Chapter 30: Kings Landing IV

Mid 156 AC

After so many months of uncertainty, the grand maester had told her the most dangerous times had passed, and to look forward to a brighter future. A large part of Naerys had feared this child would be stillborn, as it had not kicked for a near moon before the birth, and although little Vaella had thankfully come into the world screaming loud and long, the danger had not passed. She and the babe had both come down with a fever not two moons later, hers more terrible than before, and she feared either of them might die. Aemon was beside himself with worry, though none knew it was for both his lover and child, and they thought it merely for that of his sister and niece. Aegon, her oft-absentee husband, had not given them much thought, stopping in every now and then to check on them, but always gallivanting off somewhere to indulge himself. He had told her he had sworn off whores, but he was busy feasting and drinking with whatever lackeys he had accrued thus far, and she feared he would fall once again to the temptations of other women soon enough.

Yet despite the months of isolation, the cramps, the fevers, and the occasional puking, little Vaella had proven stronger than her mother, and recovered nearly two moons before she had. Her father Viserys, often praying in his quarters when he was not serving as Hand of the King, had finally been able to see them, and hold his second grandchild in his arms for the first time since her birth. The news of her recovery and that of little Vaella had been a topic of great discussion in the court, and from there, news would likely spread across the kingdoms. While not queen, she had no doubt a great number of lords would soon be looking to little Vaella to further their plans, as marrying a Targaryen princess, even if not in line for the throne, was a prize for many a power-hungry lord or lady.

The more honorable among them would at least wait to begin discussing such ideas until Vaella had her first moonblood.

"How is she?" her brother asked, resplendent in his Kingsguard armor. They were alone in her private room, save for little Vaella, sleeping soundly in her large crib, a dragon egg beside her. There was no telling if it would hatch, but given precedence, it too would likely remain as still as stone.

Naerys smiled softly, looking down upon her babe. "She is well, Aemon. A strong and curious babe, according to the grand maester. Ravenously hungry at times, the maids tell me, but no less than Daeron was at that age."

Aemon was silent for a moment. "You?"

She turned back to him. "I am better than I was, but we must put a hold to our time together. Aegon does not suspect a thing, but I fear another babe so soon after Vaella might be the one to kill me, or it shall die within my womb. The grand maester agrees I should avoid such thoughts of more babes until I have recovered."

"Yet it is harder for you to do so than for anyone else," he replied softly. "We know not what ailments Aegon afflicted upon you that he earned through his growing experience with whores. It worries me that your health recovers so slowly, while mine own or Aegon's seems unaffected."

"Were it so simple that there was such a cure for my affliction, yet my health was always a fragile thing," Naerys replied. "Aegon refused to no longer try after Daeron's birth. Perhaps I might be able to persuade him with his 'daughter' instead? That another child may kill me or the babe?"

"We should only hope that he could be persuaded, but I believe we both know what he will say," her other brother growled. "All we can do is pray to the gods for deliverance from your ailments, whatever they may be."

Indeed, Aegon was her truest ailment, yet even with their unhappy marriage and his unfaithful ways, she could not entirely bring herself to hate him. He was her brother, and perhaps at one time, he had loved her as such, but now he simply saw her as another woman in his bed, one more to lay and leave without an afterthought to the consequences. She gave thanks to the gods near every time he hurt her pride and shamed her that Daeron and Vaella were not his. His perishing would indeed alleviate a great deal of her suffering, but then her father would be in anguish over the loss of his eldest. She could no more bring herself to hurt her father than she could to outright hate Aegon.

"As it is, we shall see what the gods decide for us."

There was a knock at the door, and without preamble, and much to her surprise, in strode her father. Viserys gave Aemon a look that brooked no questioning and gave a simple nod in her direction. Without a word, her brother sat beside her, and her father took his seat across from them both. The look on his face was a perplexing mixture of worry and resignation, one that filled her with fear. Had they been found out?

Viserys sat in an uncomfortable silence, before letting out a sigh. "Naerys?"

"Yes, father?"

"Do you still recall the events of Baelor's letter?"

The knot of worry in her belly imploding, she held back a sigh of relief. "The one he wrote of his time in the Stormlands?"

"No, the other one."

"I cannot, father, I was not privy to its contents. I only vaguely recall my husband calling it a 'flight of fancy' from Baelor, but I did not press him for more details at the time." Aegon's choice of words was far cruder and mean-spirited than that, but she said nothing. Her father had always had a soft spot for his eldest, diminishing or even ignoring some of his more… glaring flaws. How her father expected the man to grow out of his proclivities, without disciplining him for when they brought shame to her, she would never understand.

"I believe I recall some of it, father," Aemon softly piped up. "Baelor proposed a project in establishing a greater degree of access to the resources of the Kingswood for House Targaryen, based upon what he has seen firsthand in the Stormlands, specifically out in the lands of House Wytch."

"Indeed. We replied that it was an impossible project, idealistic and simply infeasible at the time. Why should we take heed of a young boy, who had not so long ago never left the sanctuary of the Red Keep? His father agreed with the grand maester and I that such a project would fail, and that what our house needed was to consolidate tried and true methods, not venture into unknown territory at so risky a time. With so many lords now bearing grievances against us, much of the realm remains in a state of frail uncertainty, one which may tear itself asunder should we move too fast to reestablish our house's power."

"Why bring this up now, father?" she asked. It was rather uncommon for him to speak so openly of things these days, often focusing on his work as Hand, and little else. One of the few avenues she could reliably use to speak with him were bringing along his grandchildren, as they were perhaps his greatest weakness.

"The grand maester still had the blasted thing, as I'd asked him to keep it, out of simple curiosity, mind you. During your sickness these past two moons, Naerys, I needed something to keep my mind off you and little Vaella, and in my desperation to distract myself from dark thoughts…"

"You read it again," her brother finished.

"Aye, that I did," Viserys muttered, leaning back in his chair. She had never quite seen her father like this, not even after their mother had left for Essos all those years ago. Just what was going on? Why was he speaking with them of all people, on the matter? "I read it, and then again, and then brought the maester in to corroborate what I had read. It is Baelor's handwriting, and his style of words, but the complexity of it all, the sheer meticulous application of whatever he's been learning out in the Stormlands… I would be lying if I said it did not frighten me."

"Why should our cousin's words frighten you so, father?"

"It would be remiss to say that sending Baelor away from Kings Landing was just for his fostering. You two were closest to him aside from his mother, you both knew word of his excessive piety was beginning to spread amongst the court and cast unfavorably upon the rest of House Targaryen, at a time we could not afford to let even an ounce more of influence slip from our grasp. A boy, showing no interest in martial ability? Sending him away to one of the most martially-minded kingdoms was the best we could do to salvage some lost reputation, and I hoped he would grow out of it in his time away from home. Yet I did not expect so radical a change in the boy and this has me worried enough that I would come to you, my children."

Naerys was silent at that. She'd always had a soft spot for her younger cousin, the poor boy having few others of similar piety other than her and Aemon. She did not care for ill words against Baelor, but there was little she, a woman, could do against such talk within the family, especially with her brother Aegon's oft-cruel teasing. To hide the poor boy's copy of the Seven-Pointed Star in a place he could not reach, and then mock him for his inability to retrieve it!

Viserys continued. "Baelor's change has also given my brother the king a great deal of worry. I cannot fault him for that, as his contraction of consumption must be kept hidden, and continues to plague him, despite the best efforts of the grand maester. Even amongst his own ailments causing him pain, he can see the guiding hand someone has influenced the boy with, and that brings back bad memories for us."

"Of the time leading up to the Dance, and after?"

"Aye, when kingdom turned against kingdom, when family went against family, and we lost our dragons for it. Fire and Blood, for we bring fire to our enemies, but remain united in blood. The second is perhaps forgotten by most, as only the fire is remembered these days, burned into the memory of all survivors of that great conflict." Viserys rubbed his face. "The king suspects someone is grooming Baelor."

"For what?" Aemon asked.

"What else? To take the throne. No boy his age should be having thoughts of such prestigious and potentially powerful projects. Rare is the prince that is so determined to make a mark upon the world at such a young age. Daeron has that streak in him to some extent, but we'd thought only him. It would seem, however, that Baelor too has inherited that same determination, though perhaps with a greater degree of finesse, diligence, and dare I say, foresight. I still am troubled in believing it until I meet Baelor again and see for myself what he has to say for himself on the matter. My son, do you recall how detailed his plans were?"

"Aye, a bit, they would near-revolutionize the timber industry and output of the Kingswood, and the power projection of our family," Aemon replied. "The small gains we have made in the farms under our house with his gifts of Wytch steel plows, good smallfolk tools and those 'seed drills' would have been paltry in comparison."

"More than that, it would allow for our house to rise once more, possible as it had never done before. Although a mere postulation, rather than an actual plan, Baelor's project could turn Kings Landing or the surrounding countryside into a shipbuilding center to rival Braavos itself."

That was no small claim, for the famed shipyard of Braavos was said to be a wonder of the world, turning out vessels faster than more other realms could hope to emulate. "Even with their Arsenal?"

"In spite of it. With his plan in place, the maester projected an increase in shipbuilding capability to allow us to build and maintain an incredibly powerful Royal Navy, the likes of which Westeros has never seen before. The sheer power our family could wield could damn well reach the very shores of Essos itself if this were realized, and trade options alone could see us introduced to or dominate markets we have only rarely seen. The Narrow Sea itself would become yet another part of our domain, for our navy would rule its waves. Even the Stepstones could fall to our influence, allowing us to do what my father himself could not with a dragon and an army of mercenaries."

Naerys was shocked at this. Baelor had, in a single letter, scared her father and uncle, written the means of dominating the waves and trade, and all as a project he'd created after witnessing similar projects in the lands of House Wytch? Was he reading into this too much, or was her curious father simply drawing conclusions quicker than most would, if given such information?

"Do we know who this might be?"

"Not entirely, as despite Baelor's time away, he has visited many castles in the Stormlands, and thus potentially met many lords. My first suspect would have been Lord Baratheon, but from what we have seen the man is far too loyal and entirely unwilling to engage in such manipulations. His departed father, for sure, could be behind something like this, but not Royce. No, I suspect his friend Lord Wytch, but at the same time, I cannot bring myself to suspect it out of malicious intent on the lad's part."

"Why not, father? If a lord is looking to raise our cousin to be the next king, rather than Daeron, should not something be done about it?" Aemon asked, hackles slowly rising. "You said we cannot afford strife in our family, yet an outsider may be willingly crafting it!"

"For it makes no sense, my son. Were it a Hightower, or a Swann, or a Bracken, or some other major lord in a kingdom, then perhaps I could make sense of it as playing the great game. Yet this "Casper" is nothing more than a boy, only a few years older than Baelor. He has indeed brought great wealth and prosperity to his lands, and is betrothed to an old Stormlander line, yet my reports on his nature do not seem to be the power-grabbing type. He had opportunity aplenty to seize lands from House Craggner and others, yet openly denied himself the opportunity. He rarely leaves his lands, has the adoration of his smallfolk, and has neither the capital nor prestige to attempt anything so grand as installing Baelor on the throne, when the time comes. I doubt any other lords would support a move by the young lord to even attempt such a thing."

"Yet he still aroused suspicion?"

"Aye, it has been quiet, but reports indicate he may be preparing for a war. Only potentially not within our kingdoms, but without. You have heard of Daeron's thoughts on Dorne, yes?"

Naerys nodded. "On occasion. 'Finishing the work of the Conqueror', he has said. He will bring it up during his studies with the maester, or in the training yard, or even at our meals."

"Given the recent conflict between the Stormlords and the Dornish, I believe the boy lord is looking ahead to a general, open conflict between our realm and theirs. From what we've been able to gleam thus far, the increasing production of iron, of cloth, breeding horses, securing large amounts of grain and other supplies, building good roads towards the Dornish Marches, it all speaks of directing a dagger towards Dorne itself. Combined with the rumors of what was done to both parties of Dornish crossing the border, tensions have likely never been higher in generations."

Silence reigned between them, filling Naerys with worry as her father pondered. War with Dorne? It had been nothing short of disastrous after the Conquest, and in the wars that followed. Even with the great victory of Jaehaerys, the Dornish had not broken before them, nor willingly been incorporated into the realms at large. Daeron's constant ravings on the matter did little to help it, and before long, others in the courts would echo those sentiments. If the heir wished for war, it would only be a matter of time before lords looking to curry favor would side with him on the matter. War was where men proved themselves, earned glory and riches, even amidst the prospect of death on a distant battlefield.

A look of dawning realization came to her father's features. "So that must be his game, then. Some might find it admirable, myself included, but it still reeks of the same games I saw at play in Lys."

"What do you mean, father?"

"If Lord Wytch is indeed behind Baelor's turnaround, then it may not be out of malicious intent, as I originally feared. I must be overestimating the boy's capabilities, for this could all be out of farsighted necessity, a guidance for the lonely boy he befriended. If war with Dorne does come, with Aegon or Daeron as king, then Baelor could be recalled to Kings Landing for safety, or perhaps will ride to war with Lord Baratheon. His change in piety, his focus on bows like those the Stormlanders use, his efforts in his letter to create industry we have never seen before… yes, perhaps that is it."

"Baelor, if summoned home during such a war, could attempt to put into practice whatever projects he could fund personally, for he has never touched his allowance, content to let it grow in his pocket of the treasury," Aemon said, seemingly coming to the same conclusion. "With his time in the Stormlands and martial training offsetting his earlier… eccentricities, he could become a driving force to see the Crownlands and House Targaryen gain power we've not had since our dragons died. Using what he has seen Lord Wytch accomplish, he would try for the same, only with far more wealth at his disposal to do so. The building of his timber harvesting project could be only the beginning."

"Or should he ride off to war, he is more prepared for it than he would have been, had he never left Storm's End on that progress," Viserys continued. "Baelor, even as a noncombatant camp aide or page to Lord Baratheon, would earn a great deal of respect and goodwill from the Stormlanders he would serve with, and thus also from other lords who take pride in martial ability. He would gain recognition amongst the other kingdoms that he had never managed before, and a positive one at that. Whatever his plans are, either scenario would be a win for Lord Wytch's designs on the prince, yet he does not benefit from either. He would serve with Lord Baratheon as well, just as he did in the Marches, but not necessarily near Baelor. None of the timber for Baelor's project would come from his lands, nor would his name be on it. I yet struggle to find a reason why this is all happening, there is something we are missing, some crucial detail we've yet to uncover."

"So, you believe Lord Wytch is trying to ensure Baelor will earn something from this hypothetical war, either here in Kings Landing or out on the battlefield," Naerys said. "I agree this is a bit worrying father, but what can we do about it?"

"That is mostly why I came to you two, my children. Before his departure, other than perhaps his mother, I would say Baelor was closest to the two of you. He no doubt writes to Lord Wytch, as his letter mentioned he considers him a great friend. I would have you two do the same. Write to him through couriers, see how he is doing, but be mindful. I suspect Baelor's mind has grown sharper in his time away from home and will notice attempts to find out what he and Lord Wytch have been discussing through their letters."

"Why not write to him yourself, father? He did enjoy spending some time with you in your office." Perhaps it would not be so bad that Baelor became more diligent and industrious, there was, after all, meant to be a Hand of the King after her father eventually resigned.

Viserys shook his head. "No, I would not so readily gain his trust as you two would, and I am certain he would tell me little, he always fared better around you two. If he has not realized yet, I must confess I purposefully gave him the note mentioning the construction of Lord Wytch's sept in Lowhill. Were it not for that, Baelor might never have wished to be fostered in the Stormlands, and perhaps one day he will come to the conclusion I did so on purpose. Will he accept it as divine intervention, mere chance, or perhaps manipulation from his uncle?"

"I am not sure he would see it so darkly, father," Naerys said. "He would most likely thank you for it, for it put him on a very different path many of us feared he might tread."

"Regardless, write to him, but ask only the sort of things one might expect cousins to ask. Let him write of what he wishes, and come to me with what he says. It will take time, but perhaps we shall get to the bottom of this mystery. I will be meeting with the Master of Whisperers, to find out more if possible, but for now, I must speak with my brother. He will need to be informed of these potential developments with all due haste. I shall see you both at supper."

Casting a loving glance over the sleeping Vaella, Viserys briskly left without another word, the siblings alone once more.

"I… don't suppose either of us were expecting that," Naerys said softly, after a great deal of silence. "For a moment, I thought our secret had been exposed."

"Aye, the issue crossed my mind as well," her brother and lover replied. "We thankfully remain undiscovered but must now attempt to discover just how much Baelor has changed, for good or ill."

"Letters from family would be something Baelor might look forward to but visiting our cousin would most certainly work as well," she replied. Getting away from Aegon and Kings Landing could be beneficial, the grand maester had told her. She'd not had a reason or ability to do so, until rather recently, that is. Father's 'mission' now gave her the perfect excuse to do so.

"Perhaps, once your strength has recovered for a few moons more," Aemon said. "Until then, let us each write to the boy, me with the goings on of the city and Red Keep, and you of little Vaella. I'm sure he will wish to hear from family on his new kin, rather than through lordly gossip."

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Stormlanders XV

Mid 156 AC

Balmy days grew rarer as autumn grew deeper, yet this was one to enjoy. Occasional fluffy clouds, a warmth unusual for this time of year, and a distinct lack of heavy, driving rain all meant Storm' End was livelier than it usually was these days. His children and lady wife were off playing with their new puppy, his mother was visiting with Caron kin, and even the castellan had nothing ill to say today. It made the whole thing feel idyllic, as if the weight of an entire kingdom did not rest upon Royce's shoulders. Yet it did, but he bore this task, as he did so many others, with good cheer and old Stormlander grit.

Some small part of Lord Baratheon could still not believe it, but the rest of him was happy for what he saw in the training yard. For a boy of two and ten, the prince was recovering rather quickly from a life of no martial ambition. He could reliably stand up to most of the other squires or pages, some of whom were a good deal bigger than him, and for all his inexperience, Baelor was proving himself to be a quick learner when he applied himself. He had few victories under his belt, save for winning many bow practices, as Lord Baratheon forbade anyone from going too easy on him. He'd been happy to make that rule after Baelor had requested it, likely to prevent favoritism from dulling his attempts at honing his skills. There would likely come a day the prince would be decent with the sword, and with more training, perhaps more than decent.

Until that day came, there was little else he could do except encourage the boy and find him new challenges to meet. One of these would be trying to find opponents willing to engage with practice axes, for Baelor was quickly proving himself more than adept with such a weapon. With a shield, he held himself well against his opponents, but somehow, he was better without it. It was likely some portion of his training with the staff, perhaps footwork or anticipating an opponent's strike, that saw him be so successful with it.

Watching Baelor pick himself from the dirt again, tired but no less determined to keep going, he'd decided that was enough for the day. With a nod to the master at arms, he watched the spar break up, with Baelor bowing to his opponent and congratulating him.

Slowly making his way through the training yard, he arrived at Baelor's back just as the boy finished returning the training sword. "My prince," he said.

"Lord Baratheon."

"After you have bathed, come to my solar, there is something we must discuss."

With a nod, the prince left with Ser Thorne in tow, and making his way inside, Royce smiled.

Despite his initial misgivings, he was proud to say he had been wrong in his earlier assumptions of the boy. Prince Baelor was proving to be the sort of prince most wished they were, even with the initial piety and pacifism taking so long to work around. While the boy still prayed, it was only once a day, early in the morning before breaking their fast, and perhaps as thanks on the occasional day he beat an opponent in a spar. He had even talked of trying to learn the lance, but Royce and the master at arms had reminded the boy he was still too young for it, being more likely to fall from the horse mid-gallop than strike a target in passing. Perhaps in a few years, and after a good stone or two muscle, would they train him with it.

High in his solar, surrounded by the history of his family and that of Storm's End, Royce sat in contemplative silence. Looking to the future was the everyday focus of any good lord, and despite the setbacks his family had faced during the Dance, Lord Baratheon was looking ahead, not only to securing and strengthening his family's power, but also its prestige. Barring terrible circumstances, Baelor would likely one day become the Hand of the King, as his uncle Viserys had before him for Aegon the Third. It would do well for him to challenge Baelor to learn as much as he could in the needs of the position, to better prepare him for his future. Yet to do so would require him putting the prince to tasks that not only challenged him but could bring tangible results, ones that could not only benefit House Baratheon, but also benefit the Stormlands as a whole.

He knew the prince had reacted poorly to the letter of his family the previous year, as the boy had allowed him to read it not long after they'd returned to Storm's End. Royce also knew the boy had developed something of a grudge against the language in it, specifically of his inexperience and youthful naivety. While Baelor may deny such a thing, it did not escape Royce's attention that while he no longer dwelt on it as he had, Baelor had not forgotten those words in the slightest.

Well, one of the best ways of testing someone, as he had found, was putting them in a position that not only required them to step outside their area of comfort, but to give them some semblance of authority. As a boy of only two and ten, Baelor was far too young and far too important to be put in charge of a patrol, or supervising dockyard repairs, or something similarly physical and strenuous. There was too much at risk that could cause the boy to come to bodily harm, and that stood to ruin the name of the Stormlands once again.

No, Baelor would need a project of sorts, one small and manageable with a prince at the helm, with proper oversight of course. Looking to his map of the lands directly around Storm's End, he was interrupted by a knock at the door. In strode the prince, Ser Thorne in tow as always.

"My lord, you wished to see me?" Baelor asked, taking a seat across from the great stag desk, the silent Kingsguard by his side.

"Indeed, my prince, I am glad to see you have been diligent in your duties in the training yard, as well as with your studies with the maester," Royce said. "Robert is not one to impress easily, but he has found your studies to be above adequate, which is high praise from that man."

"My thanks, my lord, I do as is instructed of me, to the best of my abilities, as both a prince and as your page."

"I, however, find your studies to be lacking in one area." The surprised look on the prince's face was sudden, but not unexpected. "While your lessons have gone well, I believe you are of the age to be entrusted with a bit more freedom, and thus a bit more responsibility. There is something to be said for learning from your lessons, and then applying them to a task at hand."

"What would you have me do?" Baelor asked, schooling his features back to a polite yet passive stare.

Royce smiled, nodding towards the map on the far wall. Old and out of date by more than a few decades, to be sure, but it would prove its usefulness once more. "The map of the lands immediately surrounding Storm's End, what do you make of it?"

"It is well made, but also an old map, as I see areas that are small villages now, but do not appear so on the map itself."

"Indeed, several villages have sprung up in the few years since your friend, Lord Wytch, introduced me to the concept of Stormhall crop rotation. More food has meant more smallfolk endure harsher times, and where there are fields, there are bound to be smallfolk to attend to them. Most of these villages bear no more than a hundred souls, but it is still a village, and with them comes change."

"Is there something amiss with them?"

"Not truly, but we're still in autumn's grasp, and it yet remains warm enough for more crops to be sown and then harvested. A short jaunt north of these villages, there is an area that was once several larger farm fields, under the care of yeomen sworn directly to the last Durrandon king. They have been fallowing since the first years of the Conquest, and the wilds have reclaimed them greatly in that time."

"I take it the yeomen in question perished in The Last Storm?"

Royce nodded. "Most likely, and with the number of dead from the Stormlands during the Conquest taking so long to recover in this area, there has been no need to expand until recently. I would have sooner, as we not so long ago had a slight abundance of workers over the number of fields under plow, but Lord Wytch's crop rotation saw fit to unintentionally undermine that idea. Why expand farmland when what you already have provides more than enough with its increased productivity?"

Baelor nodded. "A shortage of workers to tend farmland is near as costly as poor yields from storm or pest alike. When capable of properly tending to it, no smallfolk would say no to more farmland. More fields and pastures mean more food, more resources, and more sources of income for the smallfolk that tend to them."

"Indeed, my prince. Now that we've less workers needed for each farm field overall, thanks to Wytch plows and seed drills especially, the areas around Storm's End could use with a bit of expanding. As Lord Paramount, it falls to me to place in charge those who I feel would be most up to the task of cultivating new fields and directing the smallfolk most efficiently. This task I would entrust to you, my prince."

Baelor's expression of calm comically turned into one of shock and disbelief. "M-Me, Lord Baratheon? You would see me be placed in charge of such efforts?"

Royce smiled. "Of course! You've learned more than enough from your lessons in Wytch lands and in the maester's study to put such knowledge into practice. I am not asking you to recreate the productivity of the Reach right outside of Storm's End, but to merely return the remnants of fields to working order. We've the smallfolk for this venture, as well as several new yeomen who have pledged themselves to me, but they must have smallfolk to work these lands."

"What should happen if winter is to come before the fields are ready?" Ser Thorne asked.

"Whether or not the fields are ready in time is entirely up to the whims of the gods. If they are, the choice of crops shall fall to you, Baelor, regardless of how soon winter will be upon us. The decision on what to do with the harvested materials during the reclamation will also fall to you. I shall retain command of any armed men you require, through an intermediary when needed, and I shall control the purse strings of the project. Do you have any objections?"

"No, foster-father, those are most reasonable limitations," the prince replied. Foster-father? He'd not been called that by Baelor in some time. "I do have a question, though, if I may?"

"Of course."

"Would it be acceptable to write to Lord Wytch on the matter?"

"Given his experience in overseeing such problems, I see no reason to ask for advice, but only on occasion. I stress that he is not to become a crutch whenever something does not go to plan. This is to be your task, not his, and while you may purchase resources from him if needed, you will determine the cost effectiveness of such decisions. Extenuating circumstances can be afforded, but grandiose ideas or overdevelopment of a plan will not be so readily funded."

"I understand, my lord. When would you have me begin?"

"Today."

Both Ser Thorne and the prince appeared shocked. "Today?"

"Aye, though I'm not expecting you to be calling for land surveys and determining the wages of lumbermen for clearing these old fields before sunset. I have given you the task of clearing these fallow areas for planting, but the how and when will fall to you, my prince. It is your task, so if you determine it would take five weeks, or seven moons, or a full year, then I expect you to follow your calculations and make adjustments when necessary."

"How many laborers will I have at my disposal?" the prince asked. Most other young men Royce had known growing up might have balked at such a responsibility, but the prince seemed to be of a more diligent sort than most at such an age. It wasn't as if he'd assigned the prince the task of trying to dam and then drain all of Shipbreaker Bay, that would be ludicrous!

"Near two hundred in all, including blacksmiths, masons and the like. Most others will have experience in farming or clearing the land. Beasts of burden will be available as well, so long as they are well cared for."

"I understand, my lord. I shall begin immediately."

"Good. The maester will have access to the records of the land in question somewhere in his study, see to him."

With a quick bow, Baelor left him, Ser Thorne casting Royce a curious glance before departing as well.

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???? II

???? AC

It was born amidst salt and sand, water and darkness, blood and turbulent magic. The first noise it heard was its twisted shell cracking open, dry air the first thing it tasted as it breathed. Its first gasping breath was the hardest, the dry air threatening to overwhelm what allowed it to draw in air, yet it survived, and quickly grew accustomed to it. Around it were others much like it, but not quite the same, born of the same foulness that made up its being. Its hunger was immediate and ravenous, and saw these malformed beasts not as kin, but as food. So, it attacked the others, crunching through their shells, piercing their hides with claw and beak. Some fought back, but it was the first, and the strongest, and none could stand up to it. It feasted upon them, consuming them all until only it remained, and only then did its hunger abate.

The silence around it was replaced by soft words, murmuring that at first gave it pause, but soon filled it with a sense of ease. Something larger than itself held it aloft, speaking old words it did not understand, yet somehow knew to be laced with power. It made no effort to attack, feeling decidedly secure in the embrace of what it came to recognize as its progenitor. It, the lone survivor of lone survivors, had earned a name, one that spoke of power and dread, hope and vengeance.

Nādrēsy āzma hen vēdros. In time they would only call it Nādrēsy, a fitting name, for it would be the tool by which these forgotten people, this desperate race, would strike back against their enemies. Yet it would take long for this to happen, far longer than any of these mortals had left to live. So it was tended to with care, deep in the deep, dark world it called home. Food would be brought to it, often the still-warm bodies of similar creatures who had not survived their own birth. The ones who had made it continued to attempt to make more, but it had been a fluke, an abomination amongst abominations. No others would survive as long as it, no others would outlast their progenitors, and in time, they stopped trying to make these chimeras, with Nādrēsy consuming the last of their bodies in time.

As it grew larger, it was fed more, or fed larger creatures. It found that it did not need to feed for extended periods, often sleeping and dreaming of greater things, of greater beings whose origins it could trace itself to. Now and then some of the enemy, usually lost sailors, would be brought to it, and the sight of them filled Nādrēsy with equal amounts of hunger and hatred, for it had inherited the same hate its progenitor had felt upon losing their home. The crunch of the enemy's bones would be the only thing louder than their screams, both of which it enjoyed immensely.

It continued to grow and feed in the dark, tended to by a select few who remembered the old life, the old way, or continued the tradition of such memories. Nādrēsy had never lain eyes upon the great river they recalled, but felt its pull, as it did the sea, for both were its home, and yet neither would likely accept it.

Then came the cataclysm felt round the world. Even here, deep in the dark, Nādrēsy could feel the waves of magic pulsing through the air, sickly and damaged. The gods whose ancestry it laid claim to, great shelled creatures that saw one another as foes, became distant to it, obscured by the breaking of the world. What the enemy had done, had been their undoing, and so it had unwound a great deal of the web of magic that interlaced from the oldest lands to the deepest waters.

The sacrifices of the great enemy grew rarer. Much rarer. It grew to crave the taste of them, granting boons to those who managed to bring to Nādrēsy one more of their ill ilk.

In time, it grew too large for the domicile its original progenitor had called its home. So it wandered, exploring this new home, ranging far and wide, under hill and vale, mountain and sand, river and ocean alike. It never saw the sun nor knew the kiss of the wind, for its home was sheltered so against the outside. Yet it was connected to the outside all the same, for the same magic that had led to its birth also seeped into the waters it called home, oozing from its body as a noxious, immaterial sludge that seemed to disappear the further it traveled.

These flowed out from wherever Nādrēsy lay, following the paths of magic left strong but broken ages ago, by those who came before. It understood little of how such things worked, for water should not flow as it did down here, but where its presence was carried, it came to know the people who dwelt in the above. Deserts and valleys, mountains and coastlines, people of pride and harsh heat. Many of these were the descendants of the one who had made it, who had named it Nādrēsy, and who now had forgotten it. Save for a select few who remembered the old way, that of lands far to the east, where the great river yet flowed, it was alone.

Nādrēsy did not like that.

So its influence gave it great power over those who dwelt above, and through them, it came to learn more of the world. It saw the return of the enemy, three riders atop their beasts born of fire and smoke, laying waste to lands to the north and conquering those that lay before them. It drew in so many to its underground range, far from the range of those fiery beasts. Those that gave themselves to it, it preserved, sealing them away in its noxious ooze until the day they would be needed once more. Their dreamless sleep took a toll on Nādrēsy, yet it knew they would be needed, and so, slowly, it accrued more, never taking more than needed, and always ensuring the waters still flowed.

Yet in its time being forgotten, it had grown restless, hungry, and Nādrēsy required sustenance now more than ever to maintain its presence in the minds of the above-landers. For some time, it was content with the flesh of beasts, brought down annually to sate its hunger. It would only traverse its domain to feed on occasion, so as not to unduly burden those that remembered and respected it. Ranging far gave it greater pangs of hunger, but staying in one place for too long stood to wane its influence upon those it depended upon. So it continued its traversal, never staying in one place too long, but only just, for its was larger than it had been, and needed more to sustain its bulk.

Then came the fiery beasts on wing, driving so many down into its domain. Many cried at the sight of Nādrēsy, calling it a chimera and beast, yet it paid these mortal minds no heed. As the enemy rained fire and ruin upon the surface, many were left down here, unable to return, or perhaps unwilling to face the danger of above. Nādrēsy grew hungrier as the food ran short, and those trapped with it resorted to new measures to sate its hunger, at the bequest of those that still remembered the old ways.

It accepted these sacrifices, and with beak and claw would consume them entirely, trying to minimize their suffering, if only to placate the masses. For a time, there was always enough food, always enough sacrifices to placate its hunger. Forced from the surface, these people stayed, many growing accustomed to the realm as it had, but slowly, by age or by sacrifice, their numbers dwindled, as did their sacrifices. Some were soon gone entirely, their domiciles left to gather dust in the deep dark. Yet others persisted, adapting as best they could to these lands over the generations, tending to whatever could grow, raising what creatures they could that persisted so deep, and continuing their offerings to Nādrēsy.

In time, word reached through the waters and wells of conflict brewing once more. The great fire beasts were gone now, but the realm was still its home, the land of its' progenitors descendants, and so Nādrēsy continued to seek to protect them, for its own sake if nothing else. Rousing the sleeping from their slimy sarcophagi, it sent them forward, it's will keeping them going when nothing else should. Yet they met their end en masse, with only a few to return to answer for their failure. It consumed them in a rage, but after calming once more, Nādrēsy assured itself. It had lived and grown for this long, it could stand to live and grow longer yet. It had outlasted the enemy thus far, so there should be little to fear until the end of their line. Perhaps then, when it was safe, it could finally emerge from the darkness, and return to the home of its ancestors, one it had never known but could yet sense far to the east.

Then as the bodies of its slain thralls were impaled, it felt the touch of something… different. Faint, imperceptible, save for the whisps of power that trailed from it. Something else, akin to its own birth, was out there, unknowing of its nature. It inspired fear in Nādrēsy, something only the great fiery beasts had done so long ago, when the world was younger. It knew nothing of Nādrēsy, but the paths of magic often linked those that never expected to find one another.

Through the dead eyes of the puppets it had called its own, it saw the face of this new enemy, different from the one it was made to destroy, but a threat to it all the same. After witnessing the sacrilege of what it had done to the bodies of its thralls, to keep others of their kind from wreaking the same kind of destruction as others had, Nādrēsy grew to dread the wrath of the creature that wore the skin of a man, a storm given flesh and filled with eldritch constitution.