Chapter 4 : The wind of change (end)

[William's POV]

In the past three years, my grandfather's health had declined, slowly, but steadily. Now, he rarely left his bed. So when I stepped into his room, my eyes went straight to it, and sure enough, there he was, William Senior, lying there like always.

His skin had grown pale, almost gray, and the fiery auburn in his hair and beard had faded, drained by the passage of time and the weight of illness.

The only trace of vitality left was the glimmer in his pale blue eyes, a defiant spark that refused to dim.

The sickness that was eating away at him matched the symptoms of the disease that would one day claim Hoster, but unlike his son, who would linger for over fifteen years before finally passing, I knew my grandfather wouldn't last nearly as long. Based on the progress of the disease, he had four to five years left at most, which was roughly the time frame I had initially predicted for his death based on the lore.

It seemed like some kind of stomach ailment, given how often he clutched his abdomen and winced. But neither Maester Corwin nor I, with all the knowledge I had from my past world, could pinpoint exactly what was killing him. As frustrating as it was, I had to accept the harsh truth ; Sometimes, my knowledge was only as useful as the tools available to me, and here, those were severely lacking.

That didn't mean I wasn't doing anything to help him, though. Unlike the others, who were keen on forcing natural remedies down his throat, I suggested a more discreet route. With Maester Corwyn's approval and the cooperation of the cooks, I devised a plan. Grandfather, stubborn as he was (yes, him too), wouldn't tolerate what he called 'useless folk remedies that taste worse than the illness itself'. So, instead, I subtly began incorporating ingredients that could relieve his stomach pain into his meals, bit by bit.

Grated ginger in his broth, mint tea after meals, and fennel that I discreetly added to his vegetables. Even goat's milk, said to be easier to digest, found its way into his diet. He never suspected that any of it had a purpose (or at least never openly questioned it), and I never told him. The simple subconscious association between these things and a decrease in his pain was enough for him to accept them without question I guess. It was my way of helping him without wounding his pride, offering him a small measure of relief amidst his suffering.

Beyond that, all we could do was offer him relief with milk of the poppy and, when possible, keep him company through the pain. 

When we realized my grandfather's time was running short, everyone started treating him differently. And sadly, not always for the better.

I did my best to act naturally around him, knowing from my past life that pity can sometimes hurt more than the illness itself. But Hoster, Minisa, and my father struggled to do the same. They hovered over him constantly, 'Don't eat that. Don't lift this. Let me slice your chicken.' The irony wasn't lost on me. Now that he was nearing the end, they were more attentive than ever, far more than when he had only been living with his disability.

My grandfather raised his right arm, which, though no longer as muscular as it had once been, still held some of its former strength. He beckoned me closer with a motion, "Come on, boy, I won't eat you." He said with a crooked smile that made me question his sincerity for a moment.

I smiled back, trying to match his sly expression, "Do you even have the strength left to chew me, Grandfather?" I teased.

He grunted in response, clearly not entirely amused by my sense of humor, "So this is how you talk to me now? You little wretch." He growled, shaking his fist at me in mock anger but stopping himself short, careful not to curse.

I laughed softly, knowing he appreciated my honesty, and the fact that I didn't treat him like fragile glass. I stepped closer to embrace him.

As I leaned in, his hand came down on my head, ruffling my hair with surprising energy, "How are you, young William?" he asked, a grin spreading across his face as he made a mess of the hair Minisa had carefully tidied earlier.

I didn't bother fixing it. My smile faded, "To be honest, I'm not very comfortable right now." My voice was sincere ; I never liked lying to him, and today was no exception.

His bushy eyebrows pulled together, a worried look creasing his face, "What's wrong?" He asked, his hand resting on my shoulder as his eyes searched mine.

The air grew heavy, and I could feel the weight of the moment. Not wanting to add more stress to his pain, I quickly waved my hands, trying to ease the tension, "No, no, it's nothing bad. You can relax."

"Oh," He said, pulling his hand back, "Then what is it about?"

This was the awkward part. I could feel the words sticking in my throat, but backing out now would be cowardice. I met his gaze, forcing myself to stand firm, "I need to talk to you about something." I said, though my voice wavered, lacking the confidence I had hoped to show.

[William senior's POV]

No longer the Lord of the Riverlands, I had become just a frail, sickly old man, haunted by thoughts of what would happen to my family once I was gone. So when I noticed William's unease, his usual confidence gone, I couldn't help but worry for this young fish, despite his claims that nothing was wrong.

Nervous, unsure? Such behaviour was unworthy of someone sharing my name. I had my own ways of reminding him of who he was. And when words failed, I found that a bit of directness worked wonders. Violence, as always, spoke clearly.

He stared at me, trying to look intimidating, but to me, he looked more like a boy struggling on the privy, desperate to rid himself of discomfort. Without warning, I slid my right hand, hidden beneath the bedcovers, closer to him, and at the right moment, I pinched his arm.

His reaction was instant and more dramatic than I anticipated, "Ow!" He shrieked, twisting and wriggling, desperate to escape the pinch of my two fingers.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" He begged, his face contorted in pain, realizing he was too weak to free himself.

I let go, not wanting to truly hurt him, "Nothing like a bit of pain to clear the mind, wouldn't you agree?" I said, my voice harsher than I intended.

William's hostile frown told me I had gone too far. Guilt flooded me. I shouldn't have done that.

"I… I'm sorry, William." I said, my voice trembling slightly, "You are growing up fast, and I forgot that you are still too young for lessons like these."

I feared his reaction, but to my relief, he gave me a small smirk, free of malice, "I understand what you were trying to teach me, but don't expect me to say 'thank you' if you hurt me." He grumbled, rubbing his arm to ease the pain.

To ease the tension, I shifted the conversation, "So, what was it you wanted to tell me?" I asked again.

This time, he answered confidently, his grin back. I mused that perhaps, after all, a little violence was still effective, "The Westerlands have their gold. The Reach and Dorne have their wine. But what about us? What do we have?" William posed his question like a riddle, one I found rather easy to solve given my former status.

"The Riverlands have cattle and wheat." I replied, raising an eyebrow, "Where are you going with this?"

"You will see." He replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out something flat and wrapped in cloth.

"Maester Corwin once told me that something's value comes from two things ; Usefulness and rarity. What I'm holding is the result of that thinking. I thought you might judge its usefulness, and as for rarity… well, I just invented it. It doesn't get any rarer than that." His expression was unreadable as he placed the object in my hands.

Intrigued, I carefully unfolded the cloth to reveal something dark brown, with an irresistible, sweet scent. I assumed it was meant to be eaten but hesitated, glancing at William for approval.

The light blue cloth revealed something dark brown with an intoxicatingly sweet scent. Judging by the smell, I assumed it was meant to be eaten, but I hesitated, seeking William's approval with my eyes before deciding whether to take a bite.

He broke off a small piece and handed it to me with a smile that said 'Go on, taste it'.

Naturally, I trusted my grandson. As I took a bite, I was met with one of the most unusual flavors I had ever experienced.

With age, the appeal of new experiences has only grown, though it's become more elusive, almost intangible. But as this powerful, unknown taste spread across my tongue, I found myself struggling to articulate what I felt.

It was rich and bold, but there was a sharp bitterness that caught me off guard, not quite sweet, but somehow still satisfying. The flavor deepened as it melted, revealing hints of something roasted, maybe nuts, though I couldn't quite place it. It wasn't sugary like most treats, but the smooth, creamy texture coated my mouth, leaving a strange but pleasant aftertaste. I wasn't sure if I liked it at first, but the more I tasted, the more I wanted to understand this mysterious, bittersweet flavor.

Snapping out of my daze, I turned my gaze from William to the mysterious brown creation, "What exactly have you just made me taste?" I asked, my voice betraying my delight.