Chapter 54: Stormlanders XX

Early 158 AC

The clouds north of the Yronwater were a welcome respite from the heat of the day, and Royce Baratheon sighed in relief as they rode once again into more mountainous terrain, the high pastures cooler and less likely to kill his men than the sands they had left behind. The men were eager to return home, and despite their wistful stares towards the north, where these hot lands finally fell away, there was still much left to do before they could cross the border once more. The lands they had fought to conquer were not fit to support any large army, and already most of their forces had begun to part ways. Lords greater and lesser alike made to return home, their cohesion far less than it had been during the invasion, with parties sometimes miles apart from one another as they ventured north. Dornish heirs, spares and others departed with these hosts, to be hostages within keeps far from home and far from aid should Dorne rebel.

With King Daeron residing in Sunspear for the time being, alongside Lord Tyrell and a sizeable Reach force to ensure peace and suitably cow any rebellious thoughts, Royce made to return home while ensuring their garrisons at every major well and settlement along the way were suitably armed and prepared. More men would arrive in a few moons' time, to replace inevitable losses and ensure those that had fought in the war could impart some wisdom before returning home at last. Royce looked forward to returning to his wife and young children, the youngest a mere infant upon his departure to war. Gods, how big they must be already.

Only… he wasn't truly leaving. His king's idea to divide Dorne into manageable areas of occupation was rather brilliant, to be sure, but he hadn't quite anticipated being placed in charge, nor given an 'heir' to this task. That he should oversee the eastern half of Dorne was surely giving his ancestor Orys a good laugh at Dorne's misfortune, considering all the grief and anguish they had caused him and their family. Now, though, with many towns garrisoned and the smallfolk cowed by the mere threat of his foster son, Royce had high hopes for the coming years. That did not mean he would dive into this unprepared. No, for this to succeed, his 'heir' would need to be on the same path as he was concerning these lands. To bring them into the fold would take more than simply bending the knee or even marriages, it would take a shift in the eyes of the smallfolk at large. They would need to see that working with Stormlanders and indeed the Iron Throne was a far better option for them than fighting for independence after such a quick and decisive war.

This high in the mountains, especially in winter, the day came to an end sooner than later, and already the dipping sun had bled much of its heat in the air. Still, as the camp was secured and the patrols established, Royce wound his way to a large, singular tree in the middle of the great pastureland, under which his own tents were still being erected. Baelor lay against the tree, his gaze out to the northern mountains one of deep contemplation, and dare Royce say, melancholic reflection. It was a common sight these days for the prince, though few knew the true reasons, and while Ser Thorne and the boy's sworn shields stood just far enough to give him space, the gulf between them might as well have been as wide as Shipbreaker Bay.

Royce was not stupid, despite what other kingdoms might think of Stormlords, for he was observant when he needed to be, and could see Baelor's plight as plain as day. Despite the progress of these past years, of the trials the boy had overcome and emerged stronger afterwards, the prince was a gentle soul at heart, or had been before the war. Now? He was growing into a fine young man, one Royce would have been proud to call a true son, but with that growth came the challenge to the ideals and ideas of his younger years. His emphasis on piety, on the filial duties of a prince, and the idea of mastering stewardship rather than war were being countered by the ugly truths of the world, many of which ideally no boy so young should have known about. Satisfied that the camps were secure, his own guards giving them the same space, he silently sat down beside his foster son, gazing out at the Red Mountains to their north as well. Lazy white clouds drifted over their shimmering peaks, and the dull noise of work around the camp seemed to fade away.

"We're to rule over Dorne until the peace is secured," Baelor said after some time. "Rule a kingdom in whose lands the dust has not yet settled, and many of the dead are not yet buried."

"Aye, we are. Ten years, give or take, should they remain true to their oaths of submission."

Baelor looked over at him, his weary face years older than it should be. "I'm to take over for you upon reaching my majority. Four years is not a long time to prepare for governorship."

"No, no it's not, but preparing to be a Lord Paramount is something few are ever truly ready for either," he replied. "I should know, I was born well after my father died, and so had to learn everything from my mother and those who had served my house well before my birth. It was not an easy task, those first years of reaching a suitable age, bearing the weight of responsibility to rebuild my house after the Dance, but through me my house has managed to overcome such obstacles, and you will too, my prince."

"I know I have the capability, but whether I have the will to see such important work accomplished… I'm not so sure. The thought of so many lives being put in my hands, of keeping the King's Peace after the conquest, of seeing that the lands are brought into the fold with as little loss of life as possible…" Baelor trailed off, looking to his hands. So small and soft they had been upon his arrival to Storm's End all those years ago. No longer pale and weak, but strong and swarthy, with the blood of others upon them, forever changed. "A tall order even for a prince."

"You will have my support, and that of the Stormlands, Baelor, for you have earned it on and off the battlefield," Royce said, placing a firm hand on the young man's shoulder. For a boy no longer was Baelor, truly, for he had seen battle at an age most boys were just beginning to like girls. "I dare say none of my vassals would deny you aid should you need it, be it men or materiel."

"Yet it is not aid I need the most foster father, but experience, training if you will," the prince said, pointedly gazing out over their assembling camp. "I have overseen the construction and breaking of camps, the proper placement of defenses and guards, proper placement of latrines and much more. I have created villages out of fallow lands, brought fields back into growth, and seen to the discussions amongst lords of a great many things, but stewardship? Governance? Building a legacy? These I am wholly lacking."

"It is not lacking if you were never truly taught these skills to begin with," the Lord Paramount countered, not entirely agreeing with the 'legacy' claim, but remaining silent on the matter.

"What of Dorne?"

"I will ensure that proper men are put in place to enact my will in these lands while you tend to your own tasks. Many Dornish have long chafed under the yoke of the Martells, and courting their grievances will grant us far greater success than merely keeping our boot upon their necks. For my own governorship, I will make a yearly progress through the lands, perhaps, to ensure everything is running as smoothly as possible. Or ensure a suitable man does so in my stead, should my duties prevent me or circumstances forbid such travel." Not to mention how dangerous such travel would be. How Lord Tyrell was going to accomplish this, when his distant ancestor had disappeared with an entire army into Dorne's sands after the Conquest, Royce hadn't the faintest idea. Let that flower tend to his duties by his own means, less work for himself in the end.

"With the Wyls gone, and their former vassals too weak or disunited to make a play for the seat, establishing the former Castle Wyl as your base of operations would likely work better than anywhere else," Baelor replied. "While there are other castles that would serve this purpose just as well, from our meeting after the Battle for the Gates, I don't trust Lord Yronwood. He is hungry for power and titles he perceives as rightfully his, and such envy in an already-powerful local lord is dangerous. He would no doubt turn on us should the other lords revolt in his name and look to expel us at the same time."

"Undoubtedly, and yes, I agree that castle will serve as an excellent center. Along trade routes from Dorne into the Stormlands and back, along a good river for trade or resupply, and heavily fortified and able to be greatly stocked for any sort of siege. Should a revolt arise, it would certainly prevent a Dornish force from making any progress towards my own kingdom. A good secondary castle for many of the same reasons would be the Tor, and Lord Jordayne strikes me as a man who would not so readily renege on his oaths. Yet it's location is not the only reason for choosing Wyl, is it?"

A light blush of embarrassment crept onto Baelor's tanned face. "No, foster father, it is not. I have been… engrossed with the tales of Ulwyck the Blackadder and the treasures he gained from his adventures. Even if the tales exaggerate, the amount of gold, jewels, and other fine plunder he gained over his life were far greater than anything we found in the vaults of Castle Wyl after we took it. I have given it some thought, and would need to see to the Wyl archives before I can let such thoughts rest."

"Such as?"

"Well… as I said, the amounts mentioned would have filled their vault several times over. Even if he spent as much as he could, there were no records we could find of additional vaults, or of how the gold was spent. We know much was used to invest in the Wyl lands, as bandits usually have little foresight for encouraging growth in their lands, but Ulwyck… he was different. Far-sighted, if you will, to think that far ahead and turn the Wyls from backwater raiders into the eminent power north of the Yronwoods."

"Yet, as you said, where did all this treasure go?"

Baelor shook his head. "I know not, but should we stop long enough in Castle Wyl, I would look to find out. The amounts likely left behind could very well pay for most of what I have planned for these lands, and to use misbegotten treasures for funds, rather than relying on Stormlords or the rebuilding Dornish would do wonders for our goals."

"Which we must discuss, my prince, for if we are to succeed in any of them, we must be alike in our actions as well as our goals," Royce said. "As well as I can see, we must look to rebuilding the lands most damaged without our coffers being emptied into bandit or lordly pockets, ensuring the thought of rebellion is far less appealing than staying true to their oaths of submission, and taking care to see that the lords are supportive of our efforts, rather than sabotaging them at every chance."

"A tall order, to be sure," Baelor replied, disgust clear on his face. "Ensuring our silver and gold go where it needs to, rather than where some might simply take it, will not be easy. Even in our own lands, if they think they can accomplish it without discovery, there are lords and ladies who would gladly abscond with funds destined for elsewhere. To say nothing of the number of men who may turn to banditry after the success of the war and infest the countryside to continue attaining coin."

"How would you handle these problems?"

Baelor thoughtfully stroked his chin, the barest hint of fuzz under his fingers. "Every caravan will require an escort, be it for supplies or coin, especially the latter. Every lord should be held personally responsible for its safety once it enters his own lands, so long as there is no evidence of foul play from other lands. We can't risk one lord raiding into a rival's lands to destroy supply caravans or steal gold to bring shame and penalty on his rival, or a lord attacking the caravan and planting evidence of a rival's action. We've already had enough trouble with that before."

Aye, with none other than House Wytch and the death of its lord. The Lady Craggner was certainly lucky she was still the regent for her son by her late husband, else those lands might have gone to others, those more worthy. Come to think of it, should some pox strike that family down once and for all…

"I agree," Royce said, banishing those thoughts for now. "As for ensuring the smallfolk do not wish to rebel?"

"There are as many options as there are problems, foster father. While my brother struck down my idea to make them reliant upon our own food supply, rather than trying to supply themselves, we can still export to them at favorable prices for the regions that remain peaceful."

"Aye, smallfolk with fuller bellies and few grievances from occupation are far less likely to rise up against us. Your idea, while I support it, would have been most feasible during a summer. Convincing many lords to aid in supplying this much food would have been a hard bargain even in a good year, but now, in the beginning of winter?"

The young man nodded. "Ensuring trade resumes is important as well, for Dorne even in its current state has goods we need. Spices, fruits, cotton and so much more would have been far more expensive before. Now, with the abolishing of most tariffs on both sides, merchants need not set their prices as high, and perhaps would be able to sell more instead of the unbought surplus go to waste."

"Convince merchants of lowering their prices? That'll take time, not kind words, or at least it will only catch on after others do so first and reap the rewards for it." Most lords disdained copper counters, Royce among them, but to an extent he realized their importance. Namely, when applied to men like Lord Wytch, who while admittedly dabbled heavily in such practice, did so in a way that was far more reminiscent to Royce of war, not simply haggling. Ensuring his whiskey, brandy and other goods were the only ones of their kind in all the Stormlands, introducing them as gifts to lords for celebrations or signs of goodwill, seeking whatever avenues would bring in stable supplies of coin that lasted for years…

It was hard to admit that it was nothing short of impressive, and Royce was glad the young house was as loyal as it was prosperous. If this had been with a much older house, whose rise would be suddenly noticeable amongst all the vassals, then he might have greater concerns. Still, he had men keeping an eye on Lowhill every so often, and would likely have a stack of reports awaiting his return to Storm's End.

"Other than food and trade, bringing about a change in the Dornish themselves will be the trickiest task, I wager," Baelor continued. "The current lords, be they new or survivors from the war, will have grudges festering in their hearts for us and the Iron Throne. Yet I am hopeful that with so many heirs, spares and others taken as hostages in other kingdoms, that these boys and girls will learn new ideas outside of their homeland, much as I did upon leaving Kings Landing. Within ten year's time, perhaps upon their return they will look more favorably upon those lands they had known for so long, and with that, ebb the undercurrent of anger and hate their predecessors will retain likely until the day they die."

"Aye, to think that little Myriah will be my hostage. Not yet eight namedays, and she'll return a grown woman by the time our governorships are finished." She was to be Nymor's heir, as Nymor was Arthur Martell's own heir, and unless she were to marry a Lord Paramount's son, she would become the Princess of Dorne after. Still, eight namedays? Even for a Dornish, that was young, and shouldn't be an issue. Little Maron for Lord Wytch, however, could prove… tricky. The boy was only four, and likely wouldn't remember much of Dorne upon his return. Yet ten and four was still young to return to Dorne, and unless Lord Wytch parted some deep lessons, the boy might turn his back on them after his return.

Still, that was ten years yet, and none knew what the future may hold for them, especially Royce.

"It's a great deal to plan ahead for, considering the Dornish could rebel next year, or five years from now, or never again," Baelor muttered, placing his face in his hands. "It's so much to prepare for, but for all that I want to do for this land, for these people, I don't know where to start."

"You have four years to prepare, and four years can feel a great deal longer when you keep busy. Were you thrust into such a position this day, I would strongly argue with your kingly brother on such a decision. I agree that your experience is negligible, Baelor, but it will not always be so, and I do believe I have a solution to your perceived problem." His prince's arched brow of intrigue gave him a good feeling. The young man always listened to what others had to say, even if he disagreed, and it would do good for him to listen now. "For the next four years, I would have you do for the Stormlands as you did for Prince's Point and the fields outside Storm's End. See to their development, ensure fields and pastures remain well and good, and learn of the ways of such stewardship from the perspective of a lord. Such training will only aid you in your future endeavors, especially once your fostering ends and you are your own man." It would also see to the strengthening of a kingdom so woefully ignored by many others, but Royce left that out.

"After we bypass Castle Wyl and I have had my… search, regardless of what I find, what should I do first?" Baelor asked. "There's much to choose from, but making the decision to actually pick one is harder than I thought it would be."

"Well… you won't have to do it alone," Lord Baratheon said.

"I won't?"

"Of course not. Why, I think I know just the man who might be able to help you find where your talents lie, my prince. A good friend of yours, perhaps?"

Baelor's melancholy quickly disappeared. "Lord Wytch! Of course! I'm sure Casper would have more than a few examples of projects I could find applicable elsewhere."

"Aye, just don't go building as many reservoirs as you can," Lord Baratheon replied with a chuckle. "Even with our lands growing far more than before, we can't afford to lose any pastures or fields to deep water."

Baelor genuinely laughed at that. "Yes foster father, I'll try not to flood the Stormlands."

What reports could reach him this far into Dorne were often of high priority, especially where they concerned his vassals and the end of this damned war. Lord Selmy, whose forces had rode more swiftly than others, had written of the issues of his lands and family, both of which could become problems for the Marches if they were not handled carefully. The lands of Selmy, Dondarrion and Wytch had suffered greatly at the hands of Alfrid Sand and his Wyl ilk. Thousands of smallfolk in each land were dead, with more driven to the nearest larger settlements for safety and shelter. The wealth of those lands was thusly greatly reduced, and with it, the power of their lords, something others would no doubt wish to take advantage of. Lord Selmy, most of all, had written of his woes with the loss of his heir Borros, and the elevation of his second son Addam as heir.

Something the old Lord Fossoway was not taking kindly to, given that his granddaughters would have stood to inherit had Borros not died. Royce had heard plenty of the lord's complaints, inadvertently or otherwise, while still within the walls of Sunspear. Several Reach lords expressed their own support for their fellow's predicament, but what was to be expected from a bunch of Reachmen? Their flowery chivalry often had little interaction with the harsher parts of lordship, especially in the Marches. Indeed, the only Reachmen Royce could find who were sympathetic to Lord Selmy's situation were Reach lords along the Marches itself, such as Lord Tarly and a Peake scion. Nobody was surprised that the former regent hadn't attended the war, sending relatives while he 'recovered' from an illness.

Yet Lord Selmy had pressed on in his determination that his second son was now his heir, citing the precedent of not only the Great Council, but also that of countless centuries of Marcher Lord tradition. Indeed, with how old the house of many Marcher lords were, the rules for each house could vary from land to land, and many of these were so old that by some accounts they predated the coming of the Andals. To set his lands and house to rights, it was no wonder the lord had moved ahead of them with all due haste. Were such issues happening in Storm's End, Royce too would wish to return as fast as possible.

Lord Baratheon sighed, rubbing his tired face, the wiry whiskers scuffing at him like his horse's brush. He liked Lord Selmy, but given that King Daeron was still in Sunspear, alongside a great number of Reachmen sympathetic to Lord Fossoway's bitching, only time would tell if something greater came from all of this. He wasn't worried that the old flower would try anything too underhanded, no, the risk would be catastrophic for every lord tied to that man. Dueling before the gods or going to the king for a decision was one thing, but murdering a child? Being caught or even suspected in any manner would ruin the reputation of House Fossoway for decades, not to mention the reprisals it would invite from aggrieved parties or worse, inciting the wrath of the entire Stormlands, not to mention their young king.

Still, Royce knew it was an option, an awful one, but something that passed through the minds of any lord when such power and prestige were on the line. Lord Selmy's plea to Lord Wytch had hopefully borne fruit, and no doubt strengthened the bond between them, now that Lord Wytch's sister Arenna would become the Lady of Harvest Hall once Addam inherited the lordship. Come to think of it, Lord Wytch's younger sister Shyra was, by his recollection, not yet betrothed. Hopefully she would have good offers with Lord Wytch's continued rise in prominence and fame. She was still a bit young, perhaps, and Royce knew that marriages were important ties to make, but he also dreaded the day he would have to weigh the offers for his own children. The alliances of today would be worth a great deal, but the alliances of that distant future would be entirely different beasts to wrangle. After all, Royce was not stupid. Attaining sufficiently connected or advantageous marriages for his children was a prospect every lord would face, but for his own, this was doubly so. House Baratheon had almost gone extinct during the Dance, with every living Baratheon being himself, his own children, and whichever of his elder sisters that yet lived. He never really spoke with any of them, however, so he didn't count them as family, especially given the troubles some of them had caused.

If only his daughter was of age to be a possible betrothal to Baelor. Tying oneself to the Targaryens was an old tradition for Baratheons, given their beginnings. Yet he knew that even if they were old enough to betroth, let alone marry, the eventual betrothal to Daena was something King Daeron would not budge on. He would know, he had subtly tried to pique Daeron's interest in looking for brides for himself and Baelor outside of their family, but to no avail. Looking those few years ahead would not serve his house well to dwell on, but looking further ahead yet…

Yes, that might work. Should Baelor and Daena have children, especially a daughter, she would be a peerless contender for the hand of his current son and heir. A few years younger, perhaps, but such differences in age were nothing to worry about. Any child of Baelor, even if they were half what he was, would be more than worthy enough to be Lady of Storm's End. That, and it would reaffirm the ties that had been so thoroughly thrashed by his foolish father before and during the Dance. Besides, it would show the other kingdoms that the Stormlands had the favor of House Targaryen in more ways than one.

For little Myriah Martell, on the other hand, that would be tricky, though thankfully she was not with his forces, instead being sent to Storm's End by ship. She was the heir of an heir, and while it was unlikely she would rule Dorne after Nymor, her future husband would need to be of Dornish stock. If not, the poor lad would find himself dead within a year from poison, no doubt, so trying to play matchmaker with his hostage's future was not something to look forward too. Unless, of course, the betrothal just so happened to be with a Dornish nobleman's son, one who was not an heir but was a hostage in another house, Stormlands or otherwise. Yes, yes, that could work, they'd both be outsiders and need to earn the loyalty of their new and unfamiliar vassals, so they would be more dependent on Storm's End and Kings Landing alike for additional support. A lynchpin against whichever Dornish house rose to become the new Lord Paramounts, and in turn, possibly let this new power go to their heads. After all, replacing the ruling family with another one was nothing new, one only had to look to the Riverlands and the Reach for that…

Royce slowly smiled, the plans leisurely forming in his mind's eye. Despite Daeron's proposed concession be that whichever house ruled Dorne would still be a princely one, the Martells still commanded a great deal of influence in Dorne, and likely would continue to do so even if they no longer were head of this dry land. The wealth of Dorne, after all, lay not in its fields like the Reach or its mines like the Westerlands, but in its climate and the canals from its numerous wells. Fine cotton, exotic fruits, peppers, and a whole host of other goods could be… exchanged for favors or the right bargains. With enough influence over the Martells and those still loyal to them, why, someone with such power could direct how they traded with their neighbors. Favorable tariffs for them, or unfavorable tariffs for those Essosi slaver scum, or large sums of gold for excess Storm's End grain and wool… yes, that could work, that could work well for his house.

Smiling and rising to his feet, his spirits lifted as he stretched, he glanced over to find his foster son not in his bedroll. Of course, he wasn't there, the boy would occasionally have a dream of some white river in a cavern, but most nights sleep would find him easily enough, as it did for any after such a long march, even from horseback. With an exasperated sigh, Royce left his tent, the guards around the camp a sea of steel and alert eyes. The wonders of training to stay up late for some and rise early for others, but after the troubles during their march on Sunspear, they were taking no chances.

Under the light of a pale moon, a brief shadow passing over it likely that of some night bird, he spotted silver hair shining softly. Of course, there was Baelor, hunched over his newest journal, a turpentine lamp flickering beside him in the barest mountain breeze. His concentration was great as he wrote, so much so that the young man did not stop until Royce was almost upon him. "The sun has set, my prince, and the night grows," he said, noting that Baelor's sworn shields looked about ready to fall over from exhaustion. Only Ser Thorne seemed as alert as he had been hours ago, but the Kingsguard tended to be a different breed given their incredibly rigorous training. "What has you so excited that you do not crawl into your bedroll after such a long day of riding?"

"I had an idea, foster father," Baelor said, rising as he tried, and failed, to suppress a yawn. "When we spoke of future tasks, I was looking over my notes from our march."

Well, at least the prince wasn't as melancholy as he had been before. Perhaps he would need to give him more distractions, to keep his spirits up. "Aye, I remember, you've two full books of them already. That one mule has had to lug them from Castle Wyl to Sunspear and likely further still before you're done."

"Meraxes is a fine beast, she gives me no trouble."

"Meraxes? So that's what you named her, here I thought she would remain only a 'stubborn ass' as the cooks called her."

Baelor chuckled. "After how she reacted to that unfortunate jackal sniffing around the wounded tents… she certainly acts as how the dragons were described when angered."

"Aye, she crushed it's skull I recall. Still, yes, your notes, what of them? Planning to try and make a new plan for the Kingswood?"

The prince shook his head. "Nay, I will someday, but with more planning and better preparation to make my case for Daeron and uncle Viserys. No, this is for something else, for while I could spend years overseeing the creation of new fields and pastures, anyone can do that. What I wish to do, foster father, is ensure that the Stormlands will be a better kingdom by the time I assume governorship of Dorne. Even if it is something I can begin the process of, I would rather I start it and ensure good men finish it if I can't, rather than try and do it all my own."

"How so?"

"With your permission, and Casper's aid, a task I wish to accomplish will be the beginning of the Kingsroad's rebirth. For too long has the most important road in the Stormlands been a thing of uneven ground and even greater uneven quality. I would see this great road, the heart of trade and travel from your seat to that of my forefathers, be turned into something anyone would be glad to travel upon. No more dirt tracks, no more flooded mires, and no longer will anyone, lord or smallfolk, need fear getting lost where the road becomes indistinct from the lands around it during a storm or at night."

The fire in Baelor's eyes warmed Royce's heart. It was good to see his foster son's ambition be not only attainable but filled with youthful enthusiasm, an oft-unending source of strength. "An elaborate project, especially considering that with winter upon us, building a road will be more difficult than not."

"Which is why for the time being, I would see to the gathering of the necessary materials for its construction. Flagstones and gravel, Wytchstone and bricks, logs and planks and all other means of building it. Come spring, once the harvests can begin again in earnest, I would see every land the road passes through hiring local smallfolk laborers, with Wytch engineers to oversee their work. Every lord that contributes to the construction with supplies, guards or pay will likewise receive just rewards for it, for Prince's Point has given me ideas."

"Oh? Do tell."

"I will need to stockpile as many supplies in these scattered locations as possible, but for that, I'll not only need laborers to do so, but I will also need shelters for them, food, drink, and something to pass the time by. Ensuring these supplies are not stolen will require local lords and their men, but also the smallfolk to ensure the laborers do not grow too fatigued, lest their work suffer for it. So, where every large stockpile will be gathered, I wish to emulate what I did with Prince's Point."

"You would build a village, or indeed a small town, at every one of these… supply caches. With farm fields, pastures and inns, alongside whatever they can produce locally from the lands themselves?" Finding the smallfolk to populate these new settlements would not be the easiest thing. The Stormlands was still fairly sparse, and while smallfolk would undoubtedly move to these new locations, the surplus of food had not yet reached the point where families were too big to stay together. Perhaps Lord Wytch had an idea on how to combat such an issue?

"Indeed," Baelor said with a smile, followed by another yawn. "Mines like Ironvein, lumber mills like Timberstone, quarries, perhaps even creating fish farms as Highmarsh did with their smaller streams. The options are as endless as the stars in the sky, Lord Baratheon. This would only be the beginning, of course, for the longer I live in the Stormlands, the more I begin to see potential not yet realized. I sometimes worry I will need to go to another kingdom, and rather than see the kingdom for what it is and enjoy it, I will instead see only what it could be."

"A fine thought to have, so long as you can focus on the present just as much as the future. As for your planning, a fine idea my prince, I would wager such foresight is a great key to success."

"Yet there are so many others I wish to accomplish now that I have had time to think them over. Build a larger and safer port for Storm's End, ensure the smallfolk learn to grow rice in the Stormland's valleys more prone to standing waters after heavy rains, recreate Casper's reservoirs where feasible, expand the prospecting parties in the Red Mountains…"

Indeed, all fine plans, a bit overwhelming if not prepared for, but fine indeed. Others would find it odd that the young man wished to emulate Lord Wytch so much, even Royce to an extent, but honestly there was no other lord in likely all the Stormlands to better learn such stewardship from. Besides, the renewal of the Kingsroad alone would be a great legacy for the Stormlands to take advantage of for years to come, for travel or trade, and unlike that Kingswood plan a few years ago, entirely accomplishable with the tools and people at hand in a relatively short amount of time. Additionally, with Casper's help, it would certainly spread word of Wytchstone farther than it already had, and perhaps encourage more lords to build their roads to a better standard. To think that some Stormlords, even after ten years, still barely knew of the young lord or all he had done, so remote or reclusive they were with their own lands. "Very good, we will have to work on your list to see what else can be done in four years' time," Royce said, pausing as Baelor glanced at his journal. "In the morning," he added. "Best be off to bed now, our start will be early, as it always is, my prince."