Chapter 44: The Young Dragon II

Mid 157 AC

Daeron liked the white roads through the Stormlands, the first of which were just about halfway to Storm's End, and their abandoned construction camps indicated the sheer amount of smallfolk that had been working on it before winter's untimely arrival. The roads held up under all manner of traffic, be it by foot, hoof, or cart, and despite the storms they had avoided weeks prior, they remained in fine condition, save for whatever debris had fallen onto them. The men certainly enjoyed marching upon them rather than slogging through damp grass and muddy trails, even amongst the occasional thin patch of ice.

Lowhill had been a pleasant town to visit, but he was at war, and had deigned only to pass through it, rather than spend some time in its walls or in the halls of Stormhall. Perhaps on his return journey, once the Dornish had been brought to heel, would he grace that young house with his presence. Yet even after they had departed those plentiful lands, and were out in more open country, these white roads seemed to continue endlessly towards the horizon. What was not endless was his patience, and while he had overheard a great deal from lords, knights and even smallfolk, he had not yet learned as much as he wished of these lands. After all, his little brother had spent a good few years here now, and had grown in ways he'd have never expected. The scouts reported that the banners of Lord Baratheon were within the ruined town, so a reunion was well and truly overdue.

By his side this late afternoon, now only a few hills from Flavor Hollow and with a small escort of mixed Marcher and Wytch men, rode one of the Stormlords that had joined Daeron's own army. He was well versed on most major houses, but the sigil eluded him for now. A Wylde, perhaps? Or was he a Connington?

"My good man, these fine roads, do they have a name?"

"I'm not certain, my king, as the smallfolk call them the road to wherever it leads, 'the road to Lowhill' or 'the road to Highmarsh', but the merchants tend to just call them the Wytchroads."

"After Lord Wytch and his house, yes?" Daeron asked, glancing to the three other lords riding beside him, likely trying to listen in on his conversation. He always made sure to rotate whoever rode by his side that was not his Kingsguard, lest the gathered lords grow jealous of others spending time with the king. No slights were intended, of course, this was not some foppish parade, but some men just took anything they could the wrong way.

"Aye my king, good for trade and moving men around. Most crops from Dorne, before the war, tended to be close to spoiling by the time they reached this far inland when moving by cart. Now? More times than not, they're still fresh."

"I should write to Uncle Viserys of these roads. They would make for a wonderful means of replacing many of the lesser roads throughout the kingdoms." Giving his kingly smile, Daeron added, "I should also like to speak with Lord Wytch on the matter once we have encamped in the remains of Flavor Hollow." It was past midday, and he knew the men were tired. A good king knew when to push his men, and when to let them rest, and his rump was sore from the saddle anyways.

"That queer lordling is likely up to his chest in rebuilding the town, a task fit for smallfolk, not lords," one of the courtiers replied, one of the few whose skill in battle was as great as his politicking in the Red Keep. "Unfit for meeting a king in his state, no doubt."

"Whether someone is fit to meet with me is a decision only I may make," Daeron said without heat. Simple words of admonishment needed no real bite to them when the lord in question was depending upon his king's goodwill to gain for his family. After all, having ridden with a king is likely to be more prestigious than having simply gone to war with one. A good chance for marriage prospects, after all, was what every lord feared and desired in equal measure for their sons and daughters, such as Baelor, whose own betrothal would come at the end of the war, or so he had planned. Daeron did not anticipate it taking very long at this rate, what with the speed at which the Dornish army had been put to the sword. Despite the damage they had so wantonly caused, it mattered little in the end. With the death of this Dornish army at the hands of only a fraction of the Stormland's might, the way into the Boneway and eastern Dorne lay open to the rest of Westeros. News from the other routes of invasion indicated great progress on those fronts, even if the Reachmen were taking their sweet time, and the Northmen contingent was just now arriving in the Riverlands, led by Cregan's heir himself.

"I concur with my fellow Reachman, my lord," another said. This one he did recognize, a Fossoway. "A lord should leave such minutiae to his lesser and focus on ruling rather than rebuilding."

"A lord's duties can vary as greatly as the lords themselves," the Stormlord replied. "One would be hard pressed to find a Stormlord, especially a Marcher lord, who gives a single shit about how he rules his lands. Those that don't engage with him usually tend to just ignore him, and any that do business with young Casper seem to not mind his… eccentricities. My father certainly doesn't care, he loves Wytch whiskey too much."

"Ah yes, the Marcher lords," Daeron said. "Why them specifically? The Red Keep tends to not receive much news from that part of the Stormlands unless trouble is afoot." Even with the knowledge he was inexperienced in many matters, Daeron prided himself on being observant when needed. Learning the secrets of the Red Keep had not been a priority, but he had been drawn to listening in on conversations between lords, ladies, smallfolk, and whatever foreigners had graced the halls of his ancestors.

"They've been tying themselves to House Wytch ever since those plows and drills started being sold. More food makes it easier to support men near the border, and even then, young Casper sells most of his excess crops to either Marcher lords or his neighbors. My father knows a few merchants that trade in these lands, and House Wytch tends to exchange goods they can't make for their cattle and sheep. I even think a sister of his is betrothed to one of Lord Selmy's sons."

"A shame that such a storied house would tie itself so thoroughly to a queer newcomer, who only a generation removed was a bastard of no renown," the Fossoway scoffed.

"I wouldn't say that to the men, Fossoway," the Stormlord replied with a scowl. "Thanks to his ideas and those newfangled machines, we've had more grain this summer and autumn since the Conciliator himself. I should know, father couldn't believe it either, and I checked with the maester's records from those years."

"Bah, a lucky idea, nothing an older house couldn't have done if they had half a mind to do so," the Fossoway said. That men like this were with his army and not the Tyrell horde could have been simply due to their proximity to the Crownlands and Stormlands. Daeron knew better, though, as even with that proximity, aiding their lord paramount should have been their first decision. No, they were likely getting a measure of him, as one of the more powerful kingdoms under his new rule. Time to see what this young dragon had for them, and how it could benefit them, no doubt.

They weren't doing well in earning his goodwill with talk like that.

One Reachmen shook his head as they crested the next hill. "I'm not so sure about that, my good ser. While my merchants don't like that they can't sell grain in the Marches anymore, there's always somewhere else looking to buy. Besides, we've a Wytchroad running to our lands, and we've more than enough honey, wine, and poppies to sell instead. These lands aren't meant for growing as ours do, let alone my father's good vintage, but House Wytch still buys it as fast as we can bring it around, and at a good price."

"Your house, good ser?" Daeron asked, curious why this Reachman was defending a Stormlord against one of his own. Again, the sigils were not the best, and with everything he had to do, remembering these differing houses was beginning to grow more annoying. Perhaps it was just his exhaustion from all the riding.

"Dickon Meadows, my king, from Grassy Vale. My cousin Samwell is an Ashford and they just finished their own Wytchroad before autumn's end, paid in full as well. Won't hear ill words from them unless they can't take their goods to market this far south. Soft merchants might stop coming this way, these lands being so close to the border and all."

"I still find it suspicious," one of the other Reachmen added, "that such a young house is capable of everything it has done, or has been rumored to have accomplished. If even half the tales I've heard are true, one would think this upstart had an entire cabal of maesters in his keep, working night and day on whatever flights of fancy crossed his mind."

"Even if he does, what use is it to speculate why he is doing what he is doing?" the Stormlord said. "Unless he is breaking laws of men or gods, gossiping on his methods is as useful as when old women do it. He has defended his lands and family, built a great sept for the Seven in a land with no such sites of worship, and has answered every call issued to him, by Lord Baratheon or King Daeron. That he also shares such creations and hard-earned knowledge with us should be seen as a gift from the Seven, especially the aspect of the Smith."

"A gift to his betters," Fossoway countered, "should be given with no need for recompense of any kind. Goodwill goes farther than coin counting methods involving contracts and fees."

"Yet the rise of House Wytch is not a certainty, just as the lasting nature of any house, great or small, is not certain," the Meadows knight said. "All kingdoms have tales of houses great and small rising or falling into ruin. Even House Baratheon came perilously close to extinction during the waning days of the Dance. I shudder to think of how far the Dornish might have reached were it not for the supplies the young lord managed to build up before the war, and were it not for these roads, who knows how much longer our trek to these lands might have taken to counter their aggression?"

Few needed to be reminded of the last time a Dornishman had penetrated so far into the rest of the kingdoms. Houses Cafferen and Oakheart, the latter of which Daeron's 'Green Oak' was a part of, had never forgotten nor forgiven the Dornish for what Wyl of Wyl had done. That blood feud would likely last until one or all houses were extinguished.

"Regardless, I should like to meet him," Daeron said, somewhat irked by the Fossoway's attitude. Any house so young that had risen so fast and far would, indeed, need to be watched for signs of trouble, but also for signs of potential. If his brother's letters were any indicator, Casper could be a great boon to the Stormlands and the Targaryens in equal measure. After all, was not nearly every great house in the Reach offshoots of the extinct Gardeners? Might House Wytch, through its legitimization, prove to be a similar case for the Stormlands? "Olyvar, your thoughts?"

"According to the scouts, he has been overseeing the rebuilding of the town and tending to the wounded from the battle," Olyvar said by his side, resplendent in his white cloak. How Daeron wished they could have been present at the battle, killing despicable Dornish and earning glory. How long ago had the battle occurred? Three weeks? Four now? "Shall I have him fetched for you?"

"Indeed, but only after I settle in and have met with my brother. A good week's rest will certainly be a boon for the morale of the men, and it will give us time to establish our court for a few days at least."

With a quick word to a runner, one of their scouts swiftly departed, and only a short time later, King Daeron crested the hill and ventured down into the remnants of a thriving town. He truly felt like a conqueror as he and his army marched into Flavor Hollow, much of it either remaining in pieces or being slowly rebuilt by soldiers and smallfolk alike. Even amidst these charred ruins that one could mistake for piles of useless debris, this was the site of the first great victory that would be among the many in the days to come. More and more noticed him amidst blasts of horns and criers running throughout the area, with scores of soldiers and camp followers alike moved among the fallen and gutted homes, cheering his name at the mere sight of their king.

"King Daeron!"

"King Daeron!"

"King Daeron!"

He basked in the attention and praise, like the dragons of his forefathers stretching themselves under the light of a summer sun. It seeped into his very soul, fortifying his will to bring about the control of the continent under the Targaryen banner, and to see his rule be an unchallenged one. After Dorne fell in line, more lands and people would come under the sway of the dragon, be they Vale clansmen, the untamed North and its heathen barbarians, or the strategic isles of the Stepstones and the wretches that dwelt there. Let distant lands whisper of a young king, of one untested in battle or ruling; they would see the might of a dream made flesh, a dragon in the form of a man, and know that he would conquer as he saw fit.

At the center of the town, before a cluster of manors who somehow remained intact these past weeks, he was met by the sight of his vassal and brother, side by side, awaiting his arrival. Dismounting with a grace he knew others envied, he graced them with a kingly smile as they knelt before him.

"My king," Royce Baratheon said, Baelor silent by his side. "Flavor Hollow is yours."

"As too Dorne shall be," was his reply, warmth filling his throat. "Rise, my lord, and brother."

His brother produced a small platter of bread and salt. Curious… why did a servant not bring it instead? No matter, he accepted it and took a bite from bread fresh from the oven, with the hint of garlic setting his tongue alike with flavorful pleasure. A flourished pinch of salt, and the tradition was complete.

He moved to embrace Baelor, who returned the hug with a lesser enthusiasm. Strange, for upon Baelor's return to Kings Landing for his coronation, his baby brother had nearly squeezed him in twain. Now, though the affection was there, and a smile upon his tanned face, there was something… off in his brother's eyes. Though he dismissed it as soon as it formed, it was similar what Daeron had seen in their father's eyes when the Dance was mentioned. Surely his brother had not seen such atrocities as their father, he had been kept far from any battle thus far, and any dragon should only relish the feeling of defeating an enemy with fire.

"It is good to see you, brother," he said.

"You as well, my king," Baelor replied.

"Come now, we're brothers, no need for that unless I'm holding court. Speaking of which, Baelor, where are our lodgings?"

"In the largest standing manor… Daeron," was his gentle reply.

"The dining halls have been readied to serve as your court as well, my king," Lord Baratheon added. "It is good that you have arrived as you did, we've received runners from the Marches an hour before your arrival."

"Any news?"

"Nay, the letters are for the king's perusal alone, and the wax remains unbroken on them all. The attendants will see to your needs, my king, for supper will be upon us soon."

"Excellent, I was looking forward to a hot meal after a long jaunt from Lowhill. Speaking of which, Baelor, is your friend Lord Wytch here? I would like to meet him, after only hearing of him through rumors and your letters."

Baelor's gaze turned somewhat sad. "He is unwell enough to leave his accommodations, Daeron. The battle against the Dornish took a great deal out of him, and the maesters believe he may have been poisoned before or during the fighting."

"Will he survive?"

"The maesters believe he is past the worst of it, but only time will tell if the gods are merciful. He is bedbound and often asleep from the dreamwine and other medicines. Save for his caretakers, nobody has been able to speak with him, not even myself, and I doubt we can afford to wait for a waking period with your ongoing war."

Daeron sighed. So much for that plan, but the man yet lived at least. Meeting the young lord once he was hale again would only reinforce the notion that Daeron was a just king who would rule fairly and justly. No king should make demands of a man unable to rise from his bed, after all. Besides, showing his kingly virtue would help in reminding this rising Stormlord that despite what few things he had accomplished, and the friend he had made in a Targaryen prince, there were plenty his better, both in prestige and breeding. It would do well for the ambitions of such a young house to be tempered, after all. "Very well, I will consider it, Baelor. Let us go rest before supper, my saddle has left me rather sore."

Baelor was a silver shadow as they moved through the darkened masses of tents, the sounds of merry feasting, drinking and revelry fading away into a dull noise all around them. Green tents for whores, clean ones if the markings were to be true, centered around a large barn, to which plenty of men came with coin in hand and likely departed with a smile on their faces. Lean-tos of scavenged debris made for impromptu smithies, deflecting any bitter breeze that occasionally wafted over the crippled town. The feast within the manor had been great, much better than most of the food they had procured during the long march between keeps. The men certainly liked the whiskey stored in the larders beneath, much of which had been 'appropriated' for the army's future use as it marched into Dorne. Not that there were any remaining smallfolk who would have the need to be recompensed for their generous donation to the war. Most had fled east, likely never to return, and given the state of Lowhill and the surrounding villages Daeron had seen, if only briefly, it was unlikely they would lack for work upon arrival there.

Still, there was a problem with Baelor, and while Daeron did not like to admit he was worried, here he was, silently fretting over his brother like their mother had when he was a babe.

The feast had been great, as had been the stories told by the assembled lords. Reminiscing of the waylaying of the Dornish bandits years before, and the costly victory against a second group not long after, claiming a Stormlord (what was it again, Wysp?) and many a fine knight and men at arms. The development of these lands through trade and fellowship, and how quickly they had come together upon the news of a Dornish army entering the Marches. Of the sorrowful and anger-inducing stories of Dornish deceit and their malevolent destruction of both smallfolk and their villages, and of the pyrrhic victory that saw their forces divide between fleeing and continuing their destructive path.

The harrowing escape from an unexpected ambush, as told by the young Lord Wysp, and the desperate defense-turned-counterattack amidst a violent winter storm. Of men victorious and slain, of methods too brutal and inhumane to contemplate, of Dornish falling into battle frenzy so potent it drove away their own allies, and of the fury of the gods siding with the faithful Stormlords, casting a whirlwind upon the fleeing Dornish and wiping them from the face of Westeros. How the earlier Dornish survivors had taken refuge against Lord Baratheon's pursuing host, and the vengeance Baelor visited upon them amidst a mighty western gale. Of how none were found alive, with only swords or certain pendants among them identifying lords or their sons. The most notable corpses that weren't charred to complete ruin were a father holding his son, their bodies embracing even as they were scorched into blackened mess.

Baelor had been noticeably silent during that tale amidst cries of his new title.

Baelor Fyrestorm.

A twinge of envy burned in his heart at the thought of Baelor's newfound fame, until he had seen his brother wince every time the name was called. He refused to speak of it to anyone, even Lord Baratheon, and perhaps that was for the best. Not since their traitorous (half) great uncle Aemond the Kinslayer had a Targaryen so thoroughly burned such a large group of his foes, and that was with a dragon. Keeping his distance from such a man, long dead yet alive in memory, would be a good idea for soothing any disturbed Riverlanders once they heard the news.

However, that ember of envy remained, even if reduced, and Daeron did not like that either. His brother was finally coming into his own, becoming a dragon as Daeron himself was, but Baelor was moving quicker than he had anticipated. This war was his to declare, his to wage, and his to win, with all the glory and power through it a testament to his greatness as the youngest king in generations. Baelor would only add to it, but if his achievements outstripped Daeron's own, then sending him away from the battlefront would be Daeron's only option to head off potential… problems among the kingdoms. Even if the memory of the Dance might temper most lords into supporting another younger sibling over the elder, it was a scenario he did not wish to consider. Still the Stormlanders, lords and smallfolk alike, seemed to hold Baelor in high regard. He needed that to ensure these lands were secure for the movement of additional men and supplies once they entered through the Boneway and sending his brother away too soon might put that jeopardy.

As they passed a large standing barn, the roof freshly repaired with scavenged planks, Daeron noticed Wytch banners gently swaying around it. So, this was the 'field hospital' he had heard so much about from Baelor. A curious thing, to have both a building and men dedicated entirely to the arts of healing in an army that held few maesters. At an old wooden gate, a group of armed men stood guard, and even Daeron could see that while they carried themselves with an almost professional air, they did not appear to be knights.

"My prince, my king," the lead one said, kneeling before them, the others following suit.

"My brother the king and I wish to know of Lord Wytch, Captain Farlin," Baelor said, surprising Daeron. He knew this man's name? "Is he yet asleep?"

"He awoke a short time ago, my prince. He was able to sit up in bed, which is an improvement, but not by much," the captain replied as they rose to their feet.

"I would wish to speak with him," King Daeron said in his kingly manner that brooked no argument.

"Certainly, my king," the captain replied, before turning to three others by his side. "Berric, Arin, Edric, keep on patrol, I'll join you later for first watch."

"Aye, captain, until later," the one called Arin said, and with mirrored nods from the others, the trio departed. Without a word, Daeron followed the captain through the encampment, noticing a distinct quality that separated it from the others. While no real encampment was always a chaotic mess, this one was well-built, organized, and fortified with whatever scrap could be found. Whatever buildings that were salvageable were hosting men, horses or supplies under their roofs, and anything that couldn't had been torn down for some other use. Hells, even the smell of the distant latrines was faint, fainter than any he'd had the misfortune of smelling. Either the men of this part of the Stormlands took cleanliness very seriously, or the latrines just smelled horrible, and none wished them closer than they needed to be.

"That Arin fellow, he looked Dornish," Olyvar said to his king, the other Kingsguard and sworn shields grumbling in agreement. "Sounded a bit like one too."

"Aye, he is, Kingsguard," Captain Farlin replied as they entered the barn. "I can vouch for him, he's a good man, not at all like the Dornish we killed."

"Yet he is still a Dornishman, here amongst Stormlanders. Is that not an issue?" Daeron asked.

"No, my king, not anymore. It was during the raid years ago, and to a lesser amount on the march here, but he earned his keep in battle twice over. Not a man among us doubts his loyalty, after what Lord Wytch did for him and his kin."

Inside the warm and surprisingly clean barn, several men were laying upon hay-stuffed beds, being tended to by men and women wearing white linens. All wore the sigil of House Wytch, cleanly stitched upon their shoulders, and if they were not tending to dressings or feeding the injured, they were cleaning tools, organizing supplies, or taking notes with a pair of scribes. A curious thing, Daeron noted. Were these the 'medics' that Lord Baratheon had written of? They seemed almost maesterly in their skills, and he saw men with in bandages with wounds that, according to his older vassals, usually were fatal.

At the far end of the barn lay the largest bed, in which a man was propped upright, looking over a small pile of what was likely reports. As they approached, he drew his gaze away from his parchment and, with a weak smile, handed off his work to a waiting scribe.

"My prince, my king," Casper said with a slight bow as they arrived at his bedside. With merely a look, Daeron quietly dismissed the other Kingsguard and sworn shields to stand guard, save for Olyvar. Even Baelor took a few steps back, giving them some privacy. "Forgive me for not kneeling, but I fear I couldn't stand again after."

"Lord Wytch, I presume?" Daeron asked. The man before him had seen better days, colored with a milky pallor and loose skin where more muscle had been. With tired eyes, thick stubble, and a certain weakness that shadowed his every movement, Daeron knew this man had been through hell. Yet despite his bedridden state, and that he seemed to sleep more than not, here he was, working and trying to speak with guests. That spoke of a strength beyond mere muscle, and Daeron was glad that Baelor had met someone like this. It would serve him well as a future example of what a great man could do, no matter their origin.

"The one and only, my king," the young lord said. A touch cheeky, but polite, and Daeron enjoyed those who did not take themselves too seriously when out of a formal setting. If in court, however, this behavior would require admonishment. While he and Baelor were friends, Daeron was not his friend, but his king. "How may I serve you?"

"I wished to meet the lord my princely brother has written so often to, and likewise spoken of with such favor. I did not anticipate meeting in wartime, but here we are."

"You flatter me, my king. I am honored to still be considered a friend of the prince, even with our time apart and the growth we have had since."

Daeron glanced at his brother, whose small smile did not yet reach his eyes. In time, perhaps, but not now. He would have to talk with him about that, in private. "Given how often Baelor has spoken of you, and written you letters, it would be easy to consider you a close confidant of House Targaryen by proxy," he replied. "Tell me, Lord Wytch, do other lords come to you in friendship, or as a means of gaining access to a brother of the king?"

"Not so much the latter, especially once they learn of my grandfather's origins, or how our house rose," the lord replied. "Even with my friendship, few out of certain circles know it to be true, even here in the Stormlands. Most just assume Baelor likes me because of the food served to him during his time in Stormhall."

Daeron chuckled. "Well, you have my thanks for feeding him well, our mother was worried he'd remain a reed the rest of his life."

"It is good to hear the dowager queen cares for the health of her children. I have… heard stories of other queens, before the coming of the Conqueror, that held little such love for their sons and daughters."

"It is the way of things, I suppose. Some are born to love others, and some come to love only themselves. Still, my question stands. Of those who know, have you been approached, friendly or otherwise, regarding my family and House Targaryen?"

"I'm afraid I'm not entirely well-versed in the more subtle politicking, my king," Casper said, scratching his chin in thought. "Most come to me for trade or an agreement for building roads. It might be due to my lands being small, for while I'm primarily known in the Stormlands, and the borders of the Reach and Crownlands, I doubt most other lords even know of my house. Even if they did, as I said, most are interested in my roads, my liquor, or the beef cattle I've been growing these past few years."

"What of the North?" Daeron asked. "Baelor has told me they ventured to Stormhall to speak with you on matters he discussed with them. Such talks must be great, for I doubt any Northman has ever been as far south as Stormhall since the days of Brandon the Builder himself."

"My discussions with Lord Stark and his select bannermen were primarily on the matters of growing food, an ever-present concern for the men of the North. If your maester never taught you of the matter, there is no ill will to be had, but many isolated villages face starvation if even one local field fails from a storm, drought, or blight. I sought to correct this all-too-common threat in my poorer lands by making more food in the same amount of space, and in that regard, I have succeeded. The Northmen simply wished to learn of my secrets, as they are perhaps the poorest lands under your reign."

"Any good king learns what is needed of his people, but a wise king has learned men to advise him instead. These talks, did they include the plows and 'drills' the smallfolk around Kings Landing have begun to acquire?" The farms in the lands directly under his oversight were beginning to grow more food than before. Was this man the source of that?

"Aye, my prince, and rotating fields in fourths, rather than thirds. It all comes together to grow more food for man and beast alike. My maester has been of tremendous help in this regard, and we've records showing the needs of my smallfolk back in Stormhall. I take pride in the efficiency of my lands, and for that, the Seven have blessed me with bountiful harvests and content smallfolk with coin to spend."

Interesting. Casper seemed smarter than most Stormlords, perhaps even more than most of his direct vassals. A good lord knew not only how to rule, but when to rule as well. Daeron made a note he would have to keep an eye on this lord once the war was won. Perhaps his uncle was right about the man influencing his brother, but as to what end, he couldn't say. "As for Baelor's proposal for the Kingswood? Did you have a hand in that as well?"

"Perhaps as a source of inspiration, given how much of my lands and methods he has seen, but other than that, it was entirely your brother's idea. I had no other hand in the matter." Casper paused for a moment. "Has he brought it up with you again? With a few adjustments, given the time that has passed, it does seem like a good idea."

Daeron glanced back at Baelor, whose silence was beginning to annoy him. "No," he said slowly, purposefully looking back to Lord Wytch with kingly authority. "He has not. Should he?"

"Only if he wishes to, but that is for him to decide." That easy smile did little to dissuade his growing worry, but it did relax his darker theories, if only a little. Plenty of men greater and lesser than he had fallen prey to smiles before the daggers had come out. Just another thing he would have to guard himself against.

Daeron huffed softly. Casper seemed caring and diligent, but also gave him a sense of naivety and cunning, a strange combination for a Stormlord. How much had his fortunes grown from unseen actions and plans, or instead from the wills of the gods? It was hard to say, for the man was a mystery, but then again, he might have been overestimating this petty lord. His father and grandfather had been smallfolk, after all, so perhaps his failings were simply from his poorly bred heritage. "I see. It was good to meet you, Lord Wytch, but the night is growing, and my brother and I must be on our way."

"Good night, my king," Casper replied. "Should you have further need of me, I will likely still be here before you set out for the border."

"Will you be marching with the army when we depart?" Baelor asked, suddenly breaking his silence. Dare Daeron believe it, but did his brother's expression seem… hopeful?

"Eventually, my prince, but for now, I must regain my strength. The poison of the Dornish was something the medics and maesters had never seen before, but the worst of it is likely behind me. Once I am well enough to travel, I think I shall return home, to further recuperate, before I join you in Dorne."

"Oh," Baelor said, sounding a bit sad.

"Don't worry, Baelor," Daeron said, turning his brother to leave. "I am sure Lord Wytch will find other tasks to aid in the war. Now come, we've much to discuss elsewhere."

"I'll come back tomorrow, Casper, there are matters I'd like to discuss," Baelor said as they left. Daeron didn't miss his brother's small wave to Lord Wytch as they departed the barn. Clearly, this friendship of theirs was greater than he had realized. Before becoming king, Daeron knew that any friend Baelor could make would be of an asset to their house. Now, he wasn't so sure of that. It was one thing for the second prince to have a low lord as a friend. It was another for the king's heir to cavort with lordlings of such little power or prestige, even if they had been growing in importance these past years. The possible whispers in court, gossip among the lords of the kingdoms, even yet-unformed comparisons to his great grandfather's friendship with a Hightower second son, and the trouble it later caused for so many…

This would not do. He would need to ensure whatever friendship they had would not threaten his reign as King Daeron, First of His Name. Perhaps it would be best for Lord Wytch to remain in Stormhall for the duration of the war and involve himself only in ensuring provisions and supplies moved swiftly through his lands. That, and repairing what damage the Dornish had done would surely keep his involvement to a somewhat important, if minimal in scope, level.

He seemed smart and competent enough to handle that, at least. It could be worse.

???? III

(A/N: if you don't like magic related stuff, you can ignore this segment.)

Once again, sleep claimed their captive audience, who stood before them as he had so many times before, atop the deck of a ship beached upon a great sandbar. Only on the distant horizon did waves appear, swirling around the stranded vessel as sharks around a tired whale. It was a reminder of the precarious nature of his position, but also that for the time being, he was safe here.

"I'm getting real tired of this bullshit," their guest replied, waving a hand in the air. Though a great shock the first time he did it, but now merely annoying to their collective minds, a large folding chair appeared, as did a cup and jug of finest glass atop a small table, the latter filled with an unknowable drink and chilling in a bucket of clean ice.

"Why do you do that?" he/she/they asked, from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"I've been lucid dreaming for years. It's not that hard to imagine what you want during a dream when you're in control," the skin-wearer replied, pouring himself a drink. "This?" he added, gesturing to the space around him. "This is just like that, but I know it's not, isn't it? I should just be a tagalong, an observer, not a part of it."

"Indeed, this is a place not just of dreams, yet you interfere with it, just as you do the waking world," was their response.

"Meh, almost dying amidst terrible pain and crazy dreams really puts the true importance of many things into perspective," he said, taking a long swig. The sigh of pleasure generated a great deal of envy from their collective minds. They could not enjoy such mortal pleasures, not even here. "Besides, I awoke in a different world. I think making a pitcher of chocolate milk appear is the least I could do for myself."

"Chocolate? What is that?" one of their multitude asked.

"Something from my world," was his mysterious reply as he took another sip. "A foodstuff prized for its unique flavors and properties."

"Yes, your world, where you would put this crop in milk of all things," several muttered, bitter and scared notes intermingling in their response. "The world where you invaded from."

"I did not come willingly, or knowingly for that matter," the one that had once been Casper Wytch replied with some heat. "I awoke as a man in his early thirties in the body of a boy of seven, in a world as backwards as mine was a thousand year before. I'd have rather awoken back as I began high school in my world. That's when our family first adopted our dog."

The casualness of the creature before them was both perplexing and oft-infuriating. It was supposed to be easy to break the minds of mortals with even the barest of powers. Most were not capable of experiencing that which lay beyond their understanding without fracturing in some manner. The one wearing the skin of Casper Wytch had not broken upon the first subtle contact, nor second, nor even now, long after full and blatant contact had been made.

Or at least, it used to be much easier, before the folly of Valyria.

"Whatever your reasons for arriving, it matters little. You have changed the fates of countless in your actions, both good and ill."

"I kinda guessed that when I set out to make the lands of House Wytch better for my family and the people who lived there," not-Casper replied. "Sorry if I messed up your plans for that ice zombie shitnado in the future by being a decent human being. Can't say there's too many in your shitty world that I've managed to meet."

"You know of things you should not, of peoples, events and futures that would have yet come to pass, and may not now through your mere existence," other voices said, rising in a dull roar that created a great gust of wind.

The ship rocked beneath his feet, but the not-man merely shrugged. "So? Why does that matter?"

"It does! It doesn't!" voices cried in furious contradiction. Others rose above the noise, their wills more manifest, yet no less weakened to what they had once been. "Whatever your intentions, whatever your designs upon the world, we shall not allow another creature to bring it closer to destruction."

"How the hell am I bringing Westeros to destruction?" the voidtreader shouted back. "I've done nothing but improve the lives of people! I know you've been in my head, but do you have any idea of just how worse things could be, or will be, if I don't do anything?"

"The fate of the world extends to beyond mere Westeros!" he/she/they cried in unison. "Your actions may yet prove to be the doom of magic, just as the abomination that poisoned you may break the scales once and for all!"

The chair, table and 'chocolate' milk disappearing, the man-thing rose to his feet in anger. "Just what the hell does that mean!? Enough with your cryptic bullshit!" he cried, the ship itself shaking under the fury of his voice. "None of us can do anything from this place beyond the barest of dreams. I do what I can, and while it may never be enough, it's more than any of you lot have done for this world!"

"How dare you?!" a pair of voices roared as they forced themselves to the fore.

"I carried you to safety from the corruption that would have claimed your very soul!" the god of House Wytch's ancestors roared, his voice that of wind and spray, wave and foam. "Had I not kept you from the depths, there is no telling what you might have done under its' influence!"

"I cleansed the foul poison from your body!" another voice cried, her beating wings as thunder and wind all around. "A goddess does not give such a gift and boon lightly, not without a reason!"

"So you saved me," Casper-creature said. "Why?"

"For an outsider that knows so much, you know so little," other voices said, seven among one, a whirling ring of seven masks floating above the stern of the stranded vessel.

"Oh great, you're actually real too," was the man's reply. "Is every god in this reality real too?"

"Yes, we all are, by coincidence, creation, or the realization of our nature," the whirling masks replied. "Created by man, I/we were, and by man I/we remain bound to their fates, as they are to our whims."

"Whims are as flighty as smoke on the wind, and fuck us all over more often than not," Casper skin-wearer growled.

"Yet the truth of things reaches deeper into our past than anything you thought you knew of this world," it replied. "The madness of men and their belief in a higher power is both their greatest weakness and mightiest strength. It is what has seen nations fall apart and armies drive off foes well beyond their number. Horrible atrocities have been committed in the name of faiths, and the greatest of deeds and sacrifices for others have been done in the name of those same faiths. Two sides of the same coin, and without one, the other cannot exist, for good or ill. Duality of man is reflected in the duality of his faith, or lack thereof."

"Where do I come into all this then? Why save me if I am such a threat to this 'balance' of the world?"

"Long has madness been the state of the innumerable priests of the world before the Great Pact had been forged. In a world where everything was possible, when the mundane of the time was the impossible of now, there was a great council that divided the realms of magic and the world into their own entities. All three are interconnected to this day, but still tread the path that the Great Pact had created. The purest forms are impossible to interfere with, so only upon the periphery of each do things mingle and make anew. This is where faith comes in."

"How?"

"Faith is something only man, or manlike creatures, can have. What squirrel has faith in the branch it is running upon, that it will not snap under its weight and send it plummeting to the fox? What fish has faith the waters will not choke it? What wolf has faith that something will provide for it the meal it needs to live to the next day? The faiths of man and mannish creatures connect all three realms, bypassing the barrier meant to keep either realm in check of the other. For innate and unseen magic, this serves as the inspiration and source of miracles, of small changes that have unseen impacts further in time than any can foresee. This serves as a counterbalance to the more obvious, physical manifestations of magic, where the world may know and fear that which can do things they fail to understand."

"So, faith connects this all together, for good or ill. What does this have to do with me?"

"Whether you accept it or not, you are a force for the former, for magic of change along a span of years, if not centuries or more. That is the true magic of innate gods, of the sea, of the storms, of winds and fire and all others," the seven masks replied. "It is this realm to which most men and the mannish pray. It is there, but just out of reach, always on the precipice, but leaving most things to their own devices. It is the small things, a prayer that guides a wayward wave away from a foundering ship, that builds upon itself, miniscule in the immediate, but massive as time goes on."

"Yet there are others upon this scale, ones that dwell in the world, as you do," the sea god and his goddess of the winds replied as one. "Ones that are empowered by faith and worship in physical, manifested form. You have done this, or your arrival did this, changing the tapestry of the world to suit your own needs within it."

"How in the hell did I do anything before I woke up? I didn't aid the Conqueror in taking Westeros, or try and prevent the Dance, or even try my hand at magic," Casper Not-Wytch replied.

"It is by your very existence that change has occurred. House Wytch should not have existed. Long have many gods, current and forgotten, seen many futures and pasts. The house you call your own would have died with its founder Kennon, his son toiling away in mines for the rest of his life. Your injection into the world shifted the past itself to meet your needs."

'Or whatever had placed Casper there' was left unsaid. It was a force incomprehensible, and thus not worth the time to enquire upon.

"So, then my father would never have been a lord? Not even a minor one?"

"Due to your interference, Kennon had not died in the march to Kings Landing in a drunken brawl with a hedge knight. He had instead, in death upon a battlefield, earned a fief and a keep for his son and grandchildren, among them you. The climate of the world shifted ever-so-slightly at your intrusion, shifting weather to a greater difference than it had been meant to be. The Conquest of Dorne was meant for summer, not early winter, and the storms that would strike the southernmost coasts would only aid the dragons in their taking of that hot, dry land."

"Well, that explains that. I always thought his conquest 'only lasted a summer' or so."

"Yet as with any disturbance, eventually your ripples of change will cease in their initial radiation, and a new equilibrium will be reached. The future storms and seasons will resume as they once were meant to despite this small upheaval. Many people will come and go, countless among the countless that had already done so, and will continue to do so, until the end of all things."

"Yet there are many more ripples I've made that will not subside so easily," the interloper replied. "Or not at all."

"Indeed. That is why we have decided to attempt an… arrangement."

He narrowed his eyes, and the shadows that always trailed in his wake grew, encompassing the sky behind him as a night so dark, not even stars shone. "I'm listening."

"We are who are," they replied, swirling around him as a collection of unseen colors and impossible shapes. "Among us were those that chose to save you from the essence of the beast, but for this act, there must be recompense."

"Oh great, a deal with gods. What do you want? Eternal service? My knowledge? My firstborn?"

"The latter is a sacrifice only the most desperate or cruel demand, and the middling is one we dare not wish for unless our need is most dire. As for the former… we shall see. Consider our request repayment for the service of the sea god and the goddess of the winds for your protection from the abomination."

"I see. What is this… abomination?" he asked.

"A beast made of magicks most foul and fed lies and flesh until the hate in its black heart had consumed its very essence. It is a creature of the world that should not be, another creation by mortals that if left unchecked, could spell doom for millions more."

"This beast… where is it?"

"Beneath the sands of Dorne."

"Of-fucking-course it is, everything shitty either comes out of the North or from Dorne in Westeros. Or the Iron Islands, but they're always a shithole, so it's not quite comparable, I guess. This does explain why I had dreams of deserts I had never been to, however," it-he said. "I saw what became of Alfrid Sand and his men, but none of the others saw what I did. I listened to as many as I could, even subtly asked, but everyone only saw men, not monsters. Did you have a hand in that?"

Countless gods swirled among one another, swimming through air and stone, running along water and birthed by flame. "Indeed. Not even the followers of that wretched beast, save for Alfrid, knew of what occurred. They did not see as he did, nor did others see as you, for you were touched by the corruption, and through surviving it, now see the truth of the magic it wields, and the danger it presents."

"Which is?"

"All things maintain the balance of magic, in this world and the other realms. When beings tread too deeply into the innate magicks and force them control aspects of nature itself, the manifestations of the world dwindle and thus must wrestle back their rightful place as equals. When one treads too far towards that which they can touch, can see, can clench in their hands/paws/talons, the more the innate fades away, and too must fight for its own existence. The balance has been maintained since time was born and has tipped many which ways since then."

"But never irreversibly," not-Casper said, the shadows of his form growing ever further around him, and his eyes as bright as gathered stars.

The god cloud nodded. "Not until the breaking of Valyria. They sought to master both, and pushed them too fast, too far, without restraint or the means of releasing the buildup they created."

"So you did?"

"Nay. Their own folly led to the great eruption of their lands, and the disasters following it. The scales have shrunk, and the balance will remain more difficult to maintain. Now, with the beast beneath the sands, there is danger where there has seldom been before."

"Before you called saving me a debt. What is it you want?"

"You must slay the great beast, this devourer in the dark, before it can spread its malign essence further. Already it has consumed countless, both innocent and guilty, and grows ever hungrier in the deep dark. Destroy it, and break the hold it has upon the scales, or else it will break the balance for good."

"Is it possible for men to kill it?"

"Yes, but you are no mere man, are you, not-Casper?"

He was silent for a few moments, or perhaps an eternity. In the innate land of their meetings, where anything was possible, it could have been either, or both at once.

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"Of course you do not-man. But," they added, as gloom grew deeper, and the sounds of gurgling hissing grew louder in the distant, swirling waters, "if you do not, then the world of men is surely doomed long before the coming of the second Long Night. Your family, your friends, your wife… they will all suffer for your inaction, should you not heed our warning and ignore this favor we ask of you."

"I… accept," not-Casper replied through gritted teeth. "But I cannot do this alone."

"Alone, you shall not be, nor have you ever been. To you, we have already sent another like yourself, ancient beyond the measure of man, and a form of kin, though distant through the eons. He will guide you as needed, but not win your battles for you. Not again."

"When will you send… 'him' again?"

"When the time is right, after you have healed and the beast makes itself more known. Now awaken, interloper, and see to it that you save this world, rather than doom it."

Casper Wytch, or the being that wore his skin and mingled with his soul, disappeared from their sight.