Chapter 33: Mylenda Windhill V

Early 157 AC

As per the agreement set in the betrothal, her time to marry Casper had come, a mere moon after her grandfather's passing. Mylenda had seen to the vigil and then burial of Jon Windhill amongst their many ancestors deep in the catacombs, safely sealed away from the world outside. Now the Lady of Windhall, it had fallen to her to send forth the ravens and couriers to her lands and her neighbors, informing them of the passing of her grandfather and her inheritance of his seat. She had sent these the very day she'd left for Stormhall. Her position as the last Windhill, even one betrothed to Casper, would still undoubtedly bring suitors calling now that her grandfather was gone, to attempt to claim her and her lands for their own in some way. Second sons, errant knights, even older lords looking to spread their line into another house, she had expected these to arrive, and sought to head them off in their attempts.

How she'd managed to stay strong from her grandfather's passing for as long as she'd had still eluded her. She'd not cried much when he died before her, nor during the vigil and burial, nor even the short week of grieving she'd allotted herself. Yet when she'd finally arrived in Stormhall and Casper held her in his arms, expressing his sincerest condolences, Mylenda had been unable to hold back her tears. Jon was the man who had raised her longer than either of her parents, having been her whole world for as long as she could remember. Though hazy from her youth, her memories of him were happy ones, of a time when life for her was less about sorting parchment detailing their lands, and more of the fishing trips they took to cold streams weaving through alpine meadows amongst the nearby mountain peaks.

Her soon-to-be goodmother had sent out the invitations shortly after her letter had reached them of her grandfather's passing. Janyce Wytch could be a formidable lady when pressed, she had noticed, and had spent most of her time with her during the preparations, ensuring Mylenda's say in the quality and variety of food and drink to be served at the wedding feast. Mylenda was unsure if this was how a traditional wedding was to go, but she had no reference, having never attended one in this way. Her lessons on the matter in Windhall had been terribly insufficient, now that she had time to recollect, and the sheer number of details going into a single day were almost frightening. That may have also been the grief latching onto whatever other emotions were bubbling to the surface today. It would take time for this new wound to close, as it had for the loss of her mother years before, but she was a Windhill, she was strong, and would overcome this.

The Seven must have taken heart to her situation, for the cold of the past weeks had faded away, a pleasant warmth seeping back into the lands. It was not spring, for no records had ever indicated a winter so short nor comparatively mild, and it was then that the ravens flew from the Citadel, declaring the cold period as a 'merely unseasonal chill' and ensuring everyone that it was still autumn. Many smallfolk were already beginning to call it the 'Year of the False Winter' and had taken to replanting the lost crops with great gusto. Others were not so quick to celebrate, despite the warmer days returning quickly, and instead both planted crops for winter and tended to those that remained viable after this sudden chill. Luckily, livestock had fared better than most of the more delicate crops, taking shelter in barns, forests or windward hills to escape the winds of that brief cold.

On the morning of the wedding, when she rose from her maiden's bed, she came to realize that she would not return to it as Mylenda Windhill. Instead, she would find herself in her marriage bed, as Mylenda Wytch, née Windhill, with all the titles and power that entailed, the first of her womanly duties now fulfilled. She broke her fast in private that morning, seen to only by her maids, who then aided in dressing her, the cream dress hugging her wonderfully, yet thankfully loose enough she could still move with ease. Their giggles and chitchat seemed distant as she looked herself over, as she found it hard to pay them any heed other than smiling and nodding along. Not long after, escorted by the captain of her personal guard and the few men she'd brought from Windhall, a man by the name of Edric, she meandered down to the main courtyard, expecting a horse to await her. Instead, it was a fine, rather sturdy carriage, a little ostentatious but not overly so. Within were her only companions, Lady Janyce and her soon-to-be goodsisters Arenna and Shyra, with her captain and guards riding beside her. The journey down to Lowhill was a silent one, for even the two girls across from her seemed unusually subdued, though from their looks they were awfully excited as well. This was the day their brother was to marry, after all, but the frequent looks from their mother were likely what was keeping them in line.

It was not a somber ride, but it did give her some more time to think. Was she excited? It was hard to say. There was a knot in her belly, like the one she'd have right before she was to receive petitioners back in Windhall. Yet Mylenda wouldn't say she was worried either; it wasn't as if Casper was going to call the whole thing off. They had gotten along splendidly before today, why should they not continue to do so after? Perhaps it was merely the stress of the big day mixing with her remaining grief. She was looking forward to the feast, at least, the planning that she'd been a part of promised it to be one to remember.

Entering through the town gate, she found a colorful assortment of Windhill and Wytch banners intermingling along the street, the streamers strung between them alternating between the colors of their respective houses. Everywhere the smallfolk stood, they were singing, led by septas or septons in holy chorus. She couldn't quite hear the words of those old hymns, but she imagined them to be simple, free from the additional trappings of places such as in the keeps of the Reach or the Crownlands. Out here in the Stormlands, simpler was often better her grandfather had said, and lasted longer in the minds of the smallfolk.

At the front of the sept their carriage halted, and opening the door, Captain Edric gingerly helped the four of them exit it. More banners of Wytch and Windhill flew about the place, and the crowds outside were softly roaring their names, waving small banners as guardsmen passed out small bags of pennies to the children. Her betrothed's generosity seemed to know few boundaries, except those of common sense, but his smallfolk loved him all the more for it, and hopefully, they would come to love her for it as well.

The sept itself was positively humming with song, the Andalic hymns coming into full force as she entered, all eyes suddenly on her. All the nobles and wealthiest merchants in Wytch lands, as well as a few Stormlords from nearby lands, had arrived to witness this. All were dressed to impress, some in fine shining armor and others in expensive suits or dresses, to showcase status and wealth as well as the significance of their attendance. Though Janyce had told her it would all be taken care of, she'd been planning on Captain Edric giving her away. Yet as she approached the altar, she found a man standing in the place of her grandfather she'd never have expected.

"Lord Baratheon?" she nearly gasped, barely managing to come to terms with what she was seeing. Her Lord Paramount stood dressed in the livery of his house, a fine suit the likes of which must have cost a fortune, and beside him stood Prince Baelor, similarly dressed in the colors of his house. How had she not known they would be here?

As if reading her expression, her lord took her hand and softly chuckled. "We arrived just after supper, my dear, and rose early to discuss matters with your betrothed. We would have arrived sooner, but we were delayed by a small squall near Storm's End. Do you have any objections to me being the one to give you away?"

"No, no, of course not, my lord," she said, fighting back a stammer that was entirely unlike her. "I would be honored to have you stand in for my late grandfather, as I am sure he would have."

With a nod, he took her hand. Beside him, Prince Baelor looked to her and smiled, a slight tinge to his cheeks. He was taller than she remembered seeing last, and had filled out slightly, but was still just a boy in her eyes.

"You look quite pretty, my lady. Surely the gods smile on you on this most special of days, for your beauty to shine so brightly."

"My thanks, my prince." Was he blushing? By the Seven, Prince Baelor was blushing at the sight of her! "I hope the journey here was not too difficult."

"Anything for Cas-, I mean, Lord Wytch, my lady. I count him as a dear friend and wouldn't miss this for anything."

"You flatter me, my prince." Come to think of it, he appeared to be trying to keep his eyes on her face, but when she looked away to admire the candles around the statues of the Seven, from the corner of her eye, she saw him glance down before looking away, even more flushed. Well, more like straight at her, she was significantly taller than him after all, and that had brought his eyes about level to… oh. Well, he was just a boy, and she'd heard a pious one at that, so no harm in his glances.

Another round of horns sounded, soft and clear, and from the side emerged her husband, moving to the altar with purposeful, lighthearted steps. He was almost unrecognizable to the man whose arms she had cried into, with his short beard trimmed further, his often-unruly hair combed, and dressed in as fine of clothes as Lord Baratheon but in the colors of his own house. Their house, she realized, as he wordlessly sidled up to her. An older septon approached the altar before them, escorted by a pair of young curates, not much older than the prince. Holding aloft a pair of incense burners, one stood behind the septon, whilst the other retrieved and opened a large Seven-Pointed Star. Retrieving the book from his assistant, who began to softly chant scripture with his fellow curate, the septon looked to her, and then Casper, and then began.

The prayers that followed, spaced with soft singing, seemed to stretch on for days. She would repeat the prayers, as did Casper and the rest of the gathered faithful, and after those were finally done, they exchanged their vows. Mylenda vowed to be by Casper's side through feast and famine, and he said the same. She said she would give him counsel, and he replied he would heed her word above all others. He swore to protect her with his life, and she to give him sons and daughters to carry on their legacy. Other vows they swore, some the septon mentioned, others that one or the other had thought of in the days leading up to the wedding. The septon gave them more vows to repeat than they'd thought of, and she found it a bit unfair how often the man mentioned that she would be faithful to Casper, whilst only mentioning that once or twice to him.

Finally, just as her knees were starting to ache from standing still for so long, Lord Baratheon stepped forward as the septon finally finished. With a grace she did not know the large man possessed, he removed her Windhill maiden cloak from her shoulders. Prince Baelor handed to Lord Wytch another cloak, this one bearing the Wytch sigil, and Casper then replaced the one their liege had removed, bringing her under his protection.

As one, the pair of them spoke. "With this kiss, I pledge my love."

Casper added "I take you as my lady and wife."

She replied, "I take you as my lord and husband."

Their lips met in a tender kiss, one that for the briefest of moments, Mylenda was certain she heard the entire world fall away, feeling only her now-husband's skin against hers. As they pulled apart, the septon loudly proclaimed over the songs, his voice ringing through the sept, that they were now 'one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever' to the gathered crowd. The great cheer and thunderous applause that followed brought a smile to her face, as well as her new husband's. She was no longer Mylenda Windhill, but Mylenda Wytch née Windhill, Lady of Stormhall and Windhall. The stress of the past month seemed to fade away as Casper drew her in for a tight hug, one she gladly returned.

The journey back to the castle was one of great merriment, with Casper and her riding side by side amongst crowds of cheering smallfolk. Entering the castle itself, the festivities continued, as wedding gifts were presented in the great courtyard, the relatively small main hall too narrow to host both the feast and the gathering. A pair of prized broodmares from House Wysp, a strong warhammer from Lord Baratheon, a bolt of fine silk from Prince Baelor, and a great deal of other gifts were showered upon them. Some were practical, others were trinkets or artifacts from distant lands, and a few were thankfully practical, such as a Myrish far-eye, courtesy of an unknown sender from Kings Landing of all places. Yet as much as she enjoyed these, she was glad when they entered the castle keep, for the great feast laid before them in the main hall brought some relief to her growling stomach.

She'd not eaten since breaking her fast, and it was well past midday. With lighter fare to start, progressively growing more lavish and delicious, she could barely contain her glee at the prospect of trying so many things, for truly, there was a great deal to try. Delicate wings of chicken, seasoned with garlic and lightly coated in honey, small cakes made with flour from ground sweetcorn, the 'Dornished eggs' she'd heard of so much from her grandfather, and green beans in small bowls of thick cream soup topped with cheese and fried onions were only some of the first course served. Yet as much as she wished to fill herself with these delectable treats, Mylenda restrained herself, knowing there was more to come. The guests were certainly delighted by these wondrous creations, given the number of toasts they received on the food alone thus far.

As she finished her small meal of the first course, she glanced to her now husband, who had likewise eaten as she had, sparingly, saving room for more. They'd spoken of the tradition of some for a pigeon pie, but they'd agreed it would be a rather dismal dish. Live birds in a pie? They would be leaving quite the droppings whilst trapped in there, and who would wish to eat that? She lost track of how often he joked about such traditions being rather disgusting, and she could hardly contain herself at some of his quips.

Soon after the first course finished, as the ale, beer, mead, and other fine vintages flowed freely, the second course arrived. Roasted chestnuts wrapped in crispy bacon and topped with a thickened cider, small breadwytchs of fresh buttered rolls filled with slices of ham, fried rolls of flour stuffed with shredded carrots, cabbage and onions, and a whole host of other dishes that set her tongue and imagination alight. Truly, the culinary delights of Windhall did not compare to her new home, and she was eager to explore these new opportunities as they arose. Who had created these wonderful dishes? She would have to ask Casper if they were simply from this region of the Stormlands, or from further north. He'd ventured far wider than she had, after all.

After the second course, the music rose in intensity, and the first dance was held. With Casper leading her, she merrily joined him, their dance coinciding with a plethora of others. Ser Tygor, one of the Westerman knights in service to them, danced merrily with his Dornish wife Jynessa, while her grandmother tended to their infant daughter. Lord Baratheon was not yet dancing, having claimed at the head table 'to need more drink yet for it' and, in his stead, Baelor was trying his best to keep up with her goodmother Janyce. Even when he stumbled, he pressed on, and once he rotated to become her dancing partner, she purposefully slowed, to which he gave her a quick but appreciative smile. He did step on her feet more than she would have liked, but it wasn't terrible, so she paid it little mind.

The night grew closer as the feast went on, with more food, drink, singing and dancing lasting well until the final portions of the feast were served. Even with all eyes on her whenever she danced, Mylenda cared little for their stares, smiling and laughing away as she exchanged partners, most often dancing with her husband, and then most perhaps with Baelor or Lord Baratheon. As her feet grew tired from the evening, and she relegated herself more to the head table, she noticed guests were beginning to drop like flies, some having to be carried off by their fellows, either full of food or drink. Fuller than she'd thought, even having restrained herself to small portions of everything she wished to try, Mylenda could not help but have a maid serve her a final slice of pie, the strawberries within reminding her of the ones her grandfather would have picked for her nameday celebrations. It went well with the 'whipped cream' served by another maid from a chilled cask.

"The bedding! Time for the bedding!" a guest cried, perhaps one of the knights, and just as she finished her pie, a small troupe of men rushed up to her. Casper was pulled from her by a similar group, this one of maids and the wives of the many knights and local lords. The shocked shrug he gave her was rather funny, considering just how many ladies were pulling him along, compared to her own posse. It was an… unusual experience, as most of the men pulling her clothes from her were so drunk from the latest rounds of brandy and whiskey, she was certain half had fallen to the ground in a stupor and had been left behind as she was 'escorted' to her new chambers.

Ducking in as a rough pair of hands unexpectedly shoved her backside, she stumbled, only to be caught by her husband Casper, who looked rather surprised at her sudden appearance. The drunk shouts through the door, some of the suggestions bringing a heat to her cheeks, were mercifully muffled by the thick wood as they moved away from it. She also noticed a good deal of them were the voices of ladies, likely the same that had taken her husband up here. "Given how few I saw push you in here, I take it the women who brought me along were apparently not quite as… intoxicated as the men were," he whispered, sounding as tired as she suddenly. Yet his touch, naked now that she noticed, gave her a tingle from her toes to her head. "Well, here we are."

"Yes," Mylenda replied. "Well… shall we?"

"Only if you wish to," her lordly husband whispered.

"Do you not wish to?"

Her sudden fear was immediately brought low by his soft chuckle. "Of course I would wish to lay with my lady wife. I just thought, with how long today has been, that if you were too tired for it, that we could cuddle instead?"

"Cuddling sounds nice," she said. They'd often snuggled up together during their courting, but now she wanted none of that. He opened his mouth to reply, only for her to silence him with her finger. "After we have consummated, husband mine. It is our duty, after all."

With that, he picked her up, amidst giggles from them both, and carried her to his bed.

No, their bed.

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Baelor VIII

He arose groggily, his eyes still heavy and his head aching a bit as he pulled on some simple morning clothes. He'd not slept well last night, a mistake he sought to rectify immediately.

"Too much cider before bed makes for poor sleep," the prince muttered, wiping his eyes. The dreams he had had were rather vivid, like something out of a tale, yet he had no inclination as to if they were prophetic or not. He was unsure if he should worry about a tree playing a banjo, or a turkey walking along the ceilings of the Red Keep. There'd even been one about a talking donkey walking beside a rather large green man, yet the last of his dreams, the one to fade as he awoke, did give him a sense of uncertainty, as it revolved around his sister Daena.

Or, at least, he thought it was Daena. That was what the woman in his dream had called herself, and he certainly saw the resemblance to her, what with the indigo eyes, that confident smile, and her lustrous silver-gold locks. Yet she wasn't the Daena he knew when he had left, but older, as he had been in the dream as well, well into their teens and possibly early twenties. She'd been a gorgeous woman, one he could scarcely believe to be real, with a body that gave him pause even now. 'Daena' been in the process of pulling off their clothes when he'd awoken…

The thought of the action made him blush. He loved his sister, but didn't think of her like that, even if his older brother had said it would be a natural feeling for a Targaryen. Whether it was or not, it mattered little to the prince, as while he'd read of the forbidden nature of such acts in his Seven-Pointed Star, he was just the latest in a long line of such couplings that the Faith had made little issue of since Maegor's time. Perhaps it was not so bad, for the last 'pure' Targaryen had been his great-grandsire King Viserys I, and even then, he was not sure if that was the case, as the Conciliator's mother was technically a Velaryon, as was the Conqueror's mother…

His headache dismissing such errant thoughts, he lifted the covers, and upon moving around, he felt an odd sensation down below. Pulling back the sheets further, he found himself… sticky. What was this? Had he pissed the bed? Sniffing, he detected no such foul odor, but a different one, a musky one at that. What had happened? Girls were known to experience their moonblood and ruin sheets, but he'd heard nothing of boys doing the same. It didn't look like blood, and certainly was not urine, he hadn't wet the bed in years…

He would need to find answers, yet who could he ask? This was more personal than he wanted to admit, and a part of him feared the response of others upon learning of his… condition. Would he be ridiculed or falsely consoled, to keep his mind from something that could be a major problem? Was it some sort of disease he had unknowingly caught whilst completing his project for Lord Baratheon? Who could he go to about this, discreetly, that he trusted?

Lord Wytch, of course! His friend was discreet and would never judge him for such an ailment. As it was still morning, there as a good chance he would be down in the main hall soon. Leaving his bed and dressing himself for the day, he found Ser Thorne ready, seemingly unaffected by the night before. That, or he did a better job of hiding it than a young prince.

"Good morning, my prince. Did you sleep well?" he asked as they left for the main hall.

"Not so much, Ser Thorne. I've decided there is to be no more cider before bed, especially as much as I had last night." Between needing to use the chamber pot and his strange dreams, he'd swear off cider altogether for a suppertime drink.

"Well, that was your first bout with any drink stronger than a child's beer, and you did drink quite a bit. Does your head hurt?"

"A little, but I can manage. Will Casper and his wife be there to break their fast with us?"

"I'm not sure, my prince, but we shall see. It can be considered poor form for the host to not arrive the morning after his wedding, but it is often seen as good luck that he does not so readily leave his marriage bed. A strange contradiction, no doubt, one that I will never have to experience myself."

"Ser Thorne, if you don't mind me asking, how do you handle a headache such a this? It is not terrible, as I feel it would have been had I imbibed a stronger drink, but there must be a way to be rid of it." He didn't want to spend the entire morning with such an ache between his ears.

"Drink plenty of fluids without alcohol in them, my prince, and be sure to eat enough, but not too much. Other than that, it should fade all its own."

To Baelor's immense relief, upon entering the main hall, he saw the new Lord and Lady Wytch seated at the high table, softly discussing something as other guests filed in. The servants were already wheeling out small carts, some of them laden with casks of fresh milk, juice, and herbal teas. Others carried platters of crispy bacon, sausages, sweetbreads and, to his curiosity, pans of yellowish cakes. Upon being seated, he was served a slice.

"An egg cake, my prince," Lord Baratheon said, sitting beside him as everyone began to eat. "I asked one of the maids before you arrived. Eggs are beaten into a bowl, then mixed with herbs, diced ham, chopped vegetables and cheese, and then baked in a pan until ready."

Taking a tentative bite, the prince found it delicious, and finished it just as Lady Wytch began to converse with her new goodmother. Unlike last time, he sought to seize his moment.

"Lord Wytch?" he asked, resisting the urge to tug on the older lord's sleeve as a child would, rather than a prince of three and ten.

"Yes, my prince?" Lord Wytch asked.

"May I ask you something? Something… personal?" he added, lowering his voice after leaning closer.

"I don't see why not." Lord Wytch leaned as well, lending him his ear. "Is something the matter?"

"Last night, I had a strange dream, that of myself when I was older, and a woman who called herself Daena. Daena is my sister, and she looked much like her, only older, and I… I awoke with a weird substance upon my bedsheets after the dream ended. Is it possible that I am having a moonblood?"

Lord Wytch seemed perplexed for a moment. "Boys do not have a moonblood, my prince, not even Targaryens. Was it bloody? Perhaps urine?"

"No, it smelled nothing like that, but I am worried anyway. Is it something I should have the maester investigate? I would not wish to let it be, only for it to turn out to be some foul affliction."

"No, no, I see no reason for that, my prince. It is a perfectly natural thing for a boy your age to be experiencing, as he becomes a man. I know many who didn't have it, yet I know I did a few years ago, and I'm fine yet."

Baelor looked to his friend, confused. "I… I am afraid I don't follow. How can this be natural? I've never heard of anyone else suffering from this malady. Nothing in any of my books mentions such a reaction."

"It is no malady, my prince, nor is it something you should consider yourself as suffering from," his friend replied with a low chuckle. "Others also were unlikely to tell you of this, for they might find it embarrassing. Tell me, in this dream with this older 'Daena', were you excited?"

"Excited how? I was incredibly happy to see her for some reason, especially when she hugged and kissed me, and then she was pulling on our clothes… then I woke up and found my sheets all sticky."

"I see. My prince, as you have heard, girls become women once they begin to have their moonblood. This means that they can start conceiving children, though most lords would wait for them to be a bit older to try, as the maesters say there are great risks for women trying to have children too early in life. Around this age, it is much the same for boys, only for a different reason."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what do you know of making children?"

"That when two adults copulate, a child can be conceived under the right conditions?" At his friend's look of surprise, he added "I read about it somewhere, I think in the Maiden's portion of the Seven-Pointed Star." He'd usually skipped over the more… detailed parts of his book before, but he'd managed to read them now that he was older. It still left him feeling odd, though.

"I see. Well, it could be said this is the boy's equivalent, as his body is getting ready to be able to help a woman conceive. Not many boys younger than you have children, yes?"

"Likely not. So, boys go through this as they change, as girls do, to get ready to have children?"

"Exactly."

"Then why were my sheets sticky?"

"Merely you were so excited in your dream that you, well, 'released' as you would into a woman. My guess is that your body does not yet know how to fully control such urges, especially under the lull of sleep, but I would not worry too much. It will go away once you are older."

Were he not secretly mortified that he had 'released' at a mere dream, Baelor felt greatly relieved at this new information. To think he'd believed he could have some strange disease! Yet it his friend had had the same when he was his age, and seemed fine, then there was nothing to worry about!

"Thank you, Casper, I feel much better now. I was worried for a moment there, as foolish as that sounds."

"Fret not, Baelor. If ever you should need my advice on such matters, let me know. It seems to me most boys do not wish to talk about it, but you will always have my ear, should you have need of another opinion."

His curiosity now sated, and his worries eased, the prince returned to his food, feeling much better.

Much of the early morning was a mirror of the wedding feast, though far more subdued and quieter. Softer music from lyres and flutes floated through the air as everyone ate, drank, and recovered their strength. Many guests gave additional gifts, or were thanked by the newlyweds for the ones they had received. Several lords, such as the young Lord Wysp, had sent representatives instead of arriving himself, and they were given sealed scrolls for their lords, to discuss further deals in the future. His position at the head table gave Baelor an earful of all of this, and although such dealings had grown to be a fascination of his, especially where development was concerned, the fact there were so many was a bit off-putting. Why did Casper not have his own clerks to handle smaller matters? It seemed a bit inefficient.

As the morning feast wound down and the wedding guests departed for their own lands and keeps, Lord Baratheon had deigned they would spend another night before returning to Storm's End. Baelor, with little else to do but practice, as he had run out of books, went back down to the yard with a bow and quiver. A curious thing, he had discovered, was that whilst his eyes and hands remained steady on the target, his mind could often wander to other matters, something that had become more and more frequent these past few months. Yet it didn't distract him much from his tasks or the accuracy of his bow, so he let it be. Now, thoughts of his dream, of this older 'Daena' filled his mind, unbidden, but not unwanted.

Not so long ago, the temptations of the flesh would have been appalling to him, for the mere thought of carnal relations was sinful to him. Now older and hopefully wiser, he saw the need for it, even if the thought remained a tad distasteful. As he now knew the changes to his body were natural, having seen and learned from Casper, then the changes to his mind, of eventually wanting children of his own, would no doubt come to him as he grew older. He was determined to not fight these, for to not accept the nature of the world, what the gods had given man, would be a tireless and eventually ineffective struggle for him to undertake. It would be better for him to exert his time and energy on tasks that would benefit more than just his perceived piety, for as Casper had shown, the blessings of the gods came to those who performed good deeds through action and ruling, not prayer and fasting. Such a man who had come so far from so little clearly was smiled upon by the gods, so to earn their favor, he would have to do the same as his friend.

How he would do that remained a mystery. He was a prince, and thus had access to wealth most other sons of lords would not, but would anyone listen to him on the matter? Or would they take advantage of his wishes, and seek to enrich themselves with prestige or gold at his expense? He'd seen the lackeys in court, moving between whichever groups they could best use for their own ends. He didn't want that, but he would be forced to be a part of it as a Targaryen, regardless of whatever projects he might be able to convince his family the necessity of. At least Daeron would likely listen to him on the matter, as he could be an encouraging brother when times were hard. He'd gotten Baelor's book back from Aegon's cruel hiding place after all, and he loved more for it.

Yet as a prince, and Daeron's possible heir should the worst come to pass, or his brother's future wife bore no sons, the throne could also fall to him. The thought of suddenly becoming king terrified Baelor more than the prospect of sex ever could, for how could he assume such responsibility? Six kingdoms would fall under his rule, as would the teeming masses that called them home. Kings were expected to be great warriors, philosophers, stewards or at the very least charismatic or strong. Even with his growth these past two years, in both mind and body, he was no natural charmer like his brother, nor a serious politicker like his uncle, or even a fighter like his grandfather Daemon. He was Baelor the 'Blessed', the Pious Prince, and what did he have to offer that would be a boon to his family, rather than a problem? He still recalled the looks and whispers his family had when he was around, or when they thought he wasn't paying attention. Would they even recognize him upon his return? Or would they assume this was just him acting out, as Daena had done whenever she didn't get what she wanted?

Speaking of Daena, why had the woman in his dream called herself that? He had no inkling of who his future bride would be, but if it was to be Daena, then… why? Surely marrying her to Daeron would be a better way of keeping the power within the family, whilst also allowing for a greater degree of alliance with the rest of the kingdoms? Yet there had been no mention in any of his letters from his cousins, nor in the talks he remembered back at the Red Keep, of anything detailing future marriages. Daeron would be married first, surely, and then he would, but to whom?

Emptying his quiver, he surveyed his work. Every arrow, save for the first, lay stuck in the direct center of the target, with the initial being slightly off, as he had failed to account for the wind shifting to a southeasterly direction. Nodding in satisfaction, he motioned for one of the yard servants, who quickly retrieved them for him. With a smile of thanks, he continued his practice, his thoughts once again drifting to other matters. Only this time, rather than his dream, it drifted to his work in the lands right outside of Storm's End.

The completion of his project neared, to where he was certain the land would be producing its first crop of radishes come a few moons from now. Lord Baratheon had allotted him a small sum to hire merchants to scout across the Narrow Sea for such a crop moons ago, which he had through chance found in the possession of some Ibbenese whalers in Braavos. It was a crop they grew in great abundance, given the cold of their island home, and his men had managed to secure enough seeds to sow a field. The care for the crop, the whalers had told his men, was like onions and other such root vegetables. He was grateful they did not need anything else to tend to them, for his men hadn't have the time or funds to learn all about radish farming.

He'd still yet to find anything called 'kale', so for now, he paid it no mind. As for the rest of his project, he'd received the right to settle a group of smallfolk into the buildings that had been used for the workers, some of whom had elected to stay and tend to the land. He had originally thought to settle them with poorer smallfolk from Kings Landing, but his foster father had dissuaded him. Moving smallfolk who didn't know the land to an area on the cusp of winter would be disastrous, and that filling it with Stormlander stock would be wiser for now. Perhaps once it was more settled and thus able to support a wider variety of skills, he had reasoned, to which Lord Baratheon had agreed, but for now, they had allotted just enough smallfolk interested in settling to fill the houses and leave no fields or paddocks unattended.

A curious thing was the smallfolk's reaction to his oversight of the project. By now, his 'Blessed' moniker had spread from Lowhill and Wytch lands, and the smallfolk near Storm's End had been all too eager to ask for the same blessings he had 'bestowed' upon people elsewhere. He'd blessed several marriages, more than one nameday, and even had said a few words at the funeral of an old woodswitch who had apparently been born during the early reign of the Conciliator himself. Yet the most striking thing was what the smallfolk were beginning to call the settlement he had inadvertently made simply to house his workers: Prince's Point, so named for the large jutting rock that served as part of the hill overlooking the farm fields. It was here that Baelor had had the manorly house and a watchtower built, with the remainder of the buildings trailing along or slowly down the gentle slope of the hill's far side. Should he be given other such projects, would the smallfolk likewise begin naming them for him? A small part of him liked that idea, of leaving behind a legacy that would long outlast him. Yet, even as he thought of that, some other part of him thought it was a bit too… self-glorifying, of looking to leave a legacy for one's own sake. Not long after befriending Casper, he had become determined to mimic his friend, so that any legacy he would leave would be for the smallfolk and lords alike, not for his own sense of self.

Even with that in mind, the fact that his project was finally ending gave him a sense of accomplishment he'd frankly rarely had. Only his improving skill with the bow and axe in the training yard were comparable. Baelor loved this feeling, a deep satisfaction of a task completed successfully, and despite the weary nature of it, he looked forward to his next trial. What would Lord Baratheon have him be a part of this time?

As he emptied his quiver once more, he turned to see Lord Wytch approaching him, a look on his face that immediately told him something was not right.

"Yes, Casper? What is it? Is everything all right?" A lump was forming in his stomach that he could not explain.

His friend seemed to be in a state of shock. "My prince, we've received word from Storm's End. A raven was sent shortly after our arrival last night, and it came just this morning. Lord Baratheon is keeping the news from the remaining guests, but all will know soon enough, for surely the ravens have flown from the Red Keep to elsewhere."

"What has happened?" Unbidden, Baelor gingerly pulled Casper into a hug, anguish beginning to arise in the lump in his belly. No, no, something was wrong…

"Your father, the king… he is dead. It was his consumption, by all accounts, and he passed away last night in his sleep. I am sorry, my prince."