Chapter 15: Baelor II

Mid 154 AC

A/N: anticipating that Baelor won't be easy to write without it turning into the uber-religious caricature he is known for later in life, this is a rough approximation of what I feel a fairly religious yet sheltered ten year old boy would be like. Please note that I may be entirely wrong in this.

Despite the atmosphere of the Stormlands varying from place to place, and being so far removed from Kings Landing, the lands felt as serene as it did proper. Yet, the feast was as unexpected as the lord hosting it. When greeted within Stormhall's entrance, and the bread and salt offered and accepted, Baelor marveled at how tall the young Lord Wytch was. Apparently, the young lord had only just celebrated his nameday, turning four and ten, yet he was as large as some of the knights in their retinue, with only Lord Baratheon being truly larger. Those violet eyes reminded him of father in a way, but the lord had said they came from his mother's side, from an unknown line in Lys.

So, perhaps very distantly, they were kin of sorts. The families of Valyria had readily intermarried or sired children in many places, so it would not be unusual to assume Casper's Lys ancestry eventually lined up with an ancestor of his own.

Stormhall itself was a bit unusual. It'd been a much smaller keep, according to Lord Wytch, and the expansions to its walls, rooms and courtyards had begun during the final two years of his father's life, though the majority of it had not begun in earnest until last year. A great hall that could formerly only seat around thirty people now sat well over a hundred, with room to spare. He, of course, alongside Lord Baratheon, sat at the head table with their host, their seats of honor close enough to make conversation effortless even amidst the dim rumble of men eating, drinking and talking.

His strict diet in King's Landing had been irrevocably altered by the trip to Storms End and then out to Stormhall. Oftentimes, he was too hungry to contemplate his simpler meals, riding on horseback far more exhausting than reading his books within his room or attending sermons of septons. As such, even though he'd puked the first night in Storm's End from overconsumption, he'd likely eaten more as a guest in the Stormlands than he'd eaten in moons in Kings Landing as a prince of the realm.

It was easy to tell how much weight he'd put on, given how wiry he'd been before his fostering, and tonight was likely going to see even more put on. The foods Lord Wytch had served, he'd never seen anything like them, and he'd seen all sorts of exotic dishes in the Red Keep whenever a feast had occurred. Strange new dishes such wheelers, log rolls, Dornished eggs, and a plethora of other things were laid before him, foods that his foster father Lord Baratheon was eating with great gusto. Spiced sausages served in cooked beans, roasted sweet corn dipped in butter, chicken covered in both seasonings and flour fried to a crisp golden color, and even mixtures of vegetables cooked in thick broths.

The taste tester Lord Baratheon had brought had ensured everything he'd eaten was safe, thankfully, as had Lord Wytch's own tester. He especially liked the small breadwytch he was given the choice of making for himself, preferring sliced ham, cheese and pickles upon the toasted cheese bread, with the spread being a most delicious heavy cream infused with garlic, rosemary and others he didn't quite know but most definitely liked. However, the greatest thing he ate, one that saw his stomach rumble like a distant storm upon seeing it, was a slab of meat served onto his plate that he'd never seen before. The texture was most curious, jiggly like some of the desserts he'd seen served in the Red Keep, but differently colored as one ventured from the almost burnt outermost layer down to the pinkish center, which he was assured was cooked through.

Every man in the hall was served a slab of it, many of them staring at it in wonder. When asked by Lord Baratheon, Lord Wytch stood up and proclaimed it to be the first 'brisket' served within Lowhill, seasoned with apple cider, salt and garlic, then slowly cooked over a low, smoky fire since early that same morning. The first bite was nothing short of astounding, as well as every bite afterwards. The taste reminded him of an aurochs dish he'd once sampled in the Red Keep, but this was beef according to Lord Wytch and he'd never tasted something like this. The noises of appreciation Lord Baratheon made sounded almost like the man was on the verge of crying, and he did not blame him. Surely this blessed food was inspired by the Seven themselves!

As the drinks came in earnest and his Lord Baratheon sipped a bright red brandy, he turned to Lord Wytch, finding him embroiled in quiet discussion with one of the cooks. With a nod, the man scurried off, several servants following closely behind him.

"My prince, I do hope you've saved room for dessert," the boy lord replied, turning back to him. Had he seen him look to him from the corner of his eye?

"I do feel rather full, Lord Wytch," he said, and that was perhaps one of the greatest truths he'd yet told another. His belly was not yet bursting, as it had been that first night in Storm's End, but by the Seven, his full belly had never been so content. No rumblings, no squeamishness, simply a well-sated appetite that he'd only developed after leaving home. Gods, how was he going to go back to such simple meals in his quarters upon his return to King's Landing? Perhaps this was a test of faith from the Seven?

"A pity, the cooks have told me the pies are ready to be served," his host said. "I've been particularly looking forward to the pumpkin pie. It took me a great while to collect enough spices to make them."

"Pumpkin pie?" he asked, curious. "I've never heard of one making pumpkin into a pie. Is that a Stormlander custom I've not been informed of?"

"No, it's likely common in parts of Westeros where pumpkins grow, but not the way I've had my cooks make them," Casper said.

Even as he spoke, the servants returned, with pies aplenty on small carts they pushed into the gathered dining hall, distributing the desserts onto the tables of the assembled host. Their own table saw pies both fresh and cooled served, and as he surveyed the choices, deciding one more piece wouldn't hurt, he motioned for one of the servants to serve him a slice. The wafting scent of spices tantalized his nose, and he realized this must be the pumpkin pie as he spied the dark orange color of the center.

"An excellent choice, my prince," Lord Wytch asked, as another servant brought forth a container wrapped in wool. "Might I suggest the whipped cream as a topping?"

"Whipped cream? What is that?" he asked before giving a nod.

"Using some longer forks, we take heavy cream and stir it as fast and hard as possible while cold to achieve the correct consistency, keeping it cold afterwards so it doesn't spoil before we serve it."

"How do you keep it chilled?" Keeping food cool was easiest during winter, but in his experience few ever wanted to eat cold food when it was already cold out.

"In the deepest parts of the castle, we have a cold storage area for helping to prepare or preserve certain foods," the young lord said, opening the container. "We call it an ice house, an addition my father made before his passing. Since that last winter, we've been using ice blocks to keep this room as cold as possible for as long as possible. It is also used to store certain foods that would not last as long in warmer weather."

A waft of a cool breeze left the large covered bowl, and with a large spoon, the servant scooped out what appeared to be very thick milk.

He gave her a nod, curious as to the creation, certain that it would be a heavy drop. Yet it fell from the spoon onto his slice with nary any weight to it, light and fluffy as the finest wool. With tender care, he took some and ate it upon his piece of pie. In the next moment, or as well as he could tell, his piece of pie was gone, as was the whipped cream atop it.

"Your thoughts, my prince?" Casper asked, eating his own slice after accepting a dollop of his own.

"Is it possible to make this 'whipped cream' anywhere, Lord Wytch?" It was amazing! He would have to see this 'ice house' for himself if possible.

"Only where it is cold enough to help the cream 'keep', as it does not taste near as good when it is warm, and is liable to spoil quickly if left out for too long. Many keeps with deeper regions, perhaps even the Red Keep, would be likely able to create such dishes, especially if filled with ice blocks during the winter months to keep during the warmer periods. However, the containers to bring up such dishes to feasts would need to be insulated, much like a winter coat, only to keep in the cold, rather than keep it out, you see."

"I will have to write to father about this, I am sure Daena and the others would love this 'whipped cream' on their desserts," he said. "How did you come by this recipe? Is it from the Free Cities, or perhaps the North?"

"Nay, through trial and error, we came up with it ourselves, my prince. I do, however, suspect the North capable of such dishes, though I must admit I know very little of their culinary choices."

"Do these ideas come to you in dreams? Perhaps the Seven have blessed you with a sight beyond mere sight?"

"While an interesting thought, I've never dreamt of making a dessert topping, my prince. I merely spoke with my kitchen staff on the matter of a lack of options, as we do not have the abundance of the Reach to allow for greater options, and so we sought to consider what might be done on the matter. We may have had some inspiration from a lucky accident or plain guesswork, but nothing so evident as a vision or visit from the Seven. Despite my prayers to them my prince, they've simply given me good health and good fortune, not the insight into the inner workings of the world."

"I see. Would you be willing to give me the tour tomorrow of Lowhill's sept? I've heard a great many things of it, and wish to see it for myself." He tried and failed to stifle a yawn, his full belly giving him a heady fatigue of the body. It had been a long day, after all.

"It would be my honor, Prince Baelor. Lord Baratheon, your thoughts on the matter?"

"I too wish to see this sept, been a long time since I've been in one outside of the chapel in Storm's End," the lord paramount replied, finishing his third slice of pie, each different from the last. "By the gods new and old, Casper, you'll have to give my regards to your cooks, simply outstanding."

"If you wish, I could have my scribes write out the recipes for your own cooks upon your return to Storm's End."

"King's Landing as well, if you could, my lord." Baelor said, failing to stifle another yawn. "My little sisters have a sweet tooth for pastries, and I'm sure some of your desserts would delight them."

"It would be an honor, my prince, but before that can happen, it would seem it'd be best for you to prepare for bed, if you don't mind me saying. Lord Baratheon?"

"Aye, was a long ride today, and most the men seem to be starting to doze off," the large man said, motioning to the gathered crowd. Indeed, some were already starting to snore, full of good food and good drink after riding all day. Some of the younger squires, down at their own table, were already asleep, some of their knights literally picking them up to carry them off to bed.

"Until the morning then, my prince," Lord Wytch said, and with his Kingsguard in tow, Baelor gave a small farewell to the crowd, earning a few drowsy cheers from the still-sensate men. Following the captain of the Wytch guards, they moved deeper into the castle, reaching a large, winding staircase that, eventually, reached the uppermost floor of the castle. With Lord Baratheon's guards posted outside his door already, the remains of their catered food being cleared by a pair of maids, he entered what was to be his room.

It looked new to his eyes, or perhaps a renovation of an existing room, though he would have to ask Lord Wytch on the matter come morning. For now, though, the bed looked incredibly inviting, and barely able to undress himself, he crawled under the covers and drifted off to sleep.

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The next morning was fairly quiet, a peaceful one even as the cocks crowed in the distance and the sunlight brightened the clear Stormlands sky. Stretching, he remained snuggled under his covers until there was a knock upon the door, silently praying to the Seven and thanking them for his safe journey and fostering thus far.

His Kingsguard entered after he bid them to do so, already dressed in his armor. Come to think of it, normally he would have a sworn shield as his bodyguard rather than a Kingsguard, but father had, in a rare display of emotion, been adamant he take one with him.

"My prince, it is morning."

"Yes it is." Many times he'd had to rise with the early light of the sun, to make good time on their journey through the Stormlands.

"If you wish to tour the Lowhill sept, Lord Wytch has informed us that he has a great many things to do today, and would prefer you to see it in the morning. There are clouds on the eastern horizon, another storm may be approaching, and if it should, it will likely meet us before our midday meal."

That motivated him to, reluctantly, pull back the covers and flop out of bed. He'd normally been dressed by maids in the Red Keep, or at least assisted, but with his travelling clothes being so less frilly than his other ones, and the necessity of speed motivating him, it did not take near as long as it used to dress himself. He'd only put the undershirt on backwards this time!

After breaking his fast with a small platter of bacon and eggs, he found himself beside Lord Wytch and Lord Baratheon, flanked by a mixture of their personal guards, venturing down to Lowhill on horseback with a somewhat hurried pace, though still leisurely compared to most the smallfolk already at work in the morning light. Milkmaids tending to their cows, shepherds moving sheep between pastures, farmers erecting or repairing fences, field hands moving out to the respective stations; the light bustle of it all seemed idyllic.

As they passed under the gates of Lowhill and into the town proper, while it did not marvel him as it did others, having grown up in King's Landing, it did seem far more organized than the city of his birth. The roads were wide, made of large bricks and impeccably clean compared to others he'd seen. No piles of garbage graced his sight, and the smell was a morning dew laced with traces of smoke from morning cooking fires. The homes were at least two stories tall apiece on the outermost layers, many of them containing large fenced-in gardens or hutches full of small creatures. On the occasional house grew small vines, likely being planted only recently, though several had far more established growths upon arbors.

At his curious look, Lord Wytch chuckled. "Some of the smallfolk grow grapes or hops, my prince, to sell for the production of wine and beer. So long as the vines do not overgrow or cover a house to where it has become an eyesore, or spread into the area of another's dwelling, then they are operating within the laws of Lowhill."

"What is the fine for letting the vines grow where they should not?"

Lord Wytch shrugged. "Nothing too extravagant, merely a week's wage, and mandated trimming under the supervision of the mayor and guards. It has yet to happen, but if someone were to refuse the fine, or pay and then not bother to trim, then they would be barred from growing the grapes or hops altogether for a period of five years, and face possible censure from their neighbors and merchants. As it is an additional source of income, I've yet to meet a smallfolk who does not keep them as orderly as possible."

"The gardens and hutches?"

"So long as they are kept orderly, the smallfolk may keep small animals in town, such as rabbits, pigeons or chickens. Some keep ducks or geese, and a few of the merchants even tend to domestic turkeys. Many of the gardens grow food for either the smallfolk tending them or for the animals they raise, and for some that raise no animals, grow things that may be sold. For example, one smallfolk family in Lowhill grew the garlic that was used on the brisket last night, my prince."

"It all seems so orderly," Lord Baratheon observed. "How do you prevent theft of the animals or garden goods? Those fences won't keep out an agile or desperate smallfolk."

"We've yet to need to deal with garden thefts, given the town is still so small, but we've begun the means of ensuring such an act is not only deterred, but also strictly enforced against. The town guard makes their rounds at varying times, and good fences make for good neighbors amongst the smallfolk. In time, once the majority of the town is completed, we will begin transitioning the fences into brick walls, tall enough to dissuade all but the most agile of climbers."

"Each house its own keep, eh?" Lord Baratheon said. "Your thoughts, my prince?"

"There seems to have been a great deal of planning for this town," Baelor said. "Your smallfolk seem well-fed and content, if industrious as well. Were it that Kings Landing were such."

"Kings Landing has grown a great deal since its founding, often in great bursts," the Kingsguard said. "Such is the fate of any capital, let alone a city that houses the power of the royal family. Such potential draws in the poor and destitute, and now some boroughs are almost overrun with the desperate and forgotten."

"I agree, the sudden need for housing so many people likely outstripped the ability of the capital to adequately prepare for them. The simplest way to alleviate the pressure upon the capital would be to move the smallfolk elsewhere, but with so many being unable to provide for themselves beyond surviving day-to-day, having little to no experience outside of the city, it would be tantamount to casting them out into the cold," Lord Wytch said as they continued down the main street, the scenery changing around them. The smaller houses had grown taller and somewhat larger, and where there had been gardens, there were shops ranging from cobblers and weavers to seamstresses and even a few craftsmen whose professions he didn't quite know.

As their group moved towards the current center of town, entering the main market square, he spied the object of his desire. Though visible amidst the buildings and from Stormhall itself, the tower of the Lowhill sept stood as the tallest structure within the entire town. Around the periphery of it stood a low wall, much like a garden wall he'd seen but with iron railings running along the top of stonework. The main gate was tall, but swung open easily enough, and was large enough that five men abreast could pass through without touching it.

At a stable attached to one of the taverns in the merchant square, many already in the process of selling or buying wares, Lord Wytch dismounted, a pair of young stable boys taking his horse from him. In thanks, he flipped them each a silver stag, earning grins and 'many thanks, milord' from the lads likely closer to his own age.

Lord Baratheon did much the same, the rest of their part following suit. Most, Baelor noticed, did not give the boys any coin, but they seemed to take it in good cheer. He had no coin on him, his purse still in his room in Stormhall, so great was his hurry to reach the town, but prayed for good health and fortune for their families as they entered the sept grounds.

"We've recently finished the septry and motherhouse, located on opposite ends of the grounds," Lord Wytch informed them. "Our septons and septas are not very numerous, but we've the room for plenty more in the coming years, as it always pays to plan ahead on such matters. My prince, if you wish, before the storms are liable to arrive, we may pray within the sept itself. We've no windows yet, so it will be a bit drafty, and the statues are yet to be finished."

"An unfinished sept is still a sept, Lord Wytch," he replied. "Come, let us give thanks to the Seven for the good things in our lives."

The interior was, as the boy lord had said, unfinished, with the missing shutters, a distinct lack of ornamentation and very few places to kneel or sit. It wasn't a ruin, far from it, and while he'd no expectations entering, he did find himself intrigued by the placeholders where the statues would come to rest.

"Marble once they are finished, my prince," Lord Wytch said, noticing his gaze. "We've imported it from Lord Greycairn's lands, and our sculptors are working on them as we speak."

They took their places, the lack of candles simply being a precaution against a fire, or so the young lord said. As their prayers began, under the eyes of several septons joining their party, Baelor noticed something odd. Lord Wytch, while he prayed, whispered frequently, off by himself in front of what were to become the shrines to the Crone and Smith. None of the others seemed to hear him, but he could, on the cusp of his abilities, make out that whatever Lord Wytch was speaking, was not Valyrian or the Common Tongue. It was no foreign speech either, not that the lord speaking it would make much sense, but it was spoken with a fluidity that belied a great deal of experience with the tongue.

Would it be improper to ask Lord Wytch in private of the matter?

All too soon, their prayers were interrupted by peals of distant thunder to the east, and rather than risk being caught in a rainstorm or forced to spend the rest of his day holed up in the unfinished sept, Baelor reluctantly agreed to make a good pace back to Stormhall. Yet as he left, he could not help but feel as if his spirits had been lifted, his vigil in an empty and unfinished sept giving him a greater peace of mind than he'd had in some time. His time with the septons in Kings Landing not so long ago and yet already feeling like years before, hadn't quite been this fulfilling, looking back.

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Not an hour after they'd returned to Lowhill, the storm unleashed its fury upon them. Fury being a strong word in this instance, as the rain was a steady though thankfully not heavy one, but it seemed unlikely to abate until early the next morning. It was raining too hard to spend time in the training yard, not that he ever did, and the small Lowhill library did not yet have a copy of the Seven Pointed Star. Having left his behind in Storm's End, to prevent damage from accruing during his journey across the Stormlands, Baelor found himself with little to look forward to after lunch.

The midday meal was simpler than the feast the night before, yet no less delicious. Many warm stews and soups had been made, along with spiced dishes that imparted a heat to one's body as well as tongue. Once again, breadwytch were served as small additions to the meal, and to his surprise, some of the 'brisket' from the night before was available for his breadwytch.

"Our ice box at work, my prince, it allows us to preserve that which would normally go to waste," Lord Wytch said. "However, due to the original construction of the castle, even the addition is not very big, and eventually we will run out of ice before the beginning of winter, the only time we can make more. Even then, it is not a guarantee, as it must be cold enough to freeze through a block entirely. If it does not become cold enough this far south, then we can't make enough ice to keep the room cold for later."

"Thus meaning the viability of the ice box is entirely dependent upon a steady supply of ice mixed with wood shavings or similar materials," Prince Baelor said. Any who experience a cold enough winter can make their own supply, but winters varied in length and severity, randomly at times.

"A shame that the North has access to all the ice it would need for ice boxes, yet trying to ship it south outside of winter, especially as there is currently no market for it, would spell doom for any merchant or house daring enough to try," Casper said.

Baelor chewed on his sliced brisket breadwytch carefully, mulling this over. Indeed, the lord had a point. "If there was a market for it, perhaps from Kings Landing, who would stand to gain from it the most?"

"On the eastern shores, the Manderlys I suspect, given their merchant proclivities according to my maester. Whoever makes it for them, if they merely ship it, would also reap the rewards. There are none that I know of on the western shores that could ship along that coast, given the lack of development present in the North. Of course, for the east, if the king or some in his family were to be a known user of these services, it would stand that other lords and ladies would follow suit. I have heard it said that imitation is often the sincerest form of flattery, my prince."

"An odd thing to say, my lord. Not many lords would make a suggestion that would benefit other lords so openly, especially not in the Red Keep's court."

"Prosperity benefits us all, my prince, and one cannot put a price on a stable and peaceful realm. Yet one must ready to fight for that, much like the Conciliator did against his mad uncle. Look at the period of peace that followed, one of the longest in a great while in Westeros."

"I can only hope that father will have much the same length of prosperity, after what he and grandmother suffered through. Many of the realms still bleed from the Dance, the Riverlands especially, and there is much to be rebuilt after so much loss." Countless smallfolk had died in his grandmother's war, important fields, farms and towns laid to waste or damaged severely, and many noble houses had been wiped out or reduced to mere shadows of their former selves. The coffers of many kingdoms had been bled dry, and in some cases were only just recovering to their former levels. It frightened him to think that not so long ago, living dragons had scorched the lands of the people his father now looked after as king, bringing many of them to ruin. His father, as distant as he was, rarely spoke of it, and whilst he'd never left home before this year, he could only imagine the old scars upon the land.

"Indeed, my prince. Now, have you given thought to what you would wish to occupy your afternoon, until suppertime? I've been told you are an avid reader, but I fear I lack the Seven Pointed Star and most other related materials. Much of my library is a small collection of my own personal works, technically more manuals and notes on what I've done in my lands, so likely too clinical or boring for a young prince to peruse."

What would he do? Praying to the Seven seemed to be a good way to pass the time, but he'd prayed in the Lowhill sept before and was curious by Lord Wytch's clear connection to the New Gods. The boy lord seemed blessed by them, or so the smallfolk rumormill seemed to say, and while Lord Baratheon only had a few rules for him when visiting a lord, he'd never said he couldn't observe the lord at work. Perhaps watching Lord Wytch could reveal to him the secret of his blessing by the Seven?

"Would it be acceptable if I were to sit with you whilst you worked?"

"Of course, my prince," Casper said.