Chapter 24: SI POV X

Early 155 AC

I don't like torture. I don't enjoy dismembering people, or irrevocably breaking them to gain information, nor do I allow men to work with me on the matter who enjoy it. I've had to keep more than one of my men from joining us because he seemed to get a thrill out of extracting information from recalcitrant Dornish, though that could have been because they were Dornish, and the not the torture itself. I'd call it a blending of some innate compassion I have towards others and the fragments of my life on Earth in a time where such things were not so starkly accepted.

Also, to be frank I don't hate the Dornish anymore than I hate the wildlings, Dothraki or even most of the slave-holding city-states of Essos. I hate the occasional cannibalism, the Hun-like bloodlust for destruction, and the institution of slavery, but not the people that abide by it. Having a mindset from a time and period far more advanced along the civilization development index or whatever you might call it, such barbarity and the leaders that encourage it earns my hatred, yet not the people themselves.

For the Dornish, to hate them all would be akin to hypocrisy of the highest order. Do I hate them for what they did to Daeron in canon, as well as many previous or later atrocities since that most infamous event? Of course. Do I hate every man, woman, and child in Dorne for it? Not really, seeing as a rather small selection of their nobility were the ones committing many of these acts, and a good number likely thought it awful but kept such feelings to themselves. I've not yet earned this hatred of the Dornish that seemed so intrinsic to all Stormlanders. Whether I will be relatively impersonal in my opinion or not as the years go by remains to be seen. Unless I've managed to butterfly the timeline to a greater extent than I can imagine, Daeron's time for the throne draws ever closer, as will his undoubted complex for 'uniting the continent' under the Targaryen banner. I'm sure he would have aspired to take all the North as well if he'd succeeded in Dorne, as trying to conquer the wildling tribes likely would have been easy in his eyes. Maybe even the Stepstones? The kid had ambitions, I'll give him that, but there's a time and a place, and he only saw the glory, not the reality. Taking the true North would be no less difficult than taking Dorne, if only due to the similar-yet-different inhospitably of the place, where sand and heat were replaced by snow and cold. Not to mention what waited a century and a half out in the far North, where none ventured…

Regardless, as I looked over the three men seated before me, two with their faces resigned and one with a nervous twitch when my eyes glanced his way, I weighed my options and the veracity of the information I had gathered thus far. In the two weeks since their capture, I had slowly but surely ground most of them down, breaking them thoroughly in conditions that would have been considered barbaric back on Earth, but comparatively decent here in Westeros. I wasn't taking fingers or anything, after all.

Say what you will of Dornish proclivities for banditry, an otherwise unrewarding skill in the rest of Westeros save for during times of war, they knew how to keep information compartmentalized amongst those who were leading the groups. Half of the questions I'd asked the ones that I believed to be telling the truth couldn't be answered, as they claimed they hadn't known. I had, however, managed to accrue a great deal of information from Doran, Lewyn and Edgar about a variety of things.

Namely, the identity of their leader, one Alfrid Sand. They'd not known his ancestry, and frankly I didn't care. The fact that he had led them on these raids, for reasons they didn't quite know outside of the chance for loot, prestige and perhaps some sort of Dornish bonding experience, meant little in the long run. What mattered to me was his likely survival, and thus his return. This… presented a problem, one I would have to attempt to rectify with extreme prejudice, but also presented an opportunity if I was careful.

"Our scouts have found no evidence of your leader, save for a few of the other escapees near the border," I said. Whilst some lords might have worried about these men not being bound to their chairs, I had spears at their backs, drawn swords flanking me, and they wore only the barest of material. "The few survivors have been brought to Blackhaven for questioning. Most were dead or dying when we found them. As for this Alfrid Sand, Doran, Lewyn, you said you knew him the best. Will he return?"

"In all likelihood, yes, he is not the kind of man to let a setback like this to stop him from achieving whatever his goals are," Doran sighed. "Some of the others think he'll try and break us out, though the rest of us don't see how that would be possible."

It was amazing how easy it had been setting the prisoners against each other. Hunger, mixed with a good deal of fear and paranoia, truly could produce greater results than any knives or threats of drowning did. For the most part, anyways, as there was always a tougher bastard or two that needed a bit more work put into them. I'd introduced Edgar to both waterboarding and my own attempt at the fabled Chinese water torture. I think I'd seen that on Mythbusters but could no longer remember if it worked in any real sense. Well, it did for Edgar, he'd been screaming into his gag less than an hour after I'd left him with my guards.

As soon as he'd regained his senses, however, I'd tried asking him questions, but he recovered well enough to not give me anything that first day. Rather than simply leaving him with the icy water, I'd alternated between that and waterboarding every other day. Repeat performances for the next two weeks had so broken the man I almost felt the temptation to stop when he'd begged me to. Then I remembered this man and all his comrades had had a hand in robbing, raping, and killing smallfolk for months, Stormland smallfolk and thus my fellow 'united' Westerosi, and I left my empathy at the tent flap whenever I went in to question him.

"If he lives," Lewyn added. "He would have had to travel through the Boneway to reach Dornish lands."

From what I had gathered, the terrain of this route was as treacherous as the region was to one's health, the heat a killer all its own, never mind the lack of readily available drinking water. A part of me refused to believe the Dornish hadn't hidden a larger number of wells and supplies than what the dragons could find last century. They couldn't eat sand, after all. "I see. Since we do not know of his plans, both past and future, lest us instead turn to you lot. Doran, you were chosen by the group to speak with me, to voluntarily give information. Why is that?"

"We drew straws, and I lost," the man said.

"Lewyn?"

"I could no longer stand the sight of my fellows being left to starve. If my words could save them, then I would gladly give them."

I nodded. "Yes. Yes, your words. Words being wind and all that. I've no real reason to believe anything you two have said, save for what I have been able to corroborate with my own findings amidst the others and what I have learned from Selmy and Dondarrion scouts and their lords, respectively. Now, Doran, as we do not know of Alfrid's parentage just yet, what of your own? I am curious as to variety of the appearances of you and your fellows. Though I do not mean to make a generalization without some context, not all of you are from the same region of Dorne, yes?"

"I see no way for you to use this against me, so I've no reason to lie to you. My father was a house guard of House Yronwood, and my mother some whore in a local brothel. His father was a guard before, and his as well."

"A stony Dornishman, then, the blond hair was a bit confusing, I'll admit. What of you, Lewyn?"

"My parents hail from a village near Sunspear. They worked in the orchards, tending to the irrigation ditches for the olive vines."

"Salty Dornishman then, the most influenced by Rhoynish ancestry outside of the Orphans of the Greenblood. Edgar?"

The man flinched when I turned to him and stuttered out "S-S-Sunspear as w-w-well. Family w-w-were merchants in the b-b-bazaar."

"I see. That explains your motley crew then. Well, I've little use for you all, given your crimes, but that is beside the point. Where is Alfrid Sand most likely to strike back?"

"Through the Boneway, though if he yet lives, I've no idea when," Doran replied. From what I've gathered from the others, he and Lewyn didn't rape anyone. They still committed murder, banditry, and a whole host of other things, but kept that part of themselves clean at least. I might let these two live without hobbling them. Edgar, on the other hand…

"Tell me, for whatever experience you have with bandits, how often are they Dornish? If you were to, say, give me a rough idea, what would they be?"

Lewyn was silent for a few moments. "Errant Reachmen and Stormlanders show up at times, usually bandits having fled into Dorne, but not very often. They tend to stick closer to the border in their own hide-holes. Some join small towns here or there and settle down with a local, and before you know it, you would never know they were there."

Culturally fluid, the Dornish would seem, adapting their newcomers with great speed. Given how well the Rhoynish integrated, save for the Orphans of the Greenblood, as well as the Andal adventurers in various pockets of Dorne, I'd say it was one of their better strengths. Nymeria would have had an awfully hard time if none of the lords had let her settle with her people in Dorne, as I think she'd tried and failed in numerous other places. I was curious how well they would handle the reverse, of Dornish leaving to settle in other lands, by force if necessary. After all, smallfolk can't assist local rebel lords if you forcefully move all the smallfolk out of a region of Dorne for a few years. Even just moving the women and children would sap the will of the fighting men something fierce, I'd imagine. Fighting for vengeance after someone killing your family could potentially sustain a man forever, but the knowledge that so long as you fight, you'll never see them again, and that all you must do is surrender to live your life in peace, could aid in destroying their morale. That, and the threat of death of kin was often less tolerable than the death itself, funny how things sometimes worked.

"So, as far as you've all seen, your bandits and raiders are primarily Dornish, though from all across Dorne, correct?"

"Aye," Doran said. "To some the border serves as our version of the Wall, where deeds can be earned for those willing enough to risk their lives. Alfrid constantly went on about it, during the few times he'd speak for more than a few minutes. Plunder, glory, a right for a bastard to a name…"

Lewyn's body remained as it was, still and as relaxed a prisoner could be, but I noticed his quick glance towards Doran at those words. Ah, so either he knew someone in their party was after such a prize, or he was. The question was, who among them were bastards of some noble house, and who were just smallfolk? Alfrid Sand wished to earn a name, but he clearly was not the only one. Doran may be a Sand of smallfolk heritage, and while I've not learned of everyone in the cages, as I've not yet built that trust, I have a distinct feeling that Lewyn is more than he seems.

Time to find out.

"Since we do not know the when, nor the if, should Alfrid no longer live, I must inform my lord of what we are to do. Guards, return them to their cells."

As the trio slowly rose to their seats, their bindings likely chafing something fierce, I motioned to Lewyn.

"You, stay."

He looked to his comrades with a barely suppressed plea of aid, but what exactly could they hope to do? There were no objects within reach for them to try and use to escape, sharp or otherwise, and my guards always had spears trained on them. Even if they'd somehow get around that, all my men were both larger and armored, but no slouches, and I also had guards around the interior of the tent. Bound, outnumbered, outclassed, unarmored and unarmed, these men were completely at my mercy, and they knew it.

As the two were escorted out of the tent, he returned to his seat.

"Nothing we speak of leaves the tent, understood? If you feel tempted, ask Edgar what happened the last time he tried doing so."

He nodded.

"You are not smallfolk, Lewyn, and please don't try to deny it. Olives don't grow on vines; they grow on trees. As someone whose parents were raised from smallfolk to nobility, I can tell you were not raised in the sort of conditions they were, nor was your family. You were born into a life of plenty and high society, I can see it in the way you carry yourself and at times in the manner of your speech, even with how hard you try and hide it. Proud, even in these conditions, but you don't want to tell me the truth. I can respect wanting to keep your identity secret for the sake of your family, but I must ask… are they lordly?"

"They are and would seek a deal to enact my safe return," Lewyn said after a moment of stunned silence. Maybe I'd gotten through to him more than I'd thought?

"Are they powerful?"

"More than you."

I stifled a chuckle, barely. The gall, I had to credit him with that, most lords might strike you for that, but he's falling into my trap. "Well, that's both a good and bad thing. Good, in that I now know they are not simply some random Dornish lord, but one of the higher echelons of nobility. Bad, in that they will undoubtedly have the resources to see to my demise if I were to bring any great deal of harm to you, as I have to your friend Edgar."

"He's not my friend." Contention already growing between the groups, then. Fighting and being imprisoned together could often generate comradery, especially amongst such close-knit people as the Dornish, but everyone was different even under the same circumstances. Were some upset Lewyn had volunteered, or upset they'd sent Doran and then Edgar out to speak with me? The men I'd had 'work' around their paddock had overheard snippets of arguments, incomprehensible according to their reports, sometimes between individuals and sometimes between small groups of them. Their cohesion was breaking, slowly but surely, and it'd only be a matter of time before it cracked completely.

I could use this to my advantage. "Regardless, you have put me in a quandary, Lewyn. See, I cannot simply release you due to the crimes you have played a part in, nor can I just have you killed, just in case you are telling the truth. I'd prefer to not have to spend a fortune on poison-testers for me or my family for the rest of our lives. Your family is powerful, more than me, for now anyway."

"For now?" He seemed a bit confused at this. Ah, so one of the greater upper portions of the nobility.

This I chuckled at. "Lewyn, I'll let you in on something that, for now, is a secret between us. Your family, whoever they are, are indeed more powerful than my house is, but this will not last. Through means I've no real reason to tell you, the Stormlands, and my lands especially, are to be a rising power in the coming years, one that has been set in motion that would not be stopped even with my death. Should I or my family be attacked, there will be little that would stop a good deal of the Stormlands to clamor for a reprisal."

"So?"

"All of these houses have deep pockets and deeper grudges. They will undoubtedly come to my aid if, say, your family, or any one of the families of the men in those cages, were to try and kill me. I like living and the welfare of my house and lands, so we will send word to whoever you and your fellows claim to be kin to. If you lie, well, let's not dwell on that. If your words on your noble parentage ring true, then on my honor I shall see you returned alive to your family when this is all over."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Stormlanders XIII

Lord Baratheon quietly ate his stew as the rest of his lords feasted. He had to admit, roasted Dornish sand steed was rather tasty, though given its leanness was a little dry, and could do with a bit of pepper, and sadly there was none of that to be found this far from any holdfast. Hopefully Blackhaven would have some when they arrived, he'd declared they would clear camp within the next day and proceed to that proud old fortress to see this matter finally settled.

Royce looked up from his meal towards the far table, where Lord Wytch and Windhill were in deep conversation with Lords Selmy and Dondarrion. Near thick as thieves, the former had become, with the latter likely on their way to joining into this little group. Oh, he knew well and truly how much the Marcher Lords despised the need to buy food for their lands, but the sheer vast nature of their holdings, combined with its unpredictable climate cycling between wet and dry, and its vicious neighbors to the south, meant that it was necessary even in the better times. Buying from foppish Reachmen hurt their pride, as the louts had often touted their long history of supplying food to whoever wished to buy it from them and grow fat and wealthy in the process. Now, though, the Marches stood to acquire a supplier of good Stormland stock, one with lands far closer and likely to be able to quickly support their needs when and if issues arose.

He'd spoken with Lord Dondarrion about it and found the man surprisingly congenial over the matter. Turns out, if you can supply food to the lords whose sole purpose is to protect or counteract Dornish aggression, it doesn't really matter how new your house is. 'Especially when the price is right' Dondarrion had said. The Marcher lords, of this generation at least, seemed to be a bit less judgmental on such matters as infancy of a Stormland house, given the history of how often the Marches had exchanged hands between the old kingdoms and had needed adaptability to survive such times.

However, this was no mere growth of the western Stormlands due to some trade, which could eventually prove to be substantial, but a serious power bloc in the making. He could see it, his more powerful lords along the east would see it, perhaps even the Hand of the King would see it. He was also certain the reach lords who usually sold their grain and goods at cutthroat prices would notice as well, when their caravans did not profit near as much or no Stormland ones were sent their way.

Lord Wytch was making himself and his lands an indispensable part of the Stormlands, and that presented opportunity both good and ill. Good, in the fact that reducing the need to buy from the Reach meant the food could be delivered more rapidly, in case of famine-inducing crop failure, as well as the knowledge that the prices would be reduced simply because distance would be nowhere near as great. Ill, in that a good number of bordering Reach lords might take this as a personal offence, especially if their coffers were lightened from it, and might attempt to stymie the young lord.

He'd have none of that. Unless the whole of the Reach were to belittle or berate Lord Wytch and call for 'justice for their wounded pride' or whatever bollocks they might come up with, he'd not interfere. House Wytch needed to learn the consequences of its rise, both from friends and foes, but he'd not let them be needlessly challenged. He had an obligation to his vassals, after all, and though he'd not said it' he had come to like the young lord and the changes he brought. They made the Stormlands stronger, and a stronger realm was always a good thing in his mind.

He finally finished his stew and moved onto his loaf of bread when there was a soft cough by his side.

"My lord?"

Royce turned to his left. "Yes, Lord Greycairn?"

"Would it be possible for Lord Wysp and I to join you at the head of the column tomorrow?"

"I don't see why not, I was going to ask Lord Wytch if he wished to, but I have a feeling he will be speaking with Lord Selmy on the details of joining their houses through his younger sister. Arenna, I believe her name was?"

"Indeed, a betrothal of a young house to a storied house such as Selmy is not something to be left to chance," Lord Greycairn said. "However, a few of us have noticed the rather… prodigious honors the young lord has been granted thus far."

"Well, he did manage to kill off the raiders and capture most of the survivors. The smallfolk should rest well in these lands knowing another raiding party has been dealt with."

"Indeed, they should, though his delay in simply executing them is of interest to myself and Lord Galewood. It is odd that he leaves them live for so long, almost as if he has sympathies for the sandy devils. I have heard he happens to have Dornish refugees in his own lands, a small group who suffered greatly at bandits, no doubt, but still, something to ponder."

"What he does with his prisoners is up to him, and from my conversations with the lad, they are unlikely to leave the Stormlands alive, or in one piece," Royce replied, holding back his frown. "As for his Dornish smallfolk, they have sworn to him and thusly entered under his protection, so we shall leave it at that."

He should have foreseen this, truth be told, of other lords growing envious of the various honors young Casper had accrued in so short a time. The apparent friendship with a prince of the realm, a booming treasury, favor from his lord paramount, prosperous lands where there once were none, and now the glory of having so thoroughly trounced a Dornish raiding party. They might believe themselves robbed of such honors at the end of this, as if there were a limited number to go around!

Granted, he'd often sat with the young lord, listening to his tales of his own lands and what he'd done there. He'd not written anything down, he wasn't grilling the boy for information, but sensed a pattern that he was beginning to see in his own lands. Rather than just work harder, young Casper was looking to work smarter, using better tools and techniques to get more out his land. His reports from his maester indicated a noticeably greater harvest, in thanks to the Stormhall rotation he'd implemented, and hindsight made it apparent that simply leaving one field empty was terribly inefficient. Lord Wytch was all about efficiency over quantity, it seemed, yet when combining both, it could produce astounding results.

Results most other lords had not yet seen, he surmised, as they were either actively resisting the change simply because it was new, or they were dragging their feet so as not to appear foolish if something bad were to happen, such as a violent storm destroying those same fields. His reports from Tarth indicated their harvests were also increasing in quantity…

"Indeed, and whilst I would never question where his loyalties lie, given that his father had been a member of the smallfolk mere decades ago until his bastard grandfather earned the right to a lordship, I would question the fact that he has been so successful at the expense of other, more senior lords. He has ridden near the front or by your side often, and some have noticed this trend. I assume he has mollified the Marcher lords with his promises of trade and betrothals, else they too might have raised this same issue, my lord."

"Who rides with me is my decision alone, Lord Greycairn. However, Lord Wytch has asked me to ride near the rear, as his troops will be slower transporting their prisoners, and would not wish to inconvenience the vanguard with what amounts to additions to the baggage train." Technically this was true, given that the cages holding the Dornish would be placed in the spare carts Lord Wytch had brought, but the fact that Lord Greycairn, a man his mother his said was notorious for not speaking too much, meant the sentiments against Lord Wytch were not only deep, but growing. Best to nip that line of thought in the rear before it could grow to disagreements at crucial times.

"Good sense, securing the baggage, a more suitable task for a younger house with captives to look over. His men are usually packed up first anyway, they could have everything secured before we depart."

"I shall make my decision come morning, Lord Greycairn. Now, if there was anything else?" he asked, finally taking a bite of his bread.

"Yes, actually, there was one other thing, my lord."

"Does it have to do with Lord Wytch?"

Greycairn grimaced slightly. "Technically, no, but it has been brought to my attention that certain merchants have been seeking out House Wytch for funds for an expansion of their business. Namely, his smallfolk kin from his mother's side."

"Interesting, where did you hear of this?"

"Mostly from passing caravans, either to or from his lands. While I do not dabble in trading, it would appear the young lord's kin are a growing part of his commercial success. My maester cannot confirm it, as whatever what does with their earned coin is their business, but a good portion of the income for these merchants seems to be disappearing into unknown coffers. Whether it is to create a trading company of sorts or being funneled directly to House Wytch, I cannot say."

"Why does this worry you? If his kin deign it necessary to give him a portion of their earnings, as a thanks for allowing them to establish themselves in his lands and settlements, what business is it of ours? They are not exactly brigands like Craggner's 'toll collectors', are they?"

"No, my lord, they are, for all appearances, entirely legitimate and untied to any such… darker aspects of society. This is not Kings Landing, after all, only a truly callous degenerate would try their hand at such dishonorable tactics."

"Then why are you saying this?"

"Only to bring it to your notice, should his economic output come to offset the balance of power in the Stormlands. I've no doubt a house as young as his is ambitious, but not so ambitious as to build a power structure to rival your more powerful vassals."

'Or you' was left unsaid, but Royce heard it all the same. Even if the man saw it as a duty to inform his liege lord of a potential problem, couldn't he have been a bit less blatant about it? Or acting as if this were some sort of conspiracy?

"I see. I thank you for bringing this to my attention, Lord Greycairn, we shall speak with Lord Wysp of this morning. For now, be pleased to know that I keep an eye on rising stars in the Stormlands, especially those who have gained the favor of a Targaryen prince. Such attention is bound to not go unnoticed by any in power, my lord."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Janyce Wytch IV

It had been rare in her husband's time for her to sit in on the various petitioners that came by Stormhall's main hall. Most of the time, Morden had taken care of such matters, though whenever he'd been away, she'd done it in his name. Casper's travels these past few years had seen such days increase in quantity, and now with him gone for months now, she'd had to do so nearly every day. The growth of Lowhill as both a town and as a destination for merchant caravans, either was a point of destination or merely as a rest stop before moving on, was bringing with it a greater influx of people.

More people meant more problems in her experience, and that was the case here. A strike of workers along the last vestiges of the Wytch road had occurred. It had been sorted out within days, with the offending foreman being lashed and then banished from Wytch lands for scalping wages and diluting the stews the work crews ate, but the fact that such a delay had happened at all was upsetting to her. Her son had done so much for their lands, building upon the successes of his parents, and for progress to be halted by something as simple as human greed and the arrogance of believing themselves irreplaceable irked her so.

As it were, however, this was a rather different sort of day. Her son had left with her a rather detailed list of things that could be done in certain situations, with the specifics to be left to her own discretion. One of these that Casper had planned for immigration, specifically errant knights, yeomen, or similarly skilled men, showing up to try and pledge themselves to a lord in exchange for lands of their own to look over. Five years ago, there'd have been almost no chance of this happening in their lands, they were too remote or unimportant at the time for such things. Luthor's arrival had been a comparative fluke, yet they'd done well for themselves accepting his oath.

Now, no less than two and ten such men stood before her in Stormhall, ranging from across the Stormlands for the most part, but the outliers had piqued her interest the most.

A pair of hedge knight twins from the southern Westerlands, three yeomen from the middle Riverlands, four knightly fellows from all over the Reach, a pair of yeomen from the poorer region of the Crownlands nearest the Kingswood, and most surprising to her, a rather tall knight from somewhere in the Vale. Why so many experienced fighting men and their attendants or families had come to their lands, of all lands, was a mystery until the Vale knight the apparent spokesperson for the group, stepped forward.

"My Lady Wytch, we have come far in search of lands to call our own. Many of us have spoken with merchants, travelers who have told us tales of a land flowing with milk and honey, of farm fields stretching unto the horizons, far from mountain clans, dry mines, squabbling feuds, or the scars from the Dance. It is a fate sadly common amongst many of our kind, even so long after the Dance, as many lords have little need for us in such times of peace, and many of us share unfortunate circumstances leading to our drifting far from our homes."

He looked between the gathered men, his face betraying nothing but his words ringing loud and clear. "Betrayal, exile, dismissal, loss, wanderlust, one or another has afflicted us all, and for most of us, settling down is the last resort we honest men have before turning to mercenary work across the Narrow Sea to care for us and our kin."

A few of the knightlier fellows grumbled at that. Such work would be an offense to their years of training and the chivalry embedded in their identity.

"My son is always in need of good men and women to tend to his lands and oversee his smallfolk," she began, giving a polite nod to the Vale knight. "Yet House Wytch cannot in good faith turn you away anymore than we could simply grant you your own areas to tend to and oversee without reason. We have had the rare but usual troublemakers come through before, pleading for a chance to look after smallfolk and earn of themselves a means of caring for family, yet immediately they fall to the vices that had so wantonly taken ahold of them previously. Corruption, carelessness, licentious acts of mind, body, and soul, these we cannot allow into our lands lest those afflicted by them seek the help of the gods and their followers to purge themselves of these wicked ways. What do you 'bring to the table', so to speak, that should earn you lands to tend and smallfolk to oversee in the name of House Wytch?"

The Vale knight gestured to the small groups, Maester Gorman and a pair of scribes having taken their names as they filed in.

The twin Westermen had come from a family of middling merchants that specialized in breeding horses, specifically warhorses, but had left their homes to seek out ways of earning themselves prestige, enough to seek good marriages. Sadly, the objects of their desire had married in their absence, and with their primary reason to return no longer available, had wandered until they'd met with this group.

The yeomen of the Riverlands were cousins all, who had been a part of a Riverlord's retinue until he'd had to disband it, citing lack of funds to continue paying them as he focused on rebuilding his lands from the damage caused by the Dance. They'd been bowmen and had been the primary means of feeding their party when the coin began to run low along the way.

The Reachmen shared the same story with Luthor from all those years ago. Divisive kin, land disputes ending in their expulsion or rejection, it was a story she'd heard before, and one that seemed all to common in the Reach these days. Just what was going on in that vast land that saw people leaving it, rather than finding work with many of its other lords?

The Crownlands pair had been from a village where a portion of their folk left the Kingswood for Wytch lands already. They'd decided to follow their kin, as there was nothing left for them at their old homes, for the game was sparse and work sparser yet.

The Vale knight' story was perhaps the saddest of them. He'd had a family, having taken care of his nephews after his older brother had died in the Dance, but they had been killed in a mountain clan ambush. Distraught, he'd purposefully exiled himself from the Vale as atonement, and for the past few years had been wandering aimlessly.

All good stories, but caution would be needed. Casper had made mention in his notes of people like this, of ones with good stories that tug at the heartstrings but could not be trusted with too much responsibility right away. A 'trial period' he had said would be needed, for them to prove their worth, and she agreed with such an assessment. She and Morden had done the same with Luthor and saw no reason to not do the same with these men.

"On behalf of my son, Lord Casper of house Wytch, I would accept you into my service. We shall ask of you no service that would dishonor you, nor strip you of your rights without fair trial. Know that for those who prove themselves capable and loyal, my son is a most generous lord."

"On behalf of us all, I most graciously accept, my lady," the Vale knight said, kneeling before her. The fellows behind him mirrored this, the soft clanks and thumps gently echoing through the otherwise silent hall.

"Then in the meantime, rest and recuperate, for your journey has been long and tiring. Many of our rooms in our hall are currently being refurbished and are unfit for habitation, but my captain shall notify the manors of Lowhill that should you wish, you may stay there, at our expense. My son is due to return in the coming moons, for a messenger has told me of a great victory against the raiders from Dorne. By then, we shall find good lands for you to tend to, and smallfolk to oversee, should you prove yourselves."

As the group dispersed, it brought an end to the petitioners for the day, and with that settled for now, Janyce left the hall. She had need of speaking with the quartermaster again, to ensure their supplies were completely refilled by the time her son returned from his time in the Marches.

Once again, down in the yard, she spied young Baelor practicing with his bow. Off a short way, past the group of squires, a gaggle of passing maids had stopped, watching the boy sink yet another arrow into the center of the target. Silly girls, judging from their faces, swooning over the young prince. A quick glare sent them scattering back to their duties, the only one to linger just a tad longer being the young Dornish maid Jynessa. Curious…