Chapter 3: Maester Gorman I

152 AC

Life in Westeros was never an easy thing for the smallfolk. Sicknesses, wars, bandits, weather events and acts of indifference from their lords were only a few of the hazards they faced in life. For the nobility, even amidst their privileges and accrued power, there was still a struggle to be undertaken, often against your fellow lords. As had been the case for over a century now under the Targaryens, the intermingling of peoples from across the kingdoms often brought with it new hierarchies and feuds between lords who might have never been at odds were the realm not tied together. Case in point, when young lords are sent to the Citadel to become maesters, there is often a great deal of competition amongst them for good positions, and the lives they were meant to leave behind often follow them there all the same.

One wrong word to the wrong acolyte was all it had taken to be sent to an ass-end's holdfast in the Stormlands at the notice that the hall was once again inhabited by nobles, not spiders and whatever other vermin crawled in during its empty state. Even in a place where birth was not meant to matter as much, offending some bastard Tyrell hadn't been the wisest choice a fifth son of House Frey could make. Hadn't helped that the man was friends with a Hightower maester as well. He'd not been directly told he was being punished, but as soon as he'd learned of his assignment, he knew it was as such. There was nothing he could do about it either, lest he involve a greater amount of politics than he was willing to deal with in his new life.

He sighed, sipping from the concoction his lord's young son had recently approved for consumption, the soothing warmth giving him the will he needed to go through his day. Brandy, he called it, distilled from wine from the Arbor, and mixed with additional apples from the Stormhall orchards. It was beginning to become a favorite of his, despite the ridiculous setup the boy had created in one of the unused rooms of the keep. Already he'd spoken of expanding it as a personal business, and while most lords looked down upon such copper counting ventures, Gorman Frey knew the benefits of combining good sense with practical applications of moneymaking ventures, both as a Frey and as one bearing a yellow gold link for economics. Still, he'd best not get too attached to the drink, lest he become a drunkard. Moderation would be key, as he'd seen the effects on both body and mind of those who partook in such things too frequently.

The clever boy had told his father that he'd likely not make it into a huge business for a great many years, just something for personal consumption or for giving as gifts to lords in the future. Whilst delaying an expansion would be costly in the long term, waiting until the kinks were worked out would prove just as rewarding as starting early. Lord Wytch and he saw it as a viable enterprise, especially considering he knew of more than a few lords from his younger days that would pay a pretty golden dragon for such a delightful drink. As for gifts, why, if it was made any better, sending some to the more powerful or prestigious Stormlords, Baratheons or Targaryen royal family would certainly earn him a great deal of notice and prestige. Perhaps, should that time come, he might even be asked to expand his business, to meet the needs of his thirsty patrons.

Casper Wytch was an unusual boy, even from the start, he had to admit. His birth was accompanied by a frightful storm, yet there'd been little damage to the surrounding countryside in the hillier areas. After a rather typical childhood, the boy had one day seemed to blossom before his very eyes, taking them all by surprise. Casper saw the world through the eyes of child, but Master Gorman swore he analyzed it with the wits and mind of a man fully grown. Where others at his age might throw a tantrum upon not getting their way, or gloat eagerly upon accomplishing something minor, Casper did neither, instead accepting what had happened as having happened, and moving on to his next task with a maturity the maester had not seen in even some adults. When asked after a particularly spectacular failure at making a larger kite, he'd called it "a philosophy of stoicism", and while Maester Gorman knew what stoic meant, he'd never quite heard it put that way before.

Many tomes had the boy read, and many more he wished to, on practically every subject save for some religious texts. Oh, he was a dutiful young lordling, looking to the Seven and praying within their chapel more often than some, but he seemed somewhat… reserved on the subject, as if it weren't quite what he was expecting. Yet the books he did read, he did so voraciously, often reading well into the night, much to the chagrin of his father and the master at arms the next morning. Even more curious were the ideas the boy both spouted and reflected upon in equal measure, often bringing others in when a decision was yet to be made on the matter. A wise future lord listens to his advisors during his time as a youngster, and a wiser one will keep wise council once reaching their majority, after all.

For every idea the boy proposed, his lord father made sure to seek out his counsel on the matter, as well as the boy's mother, master at arms, and any other learned or experienced mind on the matter. For all the success of the stills and the distillery, there'd been the failure of a strange "printing press" device that had never made it out of the discussion phase. A truly ingenious device, to be sure, but utterly impractical given the ink and parchment limitations. For the immediate success of four field crop rotation, there was the dubious experiments of "selective breeding" that his lord's heir was certain would succeed in time. For all the success in restructuring the layout and future expansions of Stormhall and likewise plans for Lowhill, there'd been the rather poignant failure in anticipating the increase in guards needed overall, though that would resolve itself in time. So on and so forth were his ideas and the results, good or ill, that came with them, and in all that time, he'd seen Casper determine the worth in pursuing a line of thought instead of simply giving up on it. Tenacious, he would say, though not without a good sense of morality, given his concern for the costs involved.

Casper's newest creation, however, showed a great deal of promise, even if the boy and his lord father did not yet know the full extent of its uses. A malleable slurry that, upon hardening, was not quite as strong as stone, but far, far easier to form? Quite the boon to builders everywhere, even if repairs would likely need to be made every generation or two. Still, if not used for grandiose projects, then for the mundane, it'd be an ideal material. Stonemasons and their guilds might raise a fuss at first, but using it in conjunction with stone would be ideal if mortar was not on hand or the building needed to be built quickly. Besides, even if repairs or replacements needed to be done every few decades, it wasn't going to remain an expensive material to use, likely becoming cheaper with time and any further improvements.

There had been a slight issue with the liquid rock, one which he'd taken to calling "Wytch-stone" whenever out of earshot, perhaps as a little joke to himself. Still, it wasn't a terrible name, but ensuring the slurry was correctly dried before mixing and casting had proven difficult for his lordling. He, on the other hand, also had a chain of pale steel, smithing to be precise, and had eventually realized the material would need an entirely unique furnace of sorts to help solve the issue, bringing it to a greater temperature than what had been originally planned. So after some trial and error he built one, and with some minor tweaks made it work, suddenly solving the issues with the material. His lordling had thanked him, rather gratefully come to think of it, and in exchange for keeping the heating process a secret, Lord Wytch had gifted him a great deal of the brandy his son had been making. An unequal trade to an outsider's perspective, but to him, it'd been a service done for his lord, and the payment certainly was delicious.

It was a good thing the people knew him as a devout young lord, for someone bringing this much change to a long-established order would have upset a great many people. The smallfolk even might have decried the boy as a witch had they known of all this planning and creating, as such an intelligence surely a portent of some great evil or coming catastrophe. A bigger group of ignorant, addled buffoons there'd likely never be. Such genius was not to be shunned or decried, let alone persecuted, but encouraged, grown, used fully for the benefit of one's house and lands. Gods, what the boy could do if he were a major lord, perhaps even a lord paramount…

A knock at his door interrupted his musings. he had not been expecting company during his work, but with how long he had been at it, a short distraction would be nice. "Come in."

Janyce Wytch, Casper's lady mother and the Lady of Stormhall, entered, a guard closing the door. She was a good woman, reminding him in some ways of his own mother, now long gone from this world and in the embrace of the Seven. "Good day, maester, I was hoping to a word with you, if you are not terribly busy?"

"Certainly, my lady, 'tis no trouble at all," he replied, motioning to the other seat. "Forgive me if I do not stand, my feet are still tired from this morning's jaunts down to Lowhill. I was just enjoying some of this "brandy" of Casper's. Exquisite, I must say, I know not how he thought of such an idea, but I certainly do appreciate it."

"Indeed, I am very fortunate with my son's blessings by the Seven, namely the Smith and Crone," she replied, taking her seat as demurely as a lady might. For a merchant's daughter, she had readily adopted the mannerisms of a nobly bred lady, her smallfolk accent nearly gone entirely. One had to listen hard to even catch a hint of it these days. "Our family will do well under him once he becomes lord. Have you received letters indicating their return, by chance?"

"Oh, yes, they left some time ago, according to the raven. If the weather holds, they'll be here within a few days, barring trouble moving down the old dirt roads. There will be plenty of duties for Morden and Casper to resume upon their return. The smallfolk leaving their hovels for Lowhill is beginning to put a strain on the town's limits, especially with the plans for its future, for instance."

"It'll be a wonder that Lowhill doesn't turn into some sort of sprawling waste," she said. "My son has plans for this town in the future, plans my lord husband wholeheartedly is in favor of, though I doubt either will ever seek to make it a city, thanks the Seven. Too much good farmland around it to waste developing, alongside the established pastures, and with this new Wytch-stone the two of you have made, he may not have to build out, but instead up." The threat of lords rattling their sabers at a city leeching power from their lands was left unsaid.

"Ah, you heard of my little nickname for it?" he asked, slightly sheepish as he took another sip. Gods, Reach brandy had nothing on Wytch brandy, and he'd had more than his fair share when over in Oldtown.

"Indeed, but fret not, maester, it is a good name, one that will be twofold beneficial to our house, as my husband certainly thinks so. Clearly, if named for us, anyone who needs or uses it will remember our house as the ones who created it. Just as well, it certainly rolls of the tongue easier than "liquid rock slurry" or some other nonsense."

He nodded in agreement. While not as educated or beautiful of the more nobly-bred women he had met in his life, she certainly was cunning in her own way. Many highborn ladies would do good to keep smallfolk or lesser nobly-bred ladies as their handmaidens with quick wits, rather than the simpering sycophants too many so readily kept around.

"As it is," she continued, "I am concerned for my son's marriage prospects, as any good mother should be. He is not yet old enough to marry, but will be soon. Have we received any offers?"

"Nothing suitable for your son, my lady," he replied sadly. "Most of his immediate neighbors bear similar histories to your own house, though many of them occurred centuries before the Conquest. None of them appear to have sisters or daughters close to Casper's age. Any betrothals we have received have been for old maidens likely unable to bear children come his majority, or those so young that he would have to wait near a decade after reaching his majority to try and get her with child. Waiting so long for his heir to marry, even during such a time of peace, is risky for a lord with only younger daughters to inherit should something misfortunate happen."

"None of the other lords are interested? Even the Reach or Crownland lords my kin have spoken with?"

"I'm afraid not. It could be anything, from not wishing to send a proposal until he is older to simply not knowing the growing wealth and power of House Wytch. Or they do not look favorably upon the age of this house, coming from far older lineages themselves." A folly to be sure, every noble had to start from a non-noble line, be it a hedge knight, a younger son earning his own lands, or the thanks of a lord from some farmer who saved his life during wartime.

"It was only a matter of time before our lord summoned him for a feast, so hopefully connections and talks were begun in Storm's End. With such a gathering of lords likely now getting to know my husband and son beyond mere rumors, perhaps then our efforts for finding Casper a bride will prove more fruitful. As it is, that was not all I wished to speak of."

"Oh?"

"My meeting with my brothers and their sons went fairly well. They've agreed to establish a merchant family, one of my cousins and his children, in Lowhill, and are likely to agree to establish one in Timberstone in the near future. Highmarsh I've yet to sell them on, but Morden and Casper have said that the town will take longer to develop than the other two for what they have in store for it."

"Ah, it is always good to have such connections, even if their livelihood is looked down upon by most lords," he said. Freys knew well the profit of dabbling in coin counting, as did other, less noteworthy families. Let the more martial lords sneer at them for their mercantile proclivities, for in the end the power of such lords would become lesser. One does not build a house on martial ability alone. "Their focus?"

"In Lowhill, primarily transport and sale of the goods manufactured within Lowhill and, in the near future, Stormhall itself. For Timberstone, eventually, the sale of crafted goods, rather than mere raw materials as other lords do for their holdings. My husband and son intend to have what Casper calls "industry" under the purview of our family, to remove the need for transporting goods to Essos and back to process them, though I've no idea what they intend to produce other than Casper's brandy."

"Well if he continues to improve that brandy and other "spirits" as he calls them, I foresee a tidy profit for the family coffers in the future. All men like to drink, lords especially, and Stormlords even more so. Gifting it to his future fellow lords would surely build a few bridges between them, given the current lack of connections." It was rather odd that, for a people so willing to honor martial tradition, that House Wytch, with a man who was very good with his weapons, was so readily ignored or rebuffed, albeit politely at this point. Then again, no matter their stature, save as an offshoot of a great noble house, new houses always had to build themselves up on their own, it seemed.

Lady Wytch sighed. "It won't be that simple, though, will it?"

"I am afraid not, my lady. Now, whilst your son has yet to receive any agreeable offers of marriage, your daughters have yet to receive even a passing glance. A given, since they are still so young and not yet flowered, but it will only be a matter of time before such a thing occurs."

"Indeed, but good marriages is what we should strive for, or barring that, marrying them to good knights in our service. Morden will likely be able to find more agreeable matches for them in the future after another visit to Storm's End and amidst an assembly of his fellow lords."

There was a banging at the door. Startled, he just managed to finish his brandy as the door opened, revealing Roland, the master at arms.

"My lady, Maester Gorman, you must hurry!" he all but shouted. A pair of guards rushed up behind him, huffing and puffing from their dead sprint.

A sinking feeling rumbled in the belly. Were one of the little ladies hurt? He had told them numerous times to stay away from the kennels when the bitches were whelping, lest they be bitten! "Whatever for?"

"It's Lord Wytch, he and Casper have returned, but both are wounded."

"Wounded?" Janyce Wytch asked, gasping in shock and horror. A much, much worse piece of news, then. The ache in his feet was gone, replaced with an energy that coursed through his body.

"Bandits, from what the guards tell. They've left the bastards behind, but we've barred the gates just in case. We must hurry!"

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Morden Wytch III

Every breath hurt in a way he'd never known. The arrows had left gruesome marks upon them both, but he had been told Casper's sword arm would be fine, likely facing no permanent damage upon healing. The same could not be said for himself, however, as the bandits had seen fit to stick no less than three arrows in his back, and one in his chest. The fact he had managed to hold on with his son taking the reins of his horse, it was nothing short of miraculous. Surely, the gods had smiled upon him to retain his earned strength to make it back to his keep.

It would not save him, however, and that was also likely in their plans. The wounds had been deep, and the bleeding within could not be stopped, even by with Maester Gorman's skill at tending to such wounds. Even if it had, he knew the results of infections brought on by such wounds would likely set in faster than he could recover, and was resigned to his fate. He was dying, at such a young age, slowly, painfully, but he still had his wits about him, and things needed to be put to order. He may have been raised as a smallfolk and then became a lord, but he would not leave his family picking up the pieces in his wake. They would know safety and security amidst their grief.

Casper, ever the dutiful heir, knelt beside his bed despite his injuries, the last vestiges of the will and testament being completed by the maester with his heir and master at arms serving as witnesses. His wife Janyce, oh how she'd cried when she'd first seen him, held their daughters tightly as they too cried. Little Arenna and Shyra, he'd never get the chance to see them grow into adulthood, never see them married and with babes of their own. His son, gods, his son, this was affecting him worst of all. There was a look in his son's eyes that spoke of impossible anger, the kind which his grandfather Kennon Storm had been subjected to when taken by the battlefield. He'd only seen it a few times, but it had been fearsome. He had always tempered his own, sometimes with the greatest of strain, but always managed it. Even now, that ebb of rage was held in check by his impending death, but his son's held no such barrier. With his son's intelligence to back up this storm brewing in his very soul, he feared for whomever would attract its wrath.

For their house words were "Dread Our Wrath", and Casper… his would be a terrible thing.

"Maester, I thank you, but please, see out my wife and daughters," he choked out, feeling the blood draining from him, leaving him weak as a newborn babe. He could taste his blood on the back of his palate, that coppery taste his father had told him of years ago. "I do not wish them to see me like this for any longer, and I would have my final words with my son."

"Are you certain, Morden?" his wife asked, clutching their daughters close.

"I do, my love. Take care of Arenna and Shyra, and let them know papa will always love them."

Gorman gave a nod, and softly, helped lead out Janyce and the girls, their cries becoming muffled as the door closed behind them. Gods, three women to care for, his son would face no shortage of headaches from suitors or leering men in due time. He prayed the patience he had earned in his time as a smallfolk and then lord was not only inherited by his son, but would stay with him as he became a man. Far too often good qualities were lost as one grew older or gained a greater degree of power.

"Casper, my heir, my son," he continued, his heir looking up at him, his eyes speaking of grief and rage, but his features strangely impassive, which worried him all the more. Casper reminded him of his own father in a way, with that hard look. "I was never as close to you as I could have been, but I will not declare I was a distant man. I have always felt a great deal of pride in your achievements thus far, and though it is a terrible to have to say it now, rather than earlier, I love you, my son."

"And I you, papa. I will not forget all you and mother have done for me, nor will I let this go unchallenged. Bandits are never far from the scenes of their crimes."

He choked back a scowl. "This was no act of bandits, but I do not know who did this. I have an inkling of who might, but I cannot be sure."

"Our bordering lords, one of them, or more, perhaps," his son whispered. "To our eastern borders, no doubt. Those landed asses were never to be trusted, father, and now, I never shall."

"Perhaps, but Lord Baratheon will hear of this, no doubt. He will investigate, as the death of a lord, even by bandits, is no small matter. especially a lord so recently elevated. I will make one last request of you, son."

Casper was silent for a few moments, his jaw moving as if chewing upon words his wished to speak. "Yes, father?"

"Seek not reckless vengeance, it would ruin our house as surely as the storm we are named for."

"Reckless?" Casper asked. "Why would I be reckless in my quest vengeance?"

"For the death of your father."

"Recklessness will no more bring you back to me than Maester Gorman could, despite all his expertise. No, father, it is not mere vengeance I will seek, though that will come in time."

"Then what is it?" The chill from his son seemed to permeate the room like the chill from a brisk winter wind.

"I shall seek justice, by the eyes of every god under the sun and moon. New and Old, foreign and close to home, they shall hear my pledge, and they shall see its will be done, or else. There will be a reckoning, father, but not today, not tomorrow, but one day, I will find who did this. No castle may hide them from me, no magic may divert my path, and not even the gods shall be able to save them in the end. My justice will be neither brief nor easily forgotten, and woe to those who earn such an ire again."

"You're a good son, Casper. I am proud that you are my heir, more than you could ever know."

His son paused for a moment, as if struggling with something internally. "Yet I am only partly yours."

"What?" he asked.

"Father, as now is as good a time as any, I am indeed Casper, your son, but I was also… someone else."

"What do you mean?"

"My mind… it is hard to fully explain, but one day I awoke as your son, with the memories of my childhood, but also with memories I should not have had. I remembered a life lived not of this world, in a place unfathomable to you, where nothing we know of can compare. Where man flew as readily as he traveled her by horse, where the brutality of war had grown to where it would drive any man mad, and many people in the world worried not if they had enough food, but if they had too much. It was a world of stark contrast but also eerie similarities, one without what we call magic, but with its own uniqueness that could be called magical in its own right." He went on to explain things that made a great deal of sense and yet were almost too horrible to imagine. His son had once been a man in a different time, in a different place, so similar and yet so alien to Westeros. with others as his parents and sisters. Wars that consumed continents, plagues that erased nations, yet feats of endurance that inspired greatness, and achievements that broke the boundaries of the sky itself...

"Casper, you… you were someone else?" Normally he might have seen this as madness, brought on by the grief of him dying, but he could see his son's words to be true, the sincerity behind it…

"In what may amount to a past life, yes. But I am still your son, father, and this former life of mine, it is from where my knowledge springs."

"So that's how you know so much, how you've seen the world as a man when still a boy. I'd thought-,"

"That I was touched by the gods? Perhaps I am, for I never knew how I ended up as your son, but I am glad I did," he said, a smile breaking even as tears spilled down his cheeks. "I will use what I know for our house, father. I will see us brought to heights no lord has ever envisioned for a house so young, and I will see us prosper like few have before. I would not seek to overthrow our liege, but I will see our house become his most powerful vassal."

Gods, his son would become a dangerous man. If what he'd said was true, and knew things from another world so unlike their own, then there was no telling what Casper was capable of. A small part of him feared this new side of his son. Yet the remainder, the side that had held him as a babe, which had helped him swing his first training sword, couldn't help but be proud.

"Then I will pass, knowing the future of our house is in good hands," he said, holding his hand out.

Casper clasped it, the two of them squeezing hard, as they had done ever since he could walk. Now, though, his son's hands weren't so little, and their grip, for a man not yet in his majority, were as strong as could be. He held on as long as he could, until he felt his eyes grow heavy, his grip weaken, and the world go dark for that final time. The last words he heard, his son whispered, with a malevolence so deep that, for a brief moment, he almost pitied the ones who had killed him. Almost.

"Dread Our Wrath."