Chapter 2: Morden Wytch II

148 AC

For a man whose focus on bettering his family had come at the cost of his life, Morden knew his father Kennon Storm hadn't been the best sort. A tough man with a tougher outlook on life, forced to raise his only son after his wife had died of a pox, he'd nevertheless managed to keep food on the table and find the time to train him in the arts of war, often with the assistance of old knights he traveled with. Outside of that, Kennon was always gone, serving one lord or another, participating in tourneys or hunting bandits for pay. He'd even been a mercenary, for a short while, before calling it "the calling of cutthroats and mad dogs" after returning home and swearing to never again take up such a profession.

He, on the other hand, was no longer bound to such a potential lifestyle. Now, he could earn coin from the labors of smallfolk and the policies of his lands, not by the sweat of his brow in the mines as he had before. Now, with his lady wife Janyce, and his three children, with little Shyra having come screaming into the world a mere fortnight ago, the future had never seemed brighter for his house.

His little Casper came to him the other day, after having taught another bunch of smalfolk how to work a kite. It might never catch on with the poorer who could not afford it, even if it were relatively cheap, but the children of merchants and knights might like them. Already kites were becoming a common sight around Stormhall's fields, when children would play during the windier sunny days. Some had even begun making them into different shapes, or even using local dyes to creat different colors and symbols. His son's own kite bore their house sigil, and on truly windy days, seemed to float ever higher, much like their house.

Yet that day, the boy had not come to start making more kites, but to ask about their crops. 'Good Stormland food, the kind that made big men bigger and strong men stronger,' he'd told his heir, glad his son had never known the pains of hunger he himself once had. Casper had taken it with all the enthusiasm of a child, but with a reserved maturity that his heir must have inherited from Janyce, gods knew it hadn't come from him. It'd started showing up more and more since he'd turned seven, and there were days he'd wondered just what went through his son's head.

After going through the records with Maester Gorman, he sighed at the crop totals. Not up from the previous year, but not down either, so better than bad. Hoping for the best but preparing for the worst was something his father had taught him well, and whilst other lords might think him overly cautious, they'd not been smallfolk and known the pains of hunger as he had at times.

A knock at the door saw his son, now just a moon over eight namedays, come walking in, his dark hair framing his intelligent purple eyes. He'd gotten those from his mother's side, some Lysene pillow slave whose freedom had seen his Janyce be born not long after.

"Yes, son?" he asked.

"Father, maester," he said, his little bow so proper and formal to his proud eyes. "Our crops are rotated every planting season, yes?"

"Indeed, young Casper, they are," Maester Gorman, a Riverlander by birth, said with a smile. Although they shed their names, he believed the man to be a Frey, and felt a kindred spirit in him, given the means of how the Freys acquired their own house and wealth. "We must give the fields which we grow them upon the chance to recover, as the Seven demand. Giving them rest from our earthly toils will ensure good crops in the future, and the blessings of the gods are always upon the wisest stewards of any land. Thus, we must leave a fourth field bare, and plant the other three, or some variation of this depending upon the region, young Casper."

"But instead of leaving the fields bare, why not plant forage, then?" Casper asked. "Leaving open fields for a season or two seems like a waste when there's plants that always have a good crop, even if we can't always eat them. The wind and rain might wash away all the good dirt the plants need if it's left bare."

"Indeed, this can happen, but why go against the wishes of the Seven for a chance at crops one cannot even eat?" the maester replied.

"The Seven do say that a man's treatment of his lands is indicative of how he treats his fellow man, and even if it means more work, that work would benefit smallfolk and lord alike. We could plant clover for the summer and autumn growing seasons, or turnips during winter, perhaps? You told me such a plant does continue to grow during the cold months, Maester Gorman."

"Indeed he did, but forage?" he asked. "Replacing fallow with forage?"

"It is not uncommon for the poorer lands to plant turnips during winter, in case of a bad harvest or the possible oncoming of a longer winter," his maester said. "Yet growing clover? I've never heard of such a thing outside of places where people consume more animals than bread, and thus need the extra feed for their livestock."

"Whatever would we use the extra crops for?"

Casper smiled. "Why, for the sheep and cows, of course! That last storm flooded the lower pastures and the stagnant water killed the grass, which hasn't grown back yet since the waters receded, and if it were to rain even heavier next time, we'd have lost even more grass. Unlike us, our animals can't eat cheese or eggs if their grasses go away, and a heavy winter might bury it all too much for them to dig out or wait for the thaw to expose."

"Stockpiling clover hay for winter would require another barn or two for our herds," he muttered, already seeing the costs. Yet the potential to keep their animals fed, especially the dairy cattle, during troubled times could vastly outweigh the ramifications. Dairy cattle produce their milk, cheese and butter, and whilst they didn't rely on it as heavily as the smallfolk did for sustenance, there was merit in keeping his animals fed well. In the end, even if it didn't work, the barns would still find use as storage for other crops. "Maester, what say you?"

"I do not see any reason to try such a thing, but the potential is there for something. Such a decision would fall on your shoulders, my lord, I may only assist as needed."

He turned to his son, the gleam in Casper's eyes reminding him of his father Kennon every time there was word of an upcoming tourney. A chance for the betterment of their house, to improve their lot in life, something all lords should strive for. A rather piddling lord he may have started as, and still was, but the future was likely full of surprises, and any chance to improve their name and coffers would be explored, within reason of course.

"We shall commit to this "four field" crop rotation, but at the beginning of the next planting season," he said. "We will have to buy the seed from lords that do dabble in it, so we'll have to set aside some coin in case we're able to buy a substantial amount. Just as well, we shall only commit to a few of our personal fields, tended to by the Lowhill farmers. Does this sound satisfactory?"

"Aye, I mean, yes, lord father," his son said, giving another bow. "Thank you!" he added, before rushing out of the solar, likely off to play with the dogs down in the kennels. They'd just had puppies, and even he knew how irresistible such creatures were to children and womenfolk.

He turned to his maester. "See to the local stonemasons, Gorman, better we have the barns built near the cattle paddocks than closer to the fields. Saving a trip between the cattle and their feed will be less expensive than saving time moving the crops to the barn itself."

"What of Casper's lessons?" Maester Gorman asked. "It's about time we began on his numerals, though I must say the boy is taking to it better than most his age."

"After we finish here, but be sure he takes a bath before. He tends to forget he's dirty if he's off on one of his 'adventures' these days."

150 AC

Two years later, and his now ten namedays-old son was alongside him, looking out over the fields a few miles from Lowhill, their guards milling off to the side. He patted Casper affectionately on the head, ruffling his thick black hair, earning an annoyed mumble from his otherwise smiling heir.

Hindsight was as clear as could be, but now, looking out over the results, it was a wonder that none had thought to implement such an idea before. His maester had been subtly denouncing the idea up until the first harvest, and even after that, but had ceased once the numbers had come in. Casper had latched onto something, something big, as the crop numbers were not up in any field that had not been a part of the rotation, but were up for each one that had participated. A little here, a little there, yes, but Gorman had pointed out that each increase was almost measurable, and that gave him an idea.

Within a year of expanding this new "Stormhall" crop rotation, as he'd begun calling it, every field had seen an increase in productivity, and by an extent, so too had their herds of livestock. His dairy cattle and sheep had never gone hungry, as far as he'd known, but now they seemed healthier than before, the additional clover giving them something extra that only the gods knew of. His wife had said the cheese from their cow's milk even tasted better, but he'd not noticed a difference. He supposed she would notice, their newest daughter Shyra having a great need of the cow's milk, and the milkmaids were being run ragged trying to deliver enough of it.

Casper had been talking about boiling the milk for a short while before drinking it, but other things had taken priority, such as their journey out here. Perhaps they would revisit the issue after they returned.

However, the expanding fields of their Stormhall crop rotation, now put into effect in all his lands and slowly being adopted by his smallfolk, was not the cause of their jaunt to this hilltop. Ahead of them, in a region where the fields had often proven too difficult to plow now lay neat furrows of dirt, the pair of horses pulling the plow that created them neighing in the distance.

His son had, quite literally, reinvented the plow they'd been using since time immemorial. Well, perhaps not, Casper had merely said the plow seemed far too cumbersome for sowing a field, and had worked with one of his carpenters and blacksmiths to design something not quite new, but as his maester had put it, more of an improvement over the original. Formerly having taken an entire team of oxen to pull, this new device needed only a quarter of the animals to do the same work, and dug deeper, tilling richer soil than he'd ever seen outside of the Reach. His son had, however, been adamant that the soil not be tilled too deep, and he agreed. More than once he'd seen a tilled field be hit by a severe rainstorm, the furrows filling back in or being washed away, and the fields becoming far less productive than before. Erosion, his maester had called it, and apparently the bane of any field wherever rain fell in torrents or wind blew fiercely, reducing crop yields in the future and taking years or longer to recover if especially bad.

So, the Stormlands, and perhaps the North as well. He didn't know for the latter, though, he'd never been there in his life.

Yet another special thing had been something so simply, he'd been speechless when shown. Every equestrian knew the importance of a horse's harness, but his son had spent a better part of three moons crafting one that, when pulled, did not hinder the beast under heavier burdens. Such was the improvement that Maester Gorman had written to the Citadel about it, but they had yet to hear back from those grey rats. Perhaps news from such a middling, new and ultimately "unimportant" house was beneath their notice. Already he had seen the horses be able to work longer and pull greater loads without any apparent increased strain, and work using such harnesses was being accomplished faster, with better results becoming the norm, rather than the exception.

Gods, he was proud of his son, an heir most lords only dreamed of. Quick on his feet, growing better and better with a lance and sword but on his way to becoming a monster with a flail, something his master at arms could tell of a boy only just reaching ten! Casper was dutiful to the tasks set by his parents, looked after his two younger sisters whenever he or Janyce were busy, and seemed to be leagues ahead of boys his age in his lessons with Maester Gorman. Just as well, he prayed in the small sept of their home near daily, he was witty, quick to smile and startling intelligent for a boy his age.

"I'm proud of you, son," he said, looking down at Casper. Gods, the boy was so big already, it felt like only last moon he'd been a squawking babe, just large enough to fit in both hands. Yet now, he was near his chest in height, his mop of black hair nearing his chin, and he still had so much growing to do. He might be as big as his grandfather at this rate, and that man had been a force all his own. "You've done right by our house with these ideas of yours, bless the Seven for them."

"The Warrior may guide my sword, but the Smith guides my ideas, and the Crone's wisdom sees them done with care and consideration," he replied. "A lord's duty is not only to himself and his house, but to his lands, to his smallfolk, for without them he wouldn't be a lord, just a man in a castle."

Wisdom beyond his years, and an eloquence that rivaled some of the better mummers he'd met in his life. Gods, whatever lady claimed his heart and became the future lady of Stormhall would be a lucky one indeed. "So?" he asked, gesturing to the fields before them. "Any other ideas you're willing to share with your old man?" He truly felt the security of his house was becoming more and more solid as these years went by. In time, his son, or grandsons, gods willing, would become major lords of the Stormlands, powerful and respected vassals of their Baratheon liege lord.

"Father, you are not yet old, not for a good many summers."

"Yet?"

"Well, there's this one I've been going over with the carpenter, it'll help plant the seeds in neat rows, rather than having to scatter them by hand, and as it passes it'll push a little dirt over them."

"Thus shielding them from birds and vermin of the fields, ensuring more grow in a given space," he said. For a man whose formal education had not come from a maester, but from the world around him, he could connect the dots, as his son said, whenever he needed to, so long as the concepts were not too esoteric. Even if it was, his son took the time to explain things to him, along with his maester, until he fully understood at least the mechanics behind what they were talking about. "What would you call such a device?"

"A seed drill. With it, a horse could plant a tilled field faster than any smallfolk could, and the plants would be far denser, choking out any weeds that could reduce the crop yields. This density would also allow for more food to be grown in the same amount of space, reducing waste and protecting the soil from erosion."

"Yet what of our smallfolk paid to plant these fields? They rely heavily on the coin earned to help care for their families." A test of a question, of course, one his son seemed to always take heed of. Most lords at the end of the day cared little for smallfolk, but having technically been one not too long ago, he hadn't forgotten his roots. He prayed his descendants too would remember where they had come from, and do everything they could to remain unlikely to return to such an existence of hardship and toil.

"They would be free to pursue other moneymaking ventures on the farms. Since we're beginning to have a surplus of food for our farmers, increasing the availability of our other more specialty crops could aid in such endeavors?"

"Such as?"

"Well, each smallfolk family has a set garden size, as per the laws of the land. If we were to allow an increase of this garden's size, and encourage the farmers to grow additional, perhaps different crops within them, then not only would availability increase, but our smallfolk would have more to sell at market. Herbs and spices within our lands, like garlic, lavender and mint, could be grown in greater quantities, and not only be more available for our dishes, but for export as well. If we had enough people growing them in a village, that village could become the destination for merchants looking to buy those herbs and spices in bulk."

"Perhaps. Your mother's nephews would certainly like to set up shop in Lowhill once it is rebuilt." Fires had a nasty way of spreading in any town, the worst damage usually being the farthest from the wells. The fact that so few smallfolk had perished had been nothing short of miraculous.

"As it is, my only other idea, for now, is a survey of our lands, father. I'm sure Maester Gorman would know of the means of accomplishing this, but it would have to be over a long period of time, with how thinly our smallfolk are spread."

"Our lands are vast but rather sparse, I'll admit. You could travel for days and not see another soul unless you happened across some errant village. Why a survey, though?"

"Not to be presumptuous, father, but it is imperative for both taxation and future planning that we know what we are dealing with. If we were to, say, develop Lowhill into a merchant town, we would need to know how many people live there, as well as the number of people in the surrounding hills that might move to the town for better opportunities."

For a boy of only ten, he sure knew how to use big words. "Just as well, so we can tell if there is an increase in smallfolk moving from other lands to our own," he said. "Other lords might not like that." Smallfolk poaching was no crime, but it was in the minds of lords who saw them as little more than property. A dangerous accusations as well, as it stripped a lord's lands of potential levies for war and taxes for their families and liege lords. Wars had been fought over the loss of such power, and many things far less damaging that the movement of smallfolk.

"Other lords should learn to try and improve the lives of those that make their lifestyles and positions in Westeros even possible," Casper said. "If we provide greater opportunities for our smallfolk, they will in turn enrich us and our family's coffers. If smallfolk leave other lands for our own willingly, then so be it."

"We'll try to ensure our own move into such a future Lowhill, rather than the smallfolk of other lords, when it comes to that," he said, ruffling his heir's hair again, earning another mumble of annoyance. "Come now, let us return home. Arenna wants you to read her your strange bedtime stories, and we both know the price of failure in that regard."

"I'll do my best," Casper replied with a smile.

"How far are you into this newest story, by the way?"

"Oh, not terribly far, the trolls were turned to stone by the sunlight and the companions of Ser Baggins had just buried the treasure for later."

*****

152 AC

The honor was the likely the second greatest he'd been afforded in his entire life, the first being his rise to a lord. His lord Baratheon had bid him and his heir to visit Storm's End, for a celebration of the birth of his lord's first daughter. The journey had been fairly calm until they'd arrived near the great fortress itself, whereupon a storm had coalesced and nearly drenched them before they'd made it inside. The Stormlands were prone to such things, the easterly winds funneling wind and rain into Shipbreaker Bay with an unrelenting drive. It made him glad to not live near the coast, where the storms often battered crops into the ground and drowned both people and animals in low-lying areas.

His son tried not to, but even he couldn't help but gawk at the massive structure as they walked within. By the Gods, it was as huge as he remembered it, all those years ago, and as intimidating as ever.

"Stay close by me, son, this is a first for you, but I've not been back here since before you were born," he said.

"When was that?"

"The day I was made a lord, on behalf of your grandfather's sacrifice in the Dance. Lord Baratheon's lady mother accepted my oath of fealty, the death of lord husband having taken place mere moons before."

Casper, ever dutiful, stuck close to him, even amidst all the banners and men of various other Stormland houses milling about. He saw Buckler, Connington, Swann, Estermont and a great variety of others, some minor and others middling, much like his own.

The feast was a grand spectacle, the troupe of musicians most entertaining and the food of a varied quality he found he envied. Storm's End and any other houses along the Kingsroad, as well as near the coast, were more open to trade than his interior house and lands were. His son had expressed interest in developing Lowhill into a trade town, but he failed to see just what they could trade that his neighboring lords did not already have. Besides, for all his inherently excellent qualities as an heir, Casper did have an odd focus on counting coppers. Likely inherited that from his mother. He paid it no mind for now, but a man had to know what he needed to do as a lord, and being a miserly one was not the future of their house.

As the feast began to die down and the lords began to engage in drunken frivolities, he noticed his lord paramount walking amongst the crowd, speaking in turn to every lord that seized his attention. Having partaken in a few ales, but not enough to addle his mind, he was confident he could speak with his liege lord. In the meantime, he'd seen Casper sample a little of each drink, favoring some but expressing distaste for a select few. Shortly after, his heir developed that thoughtful expression he was so commonly adopting, one that meant an idea was on its way.

Hopefully it would be more promising than that "printing press" he'd talked about. Gods, the cost of ink and parchment alone had been enough for him to declare it a mere thought exercise and likely just a dream that would never be realized. Still, to be able to print multiple merchant ledgers and records for taxes…

"Lord Wytch!" his lord said, knocking him from his musings. Despite being younger than him by a good bit, his liege was in turn larger by a good bit, that Baratheon blood as evident as could be. "Good to see you here Morden, it's been some time, hasn't it?"

"Not since my father's sacrifice, I'd wager, near three and twenty years," he said, standing and clasping arms with the Royce Baratheon. "Last time I saw you, you'd been a mere babe in your mother's arms. Will never forget the day she took my oath of fealty and raised me to my standing, you then puked all over me before the wet nurse took you away to clean up."

They both shared a rumble of laughter at that. "Aye, I was too young to remember that, but I'm surprised you've not had the chance to visit before. I've never sent summons since reaching my majority, yes, but it does good to see one's vassals once in a while. Helps with the bonds between us Stormlanders, you know."

"Been terribly busy, my liege, three children in under ten years, and lands that stood empty for many years more that needed to be put back in order. Yet I'm glad we were able to arrive on time, my lord, as I'd like to introduce my son and heir, Casper."

"Greetings, my lord," his son said, rising and giving a respectable bow. "It is good to finally meet you."

"Aye, been watching you tonight, Morden, good lad you've got here, big one too," his lord said.

"Aye, even though he's still growing, his brains be the biggest part of him, or so my lady wife says," he said, earning an amused eye roll from his son.

"Oh? Is that the reason behind these rumors I've heard from your neck of the Stormlands?"

"Rumors, Lord Baratheon?"

"The merchants that pass through tell of strange things, things my maester doesn't know what to make of. Stormhall crop rotation, the planting fields instead of letting them go fallow? Some new kind of plow that only takes a pair of horses? A seed drill? What is that, some kind of big spade?"

"Somewhat my liege, the drill plants the crops in neater rows and helps cover the seeds to fend off the birds and pests. Casper here's behind it, or at least most of it," he said, with not a little bit of pride. "Boy's been touched by the Smith, some of the septons in Lowhill say. I don't know what to make of it, but it all just seems to come naturally to him, like some boys are just better with swords than lance."

"Indeed," his lord said. "I'm interested in buying one of your saddles, if only to see if it's truly as unique as they say, but we'll speak later of it. Have you, by chance, been keeping track of your smallfolk?"

"For the most part. If I may ask, my lord, has there been trouble? I fear I'm remote enough to not receive news regularly, aside from that of some of my neighbors, or the smallfolk rumor mill."

"Some of your neighbors, pissant specks of upjumped landed knights not worth the name, but with long histories, have been complaining of smallfolk talking in their lands about yours, and possibly moving there," the man muttered. "While it's not against the law, they'll not take kindly to what they see as poaching their smallfolk. Be careful, they might make claims against you."

"My thanks for the warning, my lord Baratheon, I will see if I can settle the matter before it grows out of control," he said. "The King's Peace amidst annoyed neighbors is better than war over an issue so easily settled."

"Good, I look forward to hearing back from you in the coming moons on the matter. By the way, why did you not foster your son elsewhere? Merely curious, I assure you."

"Well, I'd given it thought, but nobody wanted him, from what I could gather. Most lords around our lands have not even noticed my son is approaching his majority, not that any have daughters suitable for his age other than Lord Windhill. As a young house, we are beneath their notice, I suppose."

"Aye, either old maids or suckling babes, a poor time to become a man. You should talk with Lord Windhill in person, his granddaughter is likely to be comely enough once she comes of age, and your lands share a border for a good amount. Otherwise, have you thought of looking outside the Stormlands?"

He nodded. "My lady wife has been using some of her merchant kin to put out news in some of the kingdoms they pass through, but we've not yet heard of anyone showing interest."

His lord smiled. "It will only be a matter of time before someone takes the bait, especially since your lands have become so decidedly improved. If your son is even as half as smart as you say he is, in time, I see your house becoming a valued part of the Stormlands, especially being so close to Dorne. The Marcher lords are especially happy your fields are producing so much food, makes it easier to prepare."

"Have there been issues with our neighbors?"

"As of yet, no, but there have been… rumblings in the capital of its continued independence. Nothing more than rumors and hearsay, but in time, who knows?"

With that, his lord left them, joining in a conversation with another group of lords. His eyes scanning the room slowly, he noticed the banners of a few of his neighbors, the same lords who had been raising a fuss over the chatter of their smallfolk. Some were staring at him with mild annoyance, Greycairn and Wysp he believed, but two in particular, they seemed borderline hostile. Lord Craggner and his son, a bastard if he recalled. They were his most exclusive neighbors, their lands as sparse as his own, yet they seemed intent on patrolling their borders, as if he were preparing for an assault. Why would he? His lands were enough to manage as it was.

Perhaps he should speak with them as such? That he was no threat to them? They didn't seem like they wanted to talk, but perhaps after drinks mellowed their tempers, it would work.

Yet as the evening wore on, he saw Craggner's bastard leave, and the man bid the others farewell, citing troubles in his lands that needed taking care of. Oh well, perhaps next time.