judging from your reaction. Lord Baratheon has it now if you wish to keep it."

"I don't want to, but I need to, I suppose, for a little while at least," Baelor sniffled. "Did the feast notice?'

"Most didn't see your exit, and the ones that did or were notified by their companions heard you were simply tired from preparing this morning for our arrival. Only I, Lord Baratheon, and of course Ser Thorne know the real reason."

"Gods, I must look like a mess."

"No less of a mess than any of us would be in your situation. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not now, I just… I just don't know. I thought it was a good idea, Ser Thorne seemed to think so, Maester Gorman sure seemed convinced of it. It's just like what you did in Timberstone, only I'm starting with what you'd learned along the way, and not from scratch. Why would my uncle reject it? Why would he call it a needless expense?"

"You'll have to ask him yourself once you return to Kings Landing. For now, try not to dwell on it too much. There was a saying from a wise man I put in that little book that applies perfectly to this situation. Do you remember it?"

"I… I think so. The happiness of my life depends on the… quality of my thoughts?"

Casper smiled and ruffled his hair. "Got it in one try. Dwelling on this will be like a great burden placed on your back, one that you will continue to carry on your path until you simply let it fall by the wayside, and move on."

They sat silence for a few more minutes, the light breeze flickering the candles around the room.

"When will I leave? With Lord Baratheon, that is?" Baelor asked.

"Within a week or two. He wishes to return home something fierce, but he has been on the road with me for some time and wishes for a short rest. He's been away from Storm's End much longer than I've been from Stormhall."

"Can I stay here with you instead?" It was a vain hope, but a hope nonetheless.

"I'm afraid not, Baelor, not yet anyway. Give it a few years, I'm sure Lord Baratheon will allow for you to travel the Stormlands all you want once you're a bit older. Then, unless he calls for you, you could stay where you'd like."

"How much is a bit older? I like it out here."

"Perhaps two years, maybe three? Many young lords or princes often go gallivanting on adventures of their own making once they turn three and ten or older. Under proper supervision, of course. Wouldn't want you off somewhere unsafe now, would we?"

Despite the fact he'd soon leave his friend hurt him deep inside, Baelor softly chuckled at that. "I like being safe. I wouldn't worry about such adventures, my brother Daeron is the one you'd have to watch out for on that."

Casper made a curious sigh before releasing him from his hug. "I think it'd be best for us both to get a good night's rest, my prince. I will see you bright and early in the morning. The training yard, perhaps? Word is you've become quite good with your bow."

"Yes, that sounds good," the prince replied with a yawn, suddenly feeling exhausted. Such a long day, and the news from his family… no, no, he would not dwell on that now. His friend was right, best to forget it for now, and look back to it with a clear mind. Gingerly he untangled himself from Casper, and as his friend made to leave, he turned to him. "Casper?"

"Yes?"

"After I leave… will you still write to me?"

"Of course, Baelor. Now, get a good night's sleep."

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Dorne IV

Late 155 AC

Very few things scared Alfrid Sand. He had lived as rough a life as most noble bastards did, even in Dorne, and had thought himself accomplished, overcoming many of the problems and prejudices that came with his role in society. He had earned gold, prestige, and a great deal of battlefield experience in his time raiding caravans and then the Marches, and though he had lost his band of men, he had yet lived, and learned from his mistakes.

Few bastards who had achieved as he did could say the same.

However, something that did scare him, was something he truly did not know or understand. Another was the rage of his uncle, Wyllam Wyl, when it was fully unleashed. It was unfortunate for him that both happened to be threatening not only his plans for his future revenge, but for the very objective he had been striving for his entire life.

"So," his lordly uncle said, his voice as harsh as wind-whipped sand across exposed, tender flesh. "This party, of several hundred men, had no connection to you, or any of your former fellows?"

"No, uncle, I swear I knew nothing of them, before or after they rode through your lands. Should you grant it today, we would not be ready for such a strike into the Stormlands for a few years yet." His cousins had already been questioned and sent to their rooms in their father's rage. Now here he was, before his uncle, feeling very out of place before the wrath of a normally exceedingly patient man. Clearly, that patience had reached its end.

"Do we know where they came from?"

"Sources say from various places to our south and west. No lords who have responded to our queries have had any men disappear, and although we remain the only lands in which they rode in force, all acknowledged small parties passing through. Houses Manwoody and Yronwood reported such sightings, but we've yet to receive word from other, further houses on the matter."

"Then why did none stop them? They would be trespassers if they did not make themselves known."

"These men seemed to ignore any hails, simply stopping their horses for water and food at whatever springs or streams they came across. They bore no banners, and their armor seemed aged and ill-fitting. Pursuit proved fruitless, for even if their steeds were the same, the men seemed to not need rest. It is a wonder they did not die from the heat as they rode."

"I do not care if they left trails of gold and fresh springs of water behind them as they rode, these men trespassed through the lands of several lords. The Prince has been notified and has promised aid to our investigations." His uncle scowled at this. "This bodes ill for the security of our borders if unknown parties could be seen moving through Dorne and join into a major fighting force without any knowledge of their origins or intent."

"Of the parties we have been able to track, one came through from the direction of the Vulture's Roost."

His uncle's look of surprise scared him almost as much as his accusations had. Lord Wyl knew near everything that went on his lands through spies and couriers alike, so for part of this group to have somehow originated near the very beginning of the Wyl River, high in the Red Mountains, and near such an old, abandoned castle…

It meant something foul was afoot.

"Then there is where I shall send a patrol. Even the vilest scum of these lands knows when to bow or flee before the banners of House Wyl. My men will find the cause of this, and you best pray they do."

There was the sound of a trumpet, a series of blasts he'd not heard before. A pair of guards were dispatched with a quick nod from Lord Wyl, to ascertain the situation. It must have been something significant, for mere minutes later, flanked by those same guards, two men entered the room. Battered, dirty, and scorched by the sun, they were nonetheless alive, though in terribly rough shape. Alfrid had almost not recognized them with their shawls and turbans, were it not for the fact he'd spent so much time with them not so long ago. "Doran? Lewyn?"

"Alfrid," the latter said with a hiss, the former remaining silent. "You do live. I see your loss was not so great as to prevent you returning home. A shame that could not be said for so many others."

"Who are these men?' his uncle asked, rising from his seat.

"Two of my former raiders in arms, Lewyn and Doran Sand." Judging from their heated expressions, they were simply former compatriots, nothing more.

"Yet more grains from the dunes of Dorne, here in my halls. If you were amongst my nephew's raiders, then how did you escape the Stormlords?"

"We didn't escape, we were set free, but at a price," Doran said, removing his shawl to reveal an ugly, open hole in his face. Lewyn mirrored his actions, revealing an identical wound.

"They took your left eyes?"

"Aye, as per our punishment, and our decision," Lewyn said. "The others that lived, they lost both, courtesy of Lord Wytch. Compared to Edgar and the other Dornish they fought, we only received a light punishment."

Alfrid growled in anger. "Those barbaric fuckers! How dare they wound you so!"

"We were given the choice of what to lose for our raiding, Alfrid. It was our hands, our cocks, or our eyes. If we'd refused, we'd have all died."

"So, you return to Dorne, alive, but spoiled by our foe," Lord Wyl said. "My maester will see to your wounds, and those of your comrades. For now, you are guests of House Wyl, and shall depart only once you have recovered your strength. Your fellows may stay in the local towns."

Without another word, the pair left, and Alfrid didn't even see the blow before it slammed into his face, sending him sprawling across the floor. Looking up in pain and shock, he saw his uncle there, uncurling a fist.

"You foolish boy, were you not kin, I'd have you tied to a mountain rock for the vultures," Lord Wyl hissed. "You have made an enemy of a Stormlord we've not seen the mettle of in some time. Usually, they send raiders to the Wall, or ransom them, or just kill them, but this one, this 'Wytch' is nothing I expected him to be. A Stormlord with such backbone will not simply attempt to drive out a raid into his lands, he would seek to destroy it and whoever sent it, damn the consequences. I will not allow for a venture into the Stormlands for some petty revenge that would see us all maimed, or worse!"

Moaning slightly, Alfrid stood back up. "Uncle, we need not do so now. In time, once the border has settled, then we could strike again, when they least expect it. The maesters have said that autumn draws near, and in time, so too will winter once more. That is when we could strike, when they are least prepared for it!"

"Train and prepare all you want, but unless the dragons declare war or the Martells themselves allow for it, I will not risk the integrity of my house in earning the ire of a lord willing to blind and then release raiders back into the Stormlands. Do you have any idea, boy, of how this news will spread? Of how House Wyl will be known as a house that allowed for the disfigurement of fellow Dornish, all because one of the rotten branches of its tree decided to piss off the wrong kind of lord? Of how dangerous the game of raiding has now become? Many men will accept death if there is a great chance of victory and spoils, but to return alive, maimed and with no victory to show for it? None would dare follow such a venture."

Alfrid scowled. "That lord will answer for his crimes, uncle, I swear it. Once we find out where this 'Lord Wytch' resides, we will find a way to make him pay dearly."