Chapter 50: Kings Landing VI/Smallfolk VI

Mid-Late 157 AC

The city lived as it always did, even with the breezy nature of a southern winter leading to all the smallfolk bustling about in warmer clothes. Fishmongers sold their catch from the river and bay, the whores plied their trade along the Street of Silk, and more than a few bowls of brown were served with their customers none the wiser as to the source of the meat within. Though the weather thus far was mild, the great shutters had been closed all around the great castle, letting in little natural light save for whatever windows framed the Red Keep's rooms. Deep within the Tower of the Hand, Viserys looked over yet another report, fit for a king's correspondence but relegated to him to see it completed.

Gods, his brother had grown more and more withdrawn from the role as a king as the years went on, but with good reason. At least, in the start, but he was king, and even if good kings had good Hands, it should not fall to the Hand to accomplish every task required of a king. The expansion of the bureaucracy to see that Aegon's reign was a peaceful one had taken a great deal of effort on Viserys' part, and even now, he was unsure if he'd done enough for it.

For he had traded his gloomy brother of a king for an adventurous and proud, yet admittedly vainglorious nephew of a king, and with all that the boy sought to do, there was that much more work to be done. Already, the petitions for the lands conquered were beginning to pile up, requiring more than a few stacks of parchment to see them integrated successfully. Yet the war continued, and thus the lands were not technically a part of the kingdoms, and thus many could not be approved nor filed away until the conflict had ceased. Others might have let it slide, but not he, for Viserys had been king in all but name during his brother's reign and knew the importance of seeing to the realm's administrative cohesion. Lost papers could incite rebellions as easily as over taxation could, and all due to simple errors rather than malicious greed. It would seem he would need to expand his staff once more, but finding men able to read and write was hard enough. Learned men would be even harder to find, what with so many yet going to guilds or the Citadel.

Sighing as the bells rang, he knew it was now midmorning, and the time for petitions had arrived. With his nephews out on campaign and his goodsister visiting kin on Driftmark with her daughters, the court was far reduced from what it had been, with many courtiers accompanying the army during its march through Dorne. Even with the smashing success at the Battle for the Gates, the war was far from over, and more than one overconfident conqueror had faced defeat even in the face of certain victory. Viserys could only pray that his nephews would return home safe, no matter the war's end.

However, with so many lords and influential men away at war, that left primarily the ladies of the court in the Red Keep, whose petitions were far fewer but no less important to the beginning of Daeron's rule. Naerys had taken over the duties of Daenaera in this regard, but her poorer health did not allow her to meet with these ladies, leading to an increase in rumormongering among the more devious women. Case in point, the theories of who would become the queen once Daeron reached his majority. Most ladies of the court were too old to be suitable candidates, or came from lesser houses and kingdoms, but the constant quiet hum of speculation and secretive alliances would be a test for Daeron upon his return.

As the servants finished aiding him dress for the petitioners, Viserys pondered as to the future of their family. They were at a pivotal time in their house's history, and now was a fragile time even with a strong king and a realm he had helped bring back together. The boy king had told him marriage would only become an option once Dorne was under the Targaryen banner, and had even acknowledged that Viserys himself saw no point in remarrying, but having no heir of your line was incredibly risky for such a young king. Even if Baelor yet lived, and Viserys himself after Baelor should it not pass to their sisters, succession was a tricky beast to corral when times were not suitably stable. He had seen through the Dance the damage such lack of foresight could bring, but try as he might, he'd yet to convince Daeron of the necessity of at least a betrothal, to ward off lickspittles and plotters.

Arriving in the throne room, with the great Iron Throne looming over everyone as a silent reminder of his house's origins, he found himself somewhat surprised. His sons were both there, Aegon mingling amongst the many remaining noble ladies of the court, and Aemon standing guard as one of the few Kingsguard yet in Kings Landing, most having gone with Daeron and Baelor. His daughter, however, sat quietly with a small group of ladies, separate from the rest, with little Daeron sitting in a maid's lap, and Vaella in her own.

Aegon's smiles was something he'd grown to wish he did not see as often, for it meant nothing but trouble in the future. Aye, his eldest was handsome, as he himself had been at that age, but time had not yet stripped his son of his follies, nor tempered his near-hedonist nature. Oh, certainly, he had pledged to stay away from whores for the sake of Naerys and Vaella, but whores could be replaced by ladies looking for a way into the confidence of the royal family, and judging from the conspiratorial gazes among them, it was… disheartening to a father. That there were other fathers out there that would encourage their daughters to engage in such acts angered him, but what was there to do about it? See them all girdled with chastity belts to ensure their purity? He had already sent for his bastard granddaughters and their smith's wife of a mother to be sent away, discreetly of course, so that the shame may not fall upon Daeron by proxy. His own shame and regrets he could bear, as he had always done, and would do so for as long as his house had need of him.

Movement caught his wandering eye, and suddenly little Vaella was before him, reaching for his hands, likely to try and play the grabbing game he had done with his own children when they were small. However, rocking her daughter slowly, Naerys looked to him with sad smile.

"She is so lively these days, much like little Daeron was," she said, and still was. The boy loved to run around, but also loved to sit and listen to stories from the maids and his mother alike.

"Aye, daughter, that she is," he said softly. "It brings me joy that both of you have recovered from the birthing bed." Her own health had just recovered, but she was never the healthiest child. The suffering she likely carried to this day from Aegon's… proclivities might have been behind that, but the grand maester assured him it was simply her natural frailty.

"She will be as a little dragon, fierce yet kind, and will be afforded all the love I can give her."

An odd thing to say, but it wasn't wrong. "Yes, Naerys, she will be provided with all a Targaryen may ask for. Our family must remain strong in the faith and in each other."

"Yet my nieces were to be sent away to live a life of solitude before the gods, without the chance to make the decision for themselves, father. It is a stain against us to act so rashly and believe ourselves to be in the right. Bastards they may be, but they are of our blood, are they not?"

Not this again. His daughter had become oddly fond of little Alysane, Lily, and Willow, even if they never met in person. With a heavy sigh, his already-weakened defenses suffering from this constant quiet battle, he looked over at Aegon, whose charming smile had more than a few ladies of the court giggling loudly.

"What would you have me do, dearest daughter? I cannot risk your brother having the desire to legitimize them after I am gone, should something happen before my time comes. Even if Daeron agreed to it, which I have no doubt he would, they could be used against us. Such a threat is something we must avoid at all costs, so I say it is better for the family that they are forgotten, faceless among the smallfolk and dedicated to the Seven."

"Perhaps when they are older, but none need know of their heritage, as only a handful yet do," she countered, patting Vaella's head. "Grandfather had plenty of bastards, some known to the realm, and others forgotten to all but their own mothers. Some participated in the Dance, yes, but countless more had no part in it, and will likely never know until their dying day. Who are we to judge these little girls for my brother's … straying ways?"

"They are bastards, Naerys, creatures born of lust. You attend service regularly enough to know of how the Seven-Pointed Star sees them."

"Yet they are innocent before the Seven themselves, as seen through putting our faith into true practice. It is man that decreed they be treated poorly, not the Seven."

"You've been corresponding with Baelor, then?" The boy's ideas were not yet heretical, at least according to the Seven, though his newfound interpretation would not win him friends amongst a number of the High Septon's colleagues, let alone the portly man himself. A great number of the Poor Brothers and Silent Sisters might find him agreeable, however.

"Indeed, and through him, I wrote to Lord Wytch, to see if there was a solution to this mess."

Lord Wytch. A name that had been constantly coming into the Red Keep, either from the word of Baelor, or from rumors regarding the war in the southern Stormlands. Now, the boy lord was corresponding with his own daughter! Annoying, that man's rise was becoming, and despite the Master of Whisperers giving no report, in his heart he knew that lad was up to something. There was just no indication yet of what that might be.

"What was his response?" he slowly asked. If Naerys could somehow find herself in regular correspondence, then ensuring that her letters were 'in their care' would allow him a greater peace of mind.

"In his lands there is a knight of the Vale, who is yet unmarried and is of honorable disposition. While of no noble birth, he has recently become the mayor of an isolated town called Ironvein, and Lord Wytch writes he will soon grant him a manor on the outskirts. He has also spoken with the man, who would gladly take Megette as his wife and care for my nieces as if they were his own."

"I… see. I do not appreciate you going behind my back on this, daughter, but your points are… fair. Very well, I shall think on it. Megette and her brood are already on their way to Lowhill, are they not?"

"Indeed, father. They should arrive within a fortnight." With that, she departed back to her maids, as the great doors opened, a gaggle of men and women entering the court, guards in Targaryen livery flanking them all. So, with the murmuring crowd growing silent, he took to the throne as the royal crier appeared by his side. With the formalities of his titles and those of his nephew silencing the crowd completely, he looked to his collection of scribes to take notes.

The first of the petitioners to arrive were ones he'd not seen in some time, though he had spoken with their anointed leader the night before, to prepare them for a courtly visit and to put on a mummer's farce for the court. After all, their venture, on behalf of his nephew Baelor, had been completed with Baelor's own funds from his allowance by the crown, and that they had taken so long to return was nothing new. Three captains, two from the Stormlands and one from the Crownlands, kneeled before him, a long crate flanking their entourage. Much of those with them were of smallfolk heraldry, given their state of dress, with several seeming of YiTish blood, and others of something similar. One was even a squat Ibbenese, his thick beard as oily as his bushy eyebrows.

"Rise, my good fellows," Viserys said. "Long ago did Prince Baelor contact thee and bid you to travel the lands of Essos, yet only three of you are here. What of the other two captains?"

"One fell to a winter storm outside of Shipbreaker Bay, my Lord Hand, and another to pirates in the Stepstones before that," the lead man replied. "Yet their sacrifices were not in vain, for all of us carried equal amounts of the treasures Prince Baelor sought from across the seas and lands to our east, so that even if only one managed to return, it would not be for naught."

"Indeed. What have you brought, my good captains?"

"Crops from far lands, along with the men and women whose knowledge on how to care for and grow them will prove most valuable to Prince Baelor's goals," the lead captain replied, and with a nod, a pair of guards opened the great crates, revealing partitions within, dividing the contents into neat, clean portions. The muttering of the court was subdued, no doubt curious as to why such simple fare was sought after, and not the great saffron, silks and other expensive goods from such faraway lands.

From the lands of Yi Ti came rhubarb, strange stalks of a plant whose taste was tart unless mixed with sugar, but extremely hardy. With that also came several varieties of rice, ranging from those grown in slow moving river mouths to ones capable of growing even in flooded fields and bogs. A curious thing, for such a plant to be a staple of those lands, and yet able to grow in water of all things. From Ibben came the seeds for kale, a leafy vegetable also known for tolerance of cold, and rutabagas, whose shape reminded Viserys of larger turnips. The Stormlands was already growing the radishes that Baelor's earlier expedition had secured, as were farmers around Kings Landing, but these were new, and the latter was said to go well with butter and salt. Leng had traded more rice, for the warmer lands of the south, but also a large greet plant known as a kohlrabi, which could apparently be eaten raw or cooked. Saath, that last city of old Sarnor, had traded Sarnori sprouts, and from Lorath came both arugula, whose leaves could be eaten, and chicory, whose roots and leaves had a variety of uses.

As the captains finished, Viserys began to recognize a pattern as the plants were described. Many of these plants could be grown practically anywhere with good soil and sufficient rain, but a great many of them were especially tolerant of the cold. The North would greatly benefit from these expanding into their fields, as they were less temperamental compared to even the hardiest of wheat and barley, and the rice itself could see the Neck become a smaller Reach for the North itself. Baelor was building himself the loyalty of an entire kingdom, one known for its strange but loyal ways, and with it, a legacy worthy of any Targaryen prince. Prosperity, security, peace, a prince should strive for these when possible, and Baelor was doing so, even while at war. If only he could have had men bring back silkworms for their own silk farms…

The next petitioners brought him out of his musings, their bearing not of nobles.

"The heads of the merchant guilds of Kings Landing," the crier announced.

Ah. What was it they wanted this time? He'd already faced numerous complaints of the disruption of trade with Dorne, even with the knowledge that the Dornish would fall under the control of the Iron Throne, and thus many of the tariffs the merchants faced would be dramatically reduced or cease to exist entirely. Not that some of these smallfolk seemed to understand that.

"We beseech the crown, Lord Hand, of the unfair trade practices stemming from other merchants. As winter sets in and our stores begin to lessen, our regrators are unable to compete with those from the Stormlands who sell at dishonestly low prices."

"Of whose lands do they originate?"

"Primarily that of Lord Wytch, Lord Hand."

Of course they were, Seven damn it all.

Smallfolk VI

The inn was the largest in the area, near the size of a mayor's manse, and the tavern on the bottom floor was equally as stocked as it was large. In the town just outside of Blackhaven, one of the few towns in the Dornish Marches, Edric sipped from his mug of ale, listening to Arin regale the patrons with tales of their exploits. Berric may have had the singing voice, even if he didn't like to admit it, but nobody told a story like Arin. Call it an innate Dornish flare, his time listening to mummer's tales in his youth, or just the way he could string along an audience, it was hard to match.

"So, there we were, unable to catch the raiders, their sand steeds too fast and their wits far too sharp to be caught unawares," his brother-in-arms said, seated at a high table, above the gathered smallfolk. "Or so those bastards thought."

Passing his gaze around, Edric took in the patrons. Smallfolk for the most part, from farmers to shepherds to errant craftsmen. A town guard or two were at the bar, and what looked to be a hedge knight had arrived not long after he had.

"Lord Wytch is a young lord, but cleverer than most might take him to be. The Dornish raiders are known to surround and destroy smaller forces, but ours was one great big group. From this, he moved our camp away from the main one, with the aid of Lord Windhill, Seven rest his soul."

It was a curious thing, to be spending time away from the lands of Lord Wytch, and yet to see the works he had done slowly spreading their way elsewhere. The farms he had passed all stood the same, rotated in four fields, and the herds of cattle, both dairy and beef, while not huge, were beginning to appear outside every settlement. Plows, harnesses, and seed drills were plentiful, and given the numerous new-looking storehouses dotting the countryside, there was no doubt that these folks would not perish from starvation this winter. It still looked to be a land whose struggles were greater than Lord Wytch's, but it was well on its way to sharing in that same prosperity and comparable luxury.

"So, they charged us in the night, unknowingly funneled into the trap by our lords. As the bales of dry grass were lit, the trap was sprung, and like badgers we burst from the ground and grass!"

It was also a testament to his lord that they were received so positively. Many of these smallfolk had lost kin or friends of kin to the Dornish army only moons ago, and even now, bedraggled stragglers from those few villages who had lost everything still arrived in the area. With Lord Dondarrion's permission, Lord Wytch's engineers had begun to aid in erecting new villages where there once were none, so that those poorer folk may not suffer in the cold as they rebuilt their lives. Suffice to say, the smallfolk of the area practically loved them, constantly asking questions of his lord's lands and if the rumors were true.

"Many we felled that night, and none among us shed a tear for their wicked fates once Lord Wytch got his hands on those that survived," Arin finished with a comically ominous expression. "For their punishment was to never see Dorne again, their eyes to be forever apart from their heads… save for one particular fellow." Many shuddered at the thought of the Lord's Stake, a punishment befitting only the worst of crimes, a deterrent greater than any noose. Edric had helped dig the hole for the stake and knew the screams of that raider bastard would haunt him until his dying day.

"What of the rumors, my good man?" one of the attending asked, his sooty face that of a blacksmith.

"Which ones?" Edric asked with a smile. "We've been to every inn between Lowhill and Blackhaven, and even some farther still."

"What of Lord Wytch?" the man asked. "Is it true what they say of his eyes? Like those of our king?"

"Aye, Valyrian eyes, purple and fierce," Arin said. "When he looks into yours… it is hard to describe, but he sees more than just what you appear, I think. No foul sorcery, mind you, but he sees you as what you could be, I think. He gave my family a chance when most other lords would have turned us away for our Dornish blood."

"Bah, Dornish blood is no matter," another man said, the merchant. "Having the blood and being like the raiders is not the same. Us in the Marches have Dornish, Reachman and Stormlander blood alike, depending on who was rulin' at the time. Some traders put down roots and marry into the town, or when raiders or conquerors leave behind a few bastards."

"Still, that he not only accepted us into his lands, but also gave us the chance to prove ourselves is a debt I will always strive to pay, even if it takes the rest of my life," Arin replied. "Lord Wytch is a man unlike most others in that regard."

"Yet surely the Seven bless him?" another man asked, a farmer. "Never in all me life have I seen so much food come from those lands, nor cattle and sheep of the size we now have."

"Aye, the Seven bless our lord, but whether it be for his acts of charity, or for the building of the Sept of Lowhill, it is hard to say," Captain Farlin said.

"How big is the sept?" a younger lad asked. "Me ma always said ta mind the Seven, but our local sept ain't as grand as what I've heard."

"A fine sept it is, my boy. Clean, with great windows, carved statues, and more than enough room for a great number of worshipers to fast and pray. The septons and septas teach men and women alike their sums and figures, and there is a school for the children of merchants and craftsmen to do the same."

"Gods, learnin' their sums? Never knew a lord would allow for somethin' like that."

"Indeed, our lord wishes for his smallfolk to be able to serve him to our utmost, and for that wishes for us to know how to do so. Lord Wytch truly has the favor of the gods, and through his blessing, we are all blessed, and for that, we are most grateful."

"Some merchants aren't," the hedge knight replied.

"Pardon?"

"Reach merchants don't like that they can't sell us their overpriced grain anymore," the man said, many other faces mirroring his scowl at their mention. "So what? They always grow so much, but it never lasts long here. I've ridden with more than one caravan and it's always the same griping."

"If their foppish lords weren't so easily offended, they'd look to trade with Lord Wytch rather than complain," the captain said. "Our lord is not a man to be easily overlooked. His wife comes from a storied house, and I've heard his sister is betrothed to a Selmy."

"A blessing for those lands as well. A shame Lord Dondarrion doesn't have kin for a marriage instead, to tie our lands closer."

"Yet," one of the guards added. "We've still gotten our share of cattle and tools all the same. Gods know how hard it can be to farm these lands without livestock in case the weather turns bad."

"My youngins have never had so much meat before," one of the barmaids interposed as she refilled mugs of ale. "Beef weren't never a thing when I was a lass, and now we have some sausage from the market once a moon. Same goes for mutton, me pa ain't never had as big of sheep as we do now."

"Gods be good, may our lords never quarrel," the merchant added. "Life is good in these lands in good years, but never have they been this good."

"If I were a less jolly man, I'd think we were heading for something ill," Arin said. "But we've had nothing but good come from Lord Wytch's ruling. Long live House Wytch!"

"House Wytch!" the crowded tavern replied, dunking back their drinks.

"Say, we've heard that the young lord likes ta sing," the barmaid asked. "That true?"

"Aye, the young lord knows many a fine tune," Arin began. "Why, you'd think he was a mummer sometimes…"

Edric's mind wandered as Arin began to regale them once more of some of their songs, a small sliver of loneliness creeping into his heart. Berric was looking to go home to Meredyth, and he to his Floris, but the time they'd spent so far from home had been a good thing, he supposed. Every town and village they'd either rebuilt, trained, or patrolled in was left better than when they had arrived, and all sung the praises of their good lord by now. If it weren't for those damned Dornish crossing into the Stormlands, who knows how many of these people might never have learned how to use those plows, or string those harnesses, or clean wounds? Then again, how many people might yet live if the damned Wyls and their ilk had never crossed the border in the first place? How many smallfolk might yet inhabit these lands if those damned bastards hadn't sought to destroy everything in sight?

Edric suppressed a wince, knowing full well such thought would only bring him down. Now was not a time to be down, but a time to enjoy, celebrate, relax even. The opening of the tavern door shook away those thoughts, however, as a pair of Dondarrion men at arms appeared.

"Captain Farlin?" one asked.

"Aye, that's me," his captain replied, just as Berric began a rendition of Outriders in the Sky. "Is something amiss?"

Blackhaven was not a large castle, but it was a strong one, and its lords stronger still. Lord Dondarrion's steward was a childless cousin of the lord, significantly older but no less sharp, judging from his piercing gaze. Edric barely suppressed the urge to fidget, reminding himself that though he was by Captain Farlin's side only as a formality as a senior yeoman, he was to serve as a reminder that Lord Wytch's smallfolk levies were of a greater discipline than more common levies. It would not do to tarnish his lord's image by appearing too nervous before a lordly man.

"My lord, two ravens? This is most unusual."

"Aye, it is, but dark wings and dark words and all that," the steward replied. Dondarrion's wife was apparently visiting kin, and his sons were either too young or a part of the war in Dorne, leaving the man to keep things running smoothly in their absence. "Can you read?"

"Thanks to the septas of Lowhill, yes, my lord," Farlin said, accepting the two small pieces of parchment.

"My lord has had thoughts of allowing for the same, but needs a good sept to do so," the steward said, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard. "Once Lord Dondarrion returns from war, hopefully we can discuss such matters with Lord Wytch for the coming spring or early summer."

His captain nodded and unfurled the tiny messages, the flickering light of a turpentine lantern one more sign that Lord Wytch's influence had spread far and wide. Though he could not see them for himself, Edric immediately knew the news was not good, judging from his captain's sigh. Already, he could tell there would be a long march for the men ahead, and hopefully they'd all get a good night's sleep tonight. At least Berric had lost the taste for heavier drink ever since his marriage to Meredyth, so there'd be no hangovers to worry about.

"This is not good."

Edric remained silent, but he knew that tone. A weary resignation, combined with a mustering of courage, for it would no doubt be needed. Gods, and here he was thinking he would be returning home in a few moons, to his lovely Floris once more. Hopefully she would be in good health, winter was not yet harsh but it did not hurt to be cautious.

"I take it these are true, my lord?" Captain Farlin continued.

"I'm afraid so," the older man replied. "Long have I served my cousin faithfully, as I did his father, and have been kept abreast of issues with our neighbors. While it will be sad to see you depart, as the lads enjoy your stories, Lord Wytch has bidden you to leave these lands, and ride to those of Lord Selmy with all due haste. While Lord Selmy yet rules the house, with the death of his heir Borros in Dorne, his gooddaughter may attempt to see her daughter's claims be recognized over those of his second son and now heir, Addam."

"It would not be the first time that something happened to a young heir under strange circumstances, my lord learnt that for himself years ago. The second message states concern from Lord Selmy on the matter, asking us to be quick but quiet about it. Why must we march to his keep under such secrecy?"

"Harvest Hall is nearer the Reach, and thus when he was looking for a wife for his heir, Lord Selmy wed her to a Reach house, to help secure good trade deals for grain and other foods. Now that his lands are teeming with meat and grain, much like Lord Dondarrion's, that initial relation has… soured I am told. While most of his forces are in Dorne, there are relatively few remaining in his keep. Should Lord Selmy's gooddaughter find out that men are marching to Harvest Hall, she may seek to send for help from her kin, hence the speed and secrecy. If she can be detained unawares, Lord Selmy can return and ensure everything is put to rights, as it should be."

"So, to ensure a smooth change, he has need of our lord's men to ensure nothing… untoward happens to young Addam, whose life may or may not be in danger from his elder goodsister," Farlin replied. "Hopefully we will only be needed to intimidate anyone looking to cause trouble if she does cause trouble. All our men are rested anyway, and could do with some marching, to ensure they remain fit and fine. Into which house did his deceased heir marry?"

"House Fossoway, of Cider Hall," the steward replied.