Chapter 17: Kingsguard I

Mid 154 AC

The life of a heavily armed nursemaid had not been the expectation of duties when joining the Kingsguard, yet here he was, leagues from the Red Keep, shadowing the erratic attentions of a pious yet ultimately dull prince. Oh, if his father saw him now, he'd surely die of embarrassment. Alliser of House Thorne had received his white cloak near ten years ago, and had worn it with great pride and honor, in continuance with the honored tradition of his most illustrious predecessors. For a third son, becoming one of the vaunted guards of the king and his family was an honor most would never achieve. Yet he'd done it, against all odds and challengers, much like his uncle Rickard had done during the Dance, and where was he now?

Stuck in a backwater region of the backwater Stormlands, with an addled prince seemingly making friends with a smallfolk-blooded 'lord' who seemed all too eager to display what little he'd managed to put together in his time as head of the family.

Lowhill's walls arched over them as they rode through the gate, staying as close to the prince's side as he could. It didn't help matters that Baelor seemed to always be near Lord Wytch, speaking with on various matters of the town and the surrounding countryside. So the lord had managed to create a great deal of farmland. Bollocks to that, the Reach had plenty of farmland, was he trying to dispute their markets? If so, did he have some sort of death wish, or was he as addled as the prince? Some houses in the Reach likely produced more food than the entirety of some kingdoms, and this smallfolk-blooded youth would no more overcome that than he would the taint of bastardry from his grandfather.

They arrived at the Lowhill sept and, surprise, Baelor had followed Lord Wytch in, the other guards remaining outside. As he knew doing the same would not be looked upon well, he followed the prince inside, staying close enough to guard him but not enough to hear his prayers. Instead, bored out of his mind being so far from the Red Keep or a training yard, he looked around the unfinished sept. Were a wealthier house in charge of its construction, there would definitely be more gold trim and marble statues already, inlaid with jewels or other precious stones. Yet it still sat empty, bare of even the simplest of holy icons, and bore no means of separating the smallfolk from a visiting noble other than their own guards.

After perhaps half an hour of prayer, the prince rose, Lord Wytch following soon after, and they left the sept behind, to tour the grounds of the rest of the area with a pair of septons. Whilst the septry and motherhouse remained unable to accommodate visitors, they instead looked over the appearances, which seemed almost as sturdy as small forts. Thick brick walls with large shutters capable of latching from the inside, according to Lord Wytch, and sloped roofs made with curiously interlocking ceramic slabs that curled over one another. The boy lord said they were built with both longevity and comfort in mind, as the back room was storage for the firewood that would keep them warm during the winter months.

The large gardens were currently occupied by both septons and septas, tending away as the newest shoots of green erupted from the brown dirt furrows, with a large well between them and the nearest building. Their tools were of rather good quality, with the hoes being of blackened steel and the wooden handles seemingly of the same length. Off to the side, amidst a small cluster of bee hives, was a great gathering of flower gardens, some of them established and others appearing to be new. For a fond moment, they reminded him of the ones his mother tended to at home, in his childhood before his martial training began in earnest and his time at home became more and more limited.

The hospital was currently under construction, and Lord Wytch advised against entering it, citing safety hazards of falling debris. According to him, near two hundred people would be able to be sheltered and cared for upon its initial completion, with further expansions of its wings allowing for up to five hundred eventually, with the patients equally distributed across multiple floors. What a ludicrous waste of money, providing such a service to smallfolk. They either got better or they didn't, it was the nature of life for them, best they accept that.

Prince Baelor was fascinated by the large herbarium under construction as well, asking why the lower portions of the walls were to be solid bricks, yet the remaining walls and the ceiling remained unfinished.

"It is to be completed with glass my prince, much like the glass gardens of Winterfell, or so I've been told," the young lord replied. "This is so the septons are able to grow these herbs during all times of year, regardless of the season, as they will be primarily medicinal in nature. Licorice, kingscopper, lavender and mint, to name a few, both for usage amongst the smallfolk and for sale to aid in running the sept grounds. We are still waiting for the glass panels from the coast to arrive before we can install them and begin growing the herbs."

Growing herbs for treating smallfolk? What next, a system of teaching them their letters and numerals?

The next building was akin to a large barn, within which were a great gaggle of children, listening to a pair of septas talking about numerals.

"This is horseshit," he muttered, but only to himself, far from the earshot of others.

"This is the public school, Prince Baelor," one of their septon guides said. "An institution derived from Lord Wytch for the learning of well-off smallfolk, such as crofters, smiths and the like. For a fee to help feed their children during school hours and to help provide for the sept, the children are taught their letters and numerals, among other subjects. We currently teach near fifty children, but have enough room at this moment for more."

"What subjects, septon? I've never heard of such an institution before."

"Oh, it is quite the new thing, my prince, but so far it has been rather accepted by the brothers of the Faith, as well as the smallfolk. As for the subjects, mostly history of the Stormlands, especially our region near the Dornish Marches, religious studies of the Seven, and a course for gymnastics. We're especially fond of the children playing, tiring them out makes for an easier time teaching."

"You said the fees the parents pay feed the children?"

"Indeed, my prince. They are served food thrice a day, though only the midday meal could be called as such. A morning snack to settle their bellies when they arrive, usually a small loaf of sweetened bread and boiled milk from our dairy cows, with lunch being a fuller meal of vegetables, fruits and cheese. For the later meal, usually dried meats such as jerky as fed to the children, though this is a more recent addition, as before it was simply another small loaf of bread."

"You are able to provide for them all?" Baelor asked. "That is likely no small amount of food for so many children."

"We make more than enough food for both ourselves and our charges, as well as from the subsidies Lord Wytch so graciously provides for us through fields tended to by local farmers," the septon replied, bowing in Lord Wytch's direction. "With so many fields under plow and growing food, much of our excess is donated to feed the poor at our food pantry, of which there are few in Lowhill, but here nonetheless. Better it be given and eaten than saved and rotting in our larders."

Baelor gave a thoughtful expression at that, one Thorne did not like at all. This new expression of Baelor's, entirely different from his usual one of self-absorbed piety, would bring only trouble upon his return to Kings Landing. The royal family would most likely be intrigued by this change in the pious prince, and seek to find where this came from.

So that was the angle of Lord Wytch… he was trying to secure his lands and become a friend of a prince at the same time. So, perhaps the boy lord was not so different from the nobles back in Kings Landing after all, always jockeying for positions, favors or alliances within the court.

Alliser knew he would need to keep an eye on him from now on.

Upon leaving the sept, briefly touring the rather empty sept library tower, they'd moved on to the other main reason for being in Lowhill that day, the Stormhall Engineering Corps grounds. A peculiar name for a peculiar institution, one which by accounts was the busiest in the entire town. The flow of men bringing in carriages filled with crushed stone of varying shades was matched by the men leaving with large pots within those same carts, and the plumes of smoke rising from the large furnace dwarfed any others.

"Though the exact recipe remains a trade secret, Prince Baelor, this is where we produce the material for the Wytch-stone used in building a wide variety of things. While not ubiquitous in usage, as it is not an ideal substance by itself for roads, as a part of a greater whole it works splendidly."

As Prince Baelor watched the furnace be put to use, and Lord Wytch discuss matters with his head engineers, Alliser Thorne took note that the aggregate of different rocks did not seem to be mixed with much of anything outside of the ordinary. Nothing magical or unusual seemed to be thrown in, so unless something was added during the firing process, it seemed entirely mundane. Perhaps he could tell his brother of this. Their seat had long lacked a good road to the nearest town, and perhaps finding the secret of this substance could see them profit off it immensely. Good roads made for good travel and good trade, after all.

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The Wytchmill stood apart from Lowhill and Stormhall, almost like a small town unto itself, save for the fact that there were very few living quarters stationed there. Instead, it reminded Alliser of the Street of Steel in a way, absolutely bustling with craftsmen working at a great number of things. Blacksmiths working on various tool heads, nails, plows and whatever else they could hammer into shape, the heat of their forges washing over the area like a great summer wind. Varied carpenters, from cartwrights to coopers, tended to the piles of wood set aside for their tasks, with some strangely focused on creating as many piles of handles as they could.

"What are they doing?" he asked.

"Making the handles for tools, specifically ones we produce," Lord Wytch said, as a pair of smiths burned a small symbol into each handle with a hot iron. "The fact of the matter is that many tools are made by smallfolk with whatever they can, be it wood or bone, and oftentimes it is of extremely poor quality. Understandable, given their lack of experience and materials to use, so I've decided to try and correct this problem. All tool handles are to be made to a specific size, to fit the hands of those working them and to ensure the handles are made with far sturdier woods than most smallfolk have access to, such as hickory from the forests near Timberstone and from within the Rainwood."

"So the metal shovel heads, the axes, the weird split shovels?" Baelor asked.

"They are for these tools, to ensure they will not only last long, but do work better, faster, and with less ache than before. As for the split shovel, we call them postholers, a recent innovations courtesy of one of my blacksmiths. It is ideal for digging as deep a hole for a fence post as possible, without having to dig out the dirt around it as well. It works by basically pinching the dirt and lifting it out of the hole when raised."

"Cutting back on both the digging time and the amount of soil displaced," Alliser said. Well, that certainly would cut back on his brother's smallfolk putting in fences for their horses. "Are they for sale?"

"Currently, yes, but we've so many orders that we're just barely keeping up," Lord Wytch replied. "For anything in bulk, it might take a good moon or two to make enough for the purchase."

He would have to write to his brother of this.

"What of those?" the prince asked, motioning to several neat rows of what looked like wooden washbins balancing atop two legs and a single yet rather wide wagon wheel. Another row had a larger version of this strange creation, with two wheels on the front instead.

"Ah, yes, the wheelbarrows," Casper said. "For carrying loads more efficiently than a man might be able to haul them upon his back. I've heard tales of the Westerlands having such devices to aid in moving rock from their mines, but I never saw one in the Stormlands until my carpenters and I made one ourselves."

"I've never heard of such a thing in the Crownlands," Alliser, in spite of himself, said. "Just how much can it carry?"

"Perhaps four cubic feet of material, if measuring something like sand or small stones. The smaller ones are more useful in gardens or small areas where dumping the material is needed, whilst the larger ones are for hauling loads over even ground that a wagon could not."

"That is not an insubstantial amount," Baelor said. "Four cubic feet can weigh a great deal, if my figures are correct."

"Indeed they are, my prince. Hauling, say, a load that perhaps weigh twenty stone would be far, far easier with one of these than it would be to carry it upon your back."

"Are these for sale as well?" Baelor, not Alliser, asked, much to the kingsguard's surprise. "There are many laborers in Kings Landing that would do well to be able to use such creations."

"Indeed they are, my prince, as we've not been selling near as many just yet. Most of our wood output from Timberstone is being dedicated towards lumber for building homes, and what else is left over is being made in our tool handles and carts for merchants and smallfolk alike. Until more sawmills are built at Timberstone and lumbermen hired to work them, we've reached our limit for producing wood."

"How many are available for purchase?"

"As of today, one hundred."

"The cost?'

Alliser shrugged. "For a prince of the realm, I don't see why they couldn't be a gift."

"In all fairness, kingsguard, it should be noted that these cost money to make, and simply gifting them away would go against the rights of those who created and crafted them," Prince Baelor said. "What is their price, Lord Wytch?"

"Currently, they sell for a week's wage amongst the smallfolk, though they often take longer to accrue that much money to purchase them."

"Then I would wish to write to my uncle, the Lord Hand, for a purchase of these 'wheelbarrows' of yours, as I do not have that much coinage in my purse."

"Of course, my prince, you may work with Maester Gorman after lunch on your correspondence."

"What are those structures?" Alliser asked after a moment's pause, feeling miffed at the prince's rebuttal. Yes, they should be a gift, giving gifts to princes was as normal as breathing amidst nobility!

"That is the distillery, Ser Alliser. It is where we make our spirits."

"Spirits? As in ghosts?" The prince looked a bit frightened at that.

Lord Wytch softly chuckled. "Nay, my prince, tis a term for a drink of an alcoholic nature far, far stronger than wine. Come, let me show you."

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Janyce Wytch I

As lunch approached, and she wandered amongst the serving staff, ensuring the meals served would be enough for their prince and the other guests of Lord Baratheon, Lady Janyce Wytch fretted much like her mother, despite telling herself years ago she'd never do that. Yet here she was, unsure if the new band of minstrels from Lowhill, having arrived only days before, were up to the task of providing good enough music for a prince of the realm.

The prince! Here, in her home! Well, one of the princes, but he was still a prince, and by the gods, she'd nearly gone grey prematurely upon the arrival of their liege lord with Baelor in tow. Barely composing herself in time to invite them with bread and salt, she'd been utterly grateful that Casper had taken over most of the hosting duties that first night, and maintained authority over a goodly portion of them the next few days as well.

Now, though, with so many of Lord Baratheon's men gone, not only was there less of a strain upon their larders, which she'd already begun the process of restocking, but the meals themselves did not need to be so intensely full. Even for growing boys, the pages that had stayed behind with the prince did not eat near as much as the men had, and did not drink at all yet, save for the lighter beers and fruit juices her son deemed acceptable for their age.

Prior to Lord Baratheon's departure, at her son's bequest, she'd offered a small contingent of their men at arms to join their lord paramount on his journey to the Marches. He'd declined, politely of course, saying it'd likely not even take as long as they'd anticipated to get things in order, but did accept a small patrol to accompany them as guides.

As she complimented the cooks on their selection of cheese-stuffed breads, roasted vegetables and smoked chickens, she spied her daughters speaking with one of the serving maids. Well, Arenna was speaking, Shyra was either nodding or shaking her head. The full extent of Shyra's quiet nature had begun to worry her, especially compared to how lively she had been not a full year before. Ever since the… unpleasantness in Lowhill with the deceased Lord Craggner, her 'little Shy' had become very, well, shy around people she did not know. The fact she'd spoken to the prince before 'storytime' was likely her impatience winning out on her developed fear.

Maester Gorman had said it would likely pass with time, as children were a 'rather sturdy sort, more than we give them credit for', and yet as a mother she could not help but worry. If she did grow out of it, then all the better that she'd prayed to the Seven for that. If not, then what was she to do? At least she was not of the same mentality she had heard one Targaryen princess had been before her untimely death all those years ago.

Casper had said he would help figure this out, and not for the first time, she thanked the Seven for having married Morden, and not the man her parents had wanted her to initially. Morden had given her a house, a name, a line that could continue well past her death, and three children. Casper, her brilliant young lord, Arenna her sparkling little lady, and Shyra, her precious babe. Were she to have another, it would simply be too much, as the love she gave was her all, and they returned it in kind.

Arenna left the maid, Shyra in tow, and returned to her side. "Momma, when lunch is over, might we fly our kites?" she asked.

For a girl of only seven namedays, Arenna spoke rather clearly, the perfect little lady in Janyce's eyes. Shyra, before her… issue, was much on the same track, although a bit rougher around the edges. Yet, hadn't all girls been that way at that age? She knew her own behavior had not been the most ladylike at first, from what she could remember.

"Our needlework lessons will need to take priority over the kites today, but the winds look to be strong enough for it after we are done," she replied. "Casper should be back with the prince before lunch, so let us go make you two presentable."

Hurrying her daughters along to their room, she sent for a pair of maids, both of whom her daughters had thankfully taken a liking to. One, a good Stormlander named Dayra, was the daughter of one of their older maids. The other, the one she always felt the need to keep an eye on, was Jynessa, a granddaughter of the leader of the Dornish smallfolk who had come as refugees to their lands. Her son, Seven bless him, had seen it in his heart to allow them to settle in his lands, as they were practitioners of the Seven and had come in desperation to his lands, suffering the whole way.

She said nothing of it, and treated Jynessa and her kin as well as could be expected, but she did not trust her one bit. Any good Stormlander mistrusted Dornish at the best of times, and it was likely her son's inexperience with the wider world that he did not share that same prejudice. Were it not for her motherly instincts, she might have even missed the glances the young lady gave her son from time to time. She did not fear her son falling to temptation, and while young Jynessa was near the same age as her son and quite beautiful, the maid made no remarks to the others about their lord, never sought him when he was alone, and by all accounts, was a faithful, chaste girl who did her work well without complaint.

She still kept an eye on her, just to be sure. The tricky Dornish were known for their seductive ways and extensive plans, the kind which might take years to bear fruit but would all the same. At least her grandmother Arianne knew her place and did well running portions of the distillery and orchards.

When both maids arrived, brushes and clothes at the ready, she watched her daughters prepare for lunch. Shyra squirmed every now and then, but no more so than any girl did her age. Arenna sat as still as possible, talking with Dayra about the stories Casper had been telling them and the prince.

Ah, the prince. Not what she'd expected of a member of the royal family, but he certainly did have that unearthly attraction as they were all rumored to possess. As a child, it simply made him adorable, and more than once she'd wanted to scoop him into her arms and give him a hug, but had resisted every time. Yet the prince's features were rather stark in contrast to his personality. Polite to a fault, but often very quiet, and whilst she'd never known a child to pray as often as Baelor did, she could see the signs of having been rather skinny up until recently. According to one of Lord Baratheon's guards, prior to his fostering, Baelor had been a rather pale and thin child to the point of almost seemingly sickly at points, and it was only since his arrival in Storm's End that he had managed to put on some weight.

He was also, according to another guard, an avid reader of the Seven Pointed Star, but little else. Before he'd arrived to Stormhall and had begun to befriend her son, the prince had never swung a training sword, never fired a bow, not even practiced with a lance. All he would do was read, pray, sometimes eat, and sleep, and perhaps watch others do work or train.

What an odd child. Perhaps it was a Targaryen thing?

Arenna looked up from Dayna fixing her hair. "Do you think Mylenda will come to visit sometime, mother? She is betrothed to Cas for almost a year now and she's yet to visit! I'd like to meet her."

"What's a betrothal?" Shyra asked.

Before Janyce could answer, Arenna cut her off. "Oh, it's a pinky swear between lords and ladies that they will marry once they are old enough."

"Then they have babies?"

"Yep, just like the dogs do in the kennels!"

Arching an eyebrow, Janyce crossed her arms, her daughters suddenly aware of her stare. "You haven't been making trouble for Stannis down in the kennels again, yes? No late night puppy visits?"

"No," Shyra said, a bit sadly. "No puppies now, Stannie said they were sold a few weeks ago."

"That's right, Stannis breeds good guard dogs, and selling the puppies means they'll go off to homes of their own, ones where they can keep little girls like you safe from mean, nasty people." Like those Craggner men. Gods, if Casper hadn't ransomed the survivors, and had just killed them all instead, she'd have lost no sleep over it.

"I hope Cas can tell us a story tonight," Shyra said after a few moments of silence. "He always has the best stories."

"Which one this time?" Janyce asked. Had her son been a mummer and not a lord, he might have made a fortune in his telling of tales, or at least, the few she had decided to sit in on.

Arenna piped up happily. "We just finished the story of how Ser Luke destroyed the flying Death Castle and Ser Han and Ser Chew earned medals with him from the princess. Ser Luke was so brave on his flying boat, even if he wasn't a knight yet! It was so sad when old Ser Obi-wan died, but his voice was still with Luke! I wonder, does that mean he's a spooky ghost now?"

Well, this was something she'd never heard of before.

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Stormlanders IX

As Royce Baratheon settled down for his first supper away from Stormhall, now well behind the horizon after their morning departure, he found he missed the food. Granted, for a lord, his meals on the road were not exactly poor stuff, but still, he could go for a slice of brisket right about now, as his attendants set up his tent and the cooks got the fires going. To think, he could be sleeping in a good bed right now, and have access to a nice, hot 'shower' to cleanse himself, but no.

Damned Dornish causing trouble. "Bandit king my ass, it's some border lord or his son looking to earn a name for himself," he mumbled, looking into his mug. Lord Wytch had been kind enough to give them an additional cart laden with food and drink for their journey, and the ale was pretty good. "There'll be war if it gets out of hand, I know it. We've had a general peace for too long for some, and if there's no war, there's no chance for glory, honors or gold. Gods, these pricks better fuck off when I get there, or I swear I'll be smashing in each of their skulls with my hammer."

He refilled his mug of ale. Even though he'd never known his father, he knew from his mother the ill history between the Dornish and the Stormlands, especially from his Baratheon side. The battles waged during the First Dornish War, the constant struggles amidst the Marches for centuries, the damned landscape that worked against every invader that fought the Dornish… it was all a great big mess to deal with now. Hopefully the raiders would get lazy and leave behind evidence of their wrongdoing, so he could find out which house or houses were supporting them.

"Wish the king still had a dragon, would make this much easier, just fly down and burn the castle out if they're the ones doing it."

Of course, it wouldn't be that easy, and such an action would likely draw the ire of all of Dorne. There would be war over such an action, and the incursions into Stormland lands would see a drastic increase, as would the piracy on her southern shores. That would potentially put the prince in danger, should bands of Dornish raiders make it this far in the interior, and that boy was nowhere near ready enough to defend himself against such an assault. The boy had admitted to never swinging a sword in his life, much to the teasing of his brother Daeron.

Yet the fact that he'd taken up the bow was, to Royce, nothing short of a miracle. Lord Wytch either had access to magicks in his halls or simply was befriending the boy in ways he'd not yet tried. Come to think of it, for a prince, Baelor had rather few, if any friends. What little he spoke on about Kings Landing gave Royce the impression that, from time to time, ambitious lords or ladies would send their children to spend time with the prince while at court, hopeful to curry some sort of favor or develop a friendship. Even for the spare, having their daughter become a good friend was an excellent avenue through which to later approach a potential marriage, but Baelor's steadfast pious nature and lack of interest in other pursuits had apparently driven off all schemers and interlopers.

In effect, he had been so boring that nobody wanted to be friends with him, until Casper Wytch had come along. Somehow, through means he did not yet know of, the boy lord was helping Baelor come out of his proverbial shell, and learn to enjoy a pursuit or two outside of the Seven. Perhaps this was a natural progression? The boy had seemed far less inclined to fast since his arrival at Storm's End, as he had apparently done so in Kings Landing, and now with his interest in learning the bow, something was afoot.

"Was probably too sheltered in the Red Keep for his own good," Royce muttered, draining his mug of ale. "All of those Targaryen children probably are, don't blame 'em after what happened to the last lot though. Hells, I was never out of sight of Storm's End until I went to my cousin's marriage when I was ten." His mother had, after all, been rather protective of him, given how his father had died before his birth.

Perhaps Lord Wytch showing him how Wytch lands were managed was bringing him out of his shell as well? Plenty of boys have big dreams that stay with them until the world beats that out of them, for the most part, and one of those dreams usually was building something that people would remember them for, be it a legend of a warrior or something that would stand for all time. Some boys wanted to be Garth Greenhand or Bran the Builder come again, while others wanted to be the Conqueror or the Last Hero.

He wondered how he could inform the Lord Hand about this development in a way that put the Stormlands in a good light. Perhaps it would encourage the crown to start fostering their children elsewhere? If Baelor the Pious Prince could be brought out of his shell and normalized even a bit, then what could be done for the dragons for generations to come? It might make it easier for them to gain allies now that they had no dragons to call upon. Even he could see that if they weren't careful, they might lose their hold on the throne.

He chuckled at the thought of the news of Prince Baelor's development. House Wytch was going to be gaining a great deal of notice, whether Casper wanted it or not. "Good luck boy," he said with a smile, rolling over and onto his bed. "You'll be in need of it soon enough."