Chapter 31: SI POV XI

Mid 156 AC

How the faire had transformed Lowhill was truly something to behold. On grassy pastures children ran joyfully, pulling at kites high in the sky, while their parents watched over them from picnic blankets. The fairegrounds teemed with prized animals and crops, including large pumpkins, prized cows and sheep of great size or breeding quality, and a great many crafts or goods for sale. Throngs of people moved through the swept streets, mingling with friends amidst tables set with food and drink. Ale, mead and beer flowed cheaply; the great casks were piled high in carts to satisfy the thirst of the many smallfolk gathered from all around. The smell of cooking fires mingled with that of bakery ovens and the sweet aroma of cider, wafting lazily over the great gathering.

I only wish I had access to cinnamon to make the cider I remember from my old life. From what I have gathered, it is not grown in Westeros, but in the farther reaches of Essos, which means it is prohibitively expensive for anyone who isn't a rich lord. By rich, I do mean rich, like a lord far above my current lot in life, so for now, I'll simply remember the taste as best I can. Someday I'll have it again, mark my words. Come to think of it, I should encourage one of the remaining larger villages to produce as many herbs and spices as I can grow in this climate. That Flavortown joke aside that I recalled from years ago, it would be an excellent opportunity to increase availability of such goods to people who had never had them before and create a more local source in the kingdoms for such things, rather than trading for it overseas. I'd have to speak with Janyce about it, she and her side of the family likely knew more of what grew here than I did.

As it was, mother had done an amazing job on the faire. From the great banners across the markets to the many merchant stalls selling good food at reduced prices, to the treats and sweets abounding amongst the smallfolk, it reminded me a bit of my old life. A county fair, or perhaps some other secular celebration, like the founding of an old town. I'd not felt truly homesick for a great while since my awakening in these lands, but now, for a few moments, I felt that familiar pang of longing.

Schooling my features, I turned to my fiancé, who seemed rather in awe of it all. Flanked by our guards, we rode through the crowds towards our destination, the first of many of the competitions to take place. I'd set aside more than enough silver and gold to pay for all of this, including the prizes, without worrying about emptying them entirely. I had a head for coin far more than Robert Baratheon had, even if I was no genius in that department.

"This is wonderful!" Mylenda said, looking over a fence, where a pair of large pumpkins were being measured. "I've never seen such sights before. I feel cheery and at peace, like the worries of the world are falling from my shoulders."

"Such is the nature of a faire, my dear," I replied. "For smallfolk and noble alike, it is a time to celebrate the good things in life, and to feel free of life's burdens, if only for a short while. The following days will be one of peace and festivities, hopefully with good weather for them all."

"I am glad that for three days, such festivities are to be had, but why not longer?" she asked. "Why not a week, Casper?"

"Well, if planting was easier, and the smallfolk the coin to spend for a week, then perhaps, but three days is a generous enough time to put aside. Longer times mean more work piles up, and if the work falls behind, then the smallfolk must struggle to catch up with it. Besides, it's only three days out of the year, barring holidays of the Seven, tis no great loss of work." There would always be smallfolk that stayed at their work rather than attend such faires anyway.

"Will there be such a faire every year?"

Given how Westeros and the rest of the world, to an extent, had such weird, often year-long seasons, having a faire at the same time of every year would be different than, say, having one in the midst of a particular season. It would allow for the smallfolk to recoup some losses to their coffers, more than I would need to anyway, and it would help alleviate certain seasonal blues. Having them every year at the same time would also risk pulling away from work that needed to be done urgently, especially in winter, and the risk of wintry chills and the sicknesses that came with them meant many of the same festivities at that time would need to be altered. Hell, each faire would need to be altered every year if the seasons remained the same for more than one.

"I am not sure," I finally replied. "This is a first, and I would be more than willing to throw faires every so often, but not so often that they become a potential liability. The smallfolk must work, and if faires are held too often, then they may burn through whatever coin they have saved, and should some ill fortune or catastrophe strike, then they shall be penniless when they need it the most."

"Then in the midst of a season, with the details of such a faire specified for that time? Perhaps a different faire at other towns, such as Highmarsh around the slaughtering season?"

I nodded, as we arrived at the pavilion built overlooking the newly finished archery grounds. I had it on good authority that several my land's scattered yeomen had arrived, or sent their sons in their stead, at a chance to win some coin for their skill at archery. Three gold dragon's equivalent in silver stags for the top prize, half that for second place, and half that for third place. I'd originally planned to give the runners-up a sack of pennies for their troubles, but Janyce had convinced me that such a show of generosity might encourage some to participate only to earn the pennies, rather than try their skill for the main prizes.

Winning thirty and six hundred silver stags for first place might not sound like a lot, but out here, far from the more prosperous regions, that was a significant amount of money for smallfolk who usually traded in different coppers or simply bartered. Most smallfolk treasured silver for the most expensive of needs, and likely never saw gold in their life. For these prizes, that much money could buy a whole herd of dairy cows or good sheep out here, as well as good tools, carts and supplies to refurbish a home or build a new barn. Even the second and third place would still be more money than many smallfolk might earn in several decades, so I was expecting stiff competition.

With our families in tow, we made our way to our seats, on the uppermost platform overlooking the grounds. Banners bearing both Wytch and Windhill sigils fluttered in the autumn breeze from posts and poles all around us, and the great gathering of smallfolk on the small swell behind the archers looked like something out of a painting. Children sat upon their father's shoulders, blankets were laid out, food was being eaten and everyone seemed to be enjoying such an idyllic day.

I was surprised by the lack of response from my neighboring lords, but given Lord Wysp's death the year before, and the strained relation between myself and Lady Craggner, it wasn't hard to see why the others hadn't come. In so few short of years, when local lord left their lands, two had died away from home, either in battle or after one. Lords Greycairn and Galewood were on my list of people to murder, a thankfully short list so far, but they likely didn't know that. Declining the invitation may have just been them being cautious, given that rumors of what they had spoken to Lord Baratheon about had gotten back to me. Yet for now, despite what I was forming for the future, I forgot them for the time being.

The gathered men numbered a good amount, but I wasn't paying attention to them. With my sisters nearest my mother, who sat beside Lord Windhill, I turned to my fiancé, studying her as she watched the competitors gather. I had to admit, I'd lucked out with Mylenda. She was pretty, not Argella Durrandon or Catelyn Tully or Cersei Lannister come again, but undoubtedly better looking than what I could have matched with. Not that it would have mattered for me, seeing as this was as much of a political marriage as any other I would have had. I was lucky enough to have a betrothal at all, especially one so mutually advantageous. Yet despite her growing looks, I'd come to realize she was smarter than she seemed, and far more willing to engage in discussion that some ladies might find boring. This made her an even better catch in my eyes. My parents in this life and the other had been good partners, building off the other in various aspects. With luck, our own marriage would be like that.

She turned to me and smiled, and I felt what must have been those fabled butterflies in my stomach. "Who do you think will win, Casper?" she asked excitedly.

"Hard to say, Mylenda. With the number of contestants, we've divided them into three even groups. Of those groups, the top three in each will then move onto a final round, where the top three are then awarded their prizes. Some of these men served with me out in the Marches, and I know them to be excellent shots."

"What of after? Surely the archery is not the only competition today?"

"No, there are several meant for each day. After the archers are done, then there is to be the great rope pull."

"Rope pull?"

I nodded. "Aye, teams of big, burly men are to attempt to pull a rope overlooking a muddy pit, with a bright flag in the middle of the rope. The winners will be the ones who pull the flag the closest to their line, and if it crosses, they are victorious. The sides that win then face each other, with corresponding prizes for the team. After that is the log throw, where other burly men toss logs as far as they can from behind a line."

"Very physical contests, then," she replied. "I take it there will be other such events over the next two days?"

"Aye. Pig wrestling, a melee, both a horse and foot race, and whole host of other events. I'm sure you'll enjoy them, as will the smallfolk."

"I cannot wait," she replied, taking my hand. The jitters in my stomach increased tenfold, but I simply nodded with a smile and looked out on the field, where the first archers were taking their positions.

I was surprised how many of the events I'd planned were known to the people of the Stormlands. I'd known that things like the melee, archery and jousts were common enough for lords, but log tossing and the like? Apparently, it did happen, but not frequently enough to be widespread or expected at the faire. My guess was certain holidays under the Seven, or even cultural remnants of holidays under the Old Gods, had all mixed together to form some culturally distinct celebrations that remained. Sort of how Saturnalia and some of its aspects were adopted by early Christianity as part of their Christmas celebration, perhaps?

As the first round of archers finished, with another shot needed to break a tie between a pair of them, there was some noise to my right. I turned to find some of my perimeter guards escorting a small group of men, guardsmen by the looks of it. At the front, his plumed helmet tucked under his arm, what must have been their captain stood at attention.

"Yes?"

"Captain Serwyn, my lord, on the behalf of Sheriff Myles," he said with a bow. "We have caught the man who attempted to slay the thief Emily. He is on his way to the Stormhall cells as we speak, and she remains in our custody until you have need of her. The reports of the incident, as well as any further evidence, will be yours the moment they are ready."

"Indeed? Excellent, captain, congratulations to you all for a job well done. I will speak with my quartermaster of sending you lot a barrel of brandy for your troubles." Better to be generous when good news came my way than not, but only to an extent. Janyce said there was a fine line between being generous and being a wastrel, and even if I leaned towards generous, I sometimes needed to remind myself of that line.

Most of the guardsmen smiled at that comment. My brandy had been a huge hit, and my distillery had little room to expand to continue to increase production. I might have to create a village focused entirely on distilling, just to keep up with demand. "My thanks, my lord, but there was something else. We managed to capture him with this on his person."

He handed me a satchel. Within, I found a scroll, and three gold coins. Retrieving all, I looked over the coins. They bore not the face of Aegon the Third, nor any other Targaryen, meaning they were likely older than these men thought. Instead, they bore a hand, and a crowned man. Garth Greenhand? Curious…

"We planned on giving these to the sept," one of the guardsmen said, motioning to the coins.

"An excellent idea, but for the time being, keep them as evidence," I replied, retrieving the scroll. "If nothing else comes of this, then do with them as you would. For now, I would like to see what this scroll entails. You may return to your posts."

As they left, I opened the scroll and began perusing its contents. The writing was neat, no scribbles as I had seen of some, but the contents of it were another story. There was no signature of any kind, understandable given the potential for discovery, but as I read it, the anger in my belly progressively increased. Someone had wanted to find and steal the recipe for my Wytch-stone for their own purposes. I knew it would eventually get out, but I'd been hoping for at least another decade of using it before it became more widely known. Now, it seemed, someone wanted it for their own reasons, but the question was, who? Did they use the Garth coins as a distraction, or was it a slipup on their part? If the former, then who in or around Kings Landing wanted Wytch-stone for themselves? If the latter, then who in the Reach would want…

I nearly spit. Maester Gorman had written to the Citadel of Wytch-stone, with my permission, years ago, but we'd not heard of a single reply since then. We'd written it off as them believing it not worth their time, but now, it seems, that assumption was false. Someone, possibly in the Citadel, was interested in the process, but instead of coming here to ask about it, thought it pertinent to try and steal from me the secrets of its creation. The fact they wanted to steal it, whoever it was, meant they likely wanted it for themselves, rather than to simply add it to the repertoire of the Citadel's many caches of knowledge. If it was someone in or connected with the Citadel, then who would do such a thing? An archmaester, looking to make a name for himself 'discovering' some new method of construction and passing it off as his own work? Or an acolyte, looking to gain enough notoriety to aid in his ascension among the ranks? Then I remembered something else. Not all who go the Citadel stay, as my lead Engineers showed. If one were to be expelled or leave the Citadel, they would certainly want for some means of ingratiating themselves back into the family they had departed from. My maester had made mention of his posting to the Stormlands was likely the result of a spat with some bastard Tyrell acolyte…

Well now, that changed things. That Dornishman Alfrid Sand was potentially not the only bastard I would have to look out for. Yet unlike the former, the latter was well protected, not only by his maesterly connections, but by relation to the current Lord Paramount of the Reach. I filed this away for later, tucking the scroll into my doublet as the next round of archers made their way to the grounds. Turning back to my betrothed, I couldn't help but smile as she giddily watched the proceedings. Yes, I should enjoy these days, but once I returned to Stormhall, this 'Ryck' and I were going to have a nice, long, talk about his employer.

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Dorne V

Mid 156 AC

The hot, dry mountain air pulled at every breathe he took, even in the shade of the late afternoon. Already, the shadows grew deeper as the sun moved past the western mountain peaks, but the glare reflecting from their eastern brethren bathed the area in glaring light and did little to stifle the heat. Alfrid Sand led the procession, a group of thirty mounted men, over the last of the hills between him and their destination, and there, nestled amidst the high peaks, overlooking a small, sheltered river valley, there it stood. The Vulture's Roost. An old, broken castle, its inhabitants long since scattered, lying near the very source of the river Wyl. It was from near here that a group of mysterious riders had originated, and Alfrid would be the one to find where they had come from, or if there were more.

Riding along the small river, stopping only long enough to refill their waterskins and let the horses drink, they followed its slowly winding path, the cold water refreshing against the heat of the day. The remnants of smallfolk houses lay here or there, scattered throughout the valley, where Dornishman had once inhabited. Old groves of olive trees, many of them dried husks or stunted shrubs, lay scattered about, the low walls marking boundaries still evident after all these years. Irrigation ditches, their clear lines yet visible, lay filled in with detritus and debris, having long ago been abandoned by their caretakers. Empty paddocks and pens, their wooden fences still holding in the dry mountain air, lay empty, save for the desiccated weeds that now filled them. Few things decayed this high in the Red Mountains, Alfrid had always been told, or if they did, it happened slowly, like the shifting sands of Dorne itself. Twisted remnants of old carts or wagons lay here or there, along old trails now filled with weeds and small brush. Passing by what looked to be an old manor, Alfrid spied movement along its lower wall, only for a pair of mountain rabbits to run off into some brush.

"This whole place is cursed," one of the men said.

Alfrid had half a mind to agree but said nothing. The ruined manor seemed gutted, like one set aflame, for it bore no roof and several of the walls had collapsed long ago. Other manors, some higher into the hills and others closer to the water, seemed much the same, broken shells of what had once been a thriving landscape. The region around the Vulture's Roost had been known to be uninhabited for a long time now. The exact reasons, as far as Alfrid could find, were unclear, but then again, it did not take much for the dregs and edges of society to find their own lair to call home. Any spring that was found would find inhabitants eventually, no matter where it was. Spying a manor whose ceiling seemed more intact, along which a small stream ran, he motioned to his fellows. "That shall be our place to rest for the night," he said, sending forth a pair to check it out. It was too late in the day to attempt to explore the rest of the area, let alone the Vulture's Roost, and camping out in the open was a surefire way to draw potentially unwanted attention.

When they returned, saying that it was clear, he and his fellows meandered their way up the gentle slope, dismounting and tying their horses to whatever they could find. The rest of them unpacking their supplies for the night, Alfrid ventured around, looking around the manor's immediate grounds. Unlike the others, this one had been unscathed by fire, though the further fruits trees had long since died. Weeds sprouted from between the bricks lining its outer walls, and looking within, he spied bubbling water from what had been the well. "A spring," he muttered, walking up the small structure. All around, he could see the old lines of the irrigation ditches, and the occasional bucket lay here or there. This manor had been part of a thriving community at one time, but none had returned, however long ago that had been. Such old settlements were on occasion lost due to drought or disease, only to then be reinhabited once more. Good springs and water like this were more precious to Dornishmen than gold, and to leave them to go to waste was a cardinal sin. He would have to talk with his uncle of reclaiming this land, for it clearly had at one point been a thriving place.

Yet one thing about all of this was rather disconcerting. They had not seen any bodies, not even the remains of whatever farm animals these Dornish had once tended to. Had they abandoned this place and taken it all with them? Or had some catastrophe befallen them that he did not know the extent of?

Dipping his empty waterskin into the cold bubbling water, and taking a long draught from it, Alfrid suddenly felt refreshed after the long journey here. Returning to his fellows without a second thought, he immediately began instructing those who would be on first watch, and for some to get a fire going in the large cooking pit the manor still had. No fires outside, but any smoke would be obscured once darkness fell further, and besides, he was hungry.

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He awoke with a start, as if one had dunked him in a bathtub filled with mountain snow. All around him, in the low light of the cooking pit's embers, his companions lay asleep, still save for their breathing. Alfrid could hear something moving around outside, a rustling that seemed too loud to be ignored, yet quiet enough that only his companions had heard it. What of the men taking the watch?

Gathering his sword but leaving his boots, he cautiously moved outside, peering around for the men standing guard. He found them, slumped on their spears or against the walls, asleep. Yet try as he might, he could not rouse them. Somehow, they remained asleep, even amidst his harsh whispers and shakes. Had someone slipped them some sort of sleeping draught when he wasn't looking?

The rustling grew louder, and now that he had emerged from the old manor, he could hear it more clearly. It was not rustling, but a bubbling, like that of water. Unbidden, with sword in hand, he followed the sound back to the well of the manor, only to find not a well, but an open seam in the ground, from which milky water poured forth. Like a small cave mouth, it yawned before him, and strangely enough, despite the darkness of night covering the land, he could see into its gloom with unusual ease.

Spurred on by something he did not entirely know, yet somehow felt he could trust, he sheathed his sword and stepped into the water. It was no longer cold to the touch, but warm enough that it was pleasant, refreshing even as he walked barefoot through it. The rocks beneath were curiously not slick, despite the water, and his footing sure, he continued at a brisk pace. Down into the cave he walked, his journey meandering in places, and in others was a clear path, straight and true. He paid no mind to the changing colors of the rocks around him, nor how the air seemed to grow thick, with almost a mist of sorts.

Alfrid Sand knew not how long he walked, nor how far he had, only that eventually, deep beneath the Red Mountains, he came before an opening, like that of a doorframe with no door. Stepping through, he found himself in no small, winding cave, but a cavern of immense size. Even with his sight able to pierce the dark, he could not see the ceiling, nor could he see the far side of the massive cavern. Soft sounds echoed around him, indistinct in the great vastness that lay before him, never drawing closer yet never falling farther away. Deep down here, in what must have been far from the surface world, he found odd sights. Stone paddocks and walled-in areas coincided with what seemed to be fields, all amongst scattered homes of stacked stone slabs. Small walls surrounded upraised mounds of dirt, the smell of which reminded him of farms. Mushrooms and mosses grew in great quantities all over the area, some of them more concentrated in the paddocks and others upon the surfaces of the buildings themselves. The entire area seemed bathed in moisture, much of it with a slimy sheen that waxed between opaque and transparent every so often.

The water he had followed, the flow of which ran up the path he had followed, originated from what looked to be a large river. He could not see the far side, and it looked terribly deep, its inky blackness offset only by a pale film that trailed along its surface. On the shores of this river sat a boat, a small one the likes of which one might row onto a river to fish from. It bore no sails nor oars and seemed rather ancient, yet in his state, Alfrid cared not. Something pulled him further, leading him deeper, and he followed its soft, beckoning call. Clambering into the boat and pushing off into the water, a most curious thing happened. The current of the river went one way, yet the boat went against it effortlessly, without any input from him. Upstream he went, the river's banks alternating between scattered rocks, great stalagmites, and the occasional swath of stone houses. He saw little signs of life, other than a swarm of bats flying overhead, their soft squeaks the only other sound than the burbling water beneath him. Despite the flow of the water beneath him, it made no splashes against his little boat.

Alfrid did not know how long he was in his boat, nor how far he had traveled. This great cavern and river, he'd never heard of it before, but it flowed everywhere, and the further he drew into the heart of this great mystery, the odder things became. Along the walls, small streams of water pulsed and bubbled as they flowed from the river itself, up and into the air, disappearing into the rocky walls and darkness beyond. The milky foam seemed thicker here, covering the entirety of the river with an almost oily sheen. This same foam followed these streams rising into the air, curling amidst the water like a serpent around a branch. Then, ahead of his, the massive cavern opened to an even larger one, and the river became nothing short of a massive lake, the likes of which may have rivalled the Sea of Dorne itself. Scattered buildings and other shapes, some moving, and other still, remained at the edges of his strange vision, yet eventually, these became too indistinct in the darkness, and then vanished entirely, as the foamy slick upon the water turned into a fog of milky opacity. He could no more see the other side than he could the bottom of this place, yet his boat continued, until the shores had disappeared completely, and he was along amidst the great bubbling mass of water. The fog grew thicker, the smell of it a mixture of mud and salt, growing so thick as to almost choke him.

Then, he heard it. A voice, a whisper of a language he did not know, yet understood in its entirety. It spoke of ages long since passed, of a time before the coming of doom and the breaking of the world's magic. It spoke of the history of his family centuries past, before the coming of the dragons and their riders. The voice made mention of the place being far older than itself, a byproduct of a bygone age, when the world was far younger, and the world far more primitive than today. It stood in the realm of legends to legends, where the voice had come in, much as he had, to a place far beyond its ability to fully comprehend.

The might of anything always had drawbacks, and it was here, as told by the waters themselves, that a great hammering of the pillars of the world had shaken a great land. Their supports washed away by the great flood of water beneath, the furthest lands had sunken into the sea, an attempt to halt the advance of a people laying waste to those wielding this hammer. Yet in their attempt to save themselves, they doomed themselves, for these 'men' had crossed in great enough number to never be ousted. The act alone broke the web of magic supporting the land, and with the sinking of the arm of land, the funneled storms were more easily turned away by the mountains. The lands slowly dried, with what grasslands remained turning into savannahs, and the current deserts swallowing all in their path. Just as well, inadvertently thanks to the efforts of those so long ago, the magic under these lands joined all the waters, with every stream and spring given life by this great, singular basin. It was where he had been drawn, to this power, to this place, where it now resided.

Alfrid could scarcely comprehend it all, his mind overwhelmed by the sheer history of this place. Yet that fell away, as amidst the great bubbling water and fog, a pair of shapes arose from the water, tall, thin stalks, upon which a pair of bulbous eyes sat. Their dark, lidless forms peered deep into his own eyes, and he dared not blink at the sight before him, for Alfrid somehow knew such weakness would spell his demise. For an eternity, or perhaps only a moment, they watched one another, before the eyes rose further. From the depths of the water came the rest of the creature, the great beak and shell rising higher than the boat did, upon powerful, armored legs. The front legs, the largest of them all, bore terrible claws, huge and horrible, with which the creature gently picked up Alfrid, who offered no struggle.

The words it spoke were great and terrible yet filled with care and concern. It knew of his struggles, for it too bore a similarity for a man like him. Cast into the world through no fault of its own, struggling to survive where others like it perished constantly. Yet like Alfrid, it had grown strong among such adversity, and would continue to do so, overcoming its challenges as they came. It offered him a choice, perhaps the greatest Alfrid would ever know. Should he serve it, serve this Nādrēsy, then it would bestow upon him gifts to accomplish his goals. He would know little thirst and be as tireless as the rivers themselves. His will would be made manifest through his actions, and men would flock to serve him. His greatest desires and dreams would become real, and his enemies would fall before him, like pillars of salt before the torrent of a flood. All of this would be Alfrid's, if he served the old one, the one called Nādrēsy.

"I accept your terms, my god," the bastard said, turning his back once and for all on the Seven, as it told him all strong men eventually did. They were distant, if real at all, but Nādrēsy was here, in the flesh, and thus far worthier of his worship.

The great creature opened its maw, and from this emerged a long, forked tongue, the two ends dripping in putrid mucus. One seized Alfrid by the head, the two points pulling his mouth open and forcing his jaw wider than he'd thought it capable of. The other, slick with white foam, shoved itself down and into his throat, and from somewhere deep within it, began to expunge a putrid, viscous mucus into his lungs. The pressure in his body and head suddenly spiking, his eyes growing heavy, Alfrid slumped over as the sweet words of Nādrēsy told him of his enemy, of the storm given flesh, of an abomination amongst abominations roaming the world. This was his enemy, now and forever. He would seek this monster out, until either of them had perished, and if successful, would bring his foe back to Nādrēsy, so that it might feast upon it, as it had so many others. It would take the power it had for its own, and with the death of its hated foe, it might finally return to its true home, far across the sea.

Alfrid then awoke with a start, turning quickly to survey his surroundings. He was back in the old manor, his companions milling about, some cooking on a relit fire pit, others tending to their supplies or moving about, exploring the manor. His head was hazy, and his mind blurred, the memories of the day before seeming so long ago, and already a bit muddied. It was like the remnants of a night filled with strong drink and beautiful women, pleasant but indistinct.

Shaking his head, of thoughts half-formed of a massive cavern and the horror that dwelt within, he rose. "Once we've made ready, to the Vulture's Roost, men," he said. "Today we find if there are more of these riders amongst those ruins."

"What of these other ruins? Should we look through them, see if anything was left behind?" one of the men asked.

"Perhaps on the way back, but not before," Alfrid replied, feeling a pull towards that old, ruined castle. "For now, refill your waterskins at the well, the water is good and we won't have time to refill them in the castle itself. Something tells me whoever destroyed that castle so thoroughly also made sure to destroy the wells."

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Allyria sighed as she lounged under her great parasol, growing ever frustrated in her attempts to make sense of this small book exploring intricacies of trade deals. What did she care for trading? Such was the life of merchants and lords. Ladies did not dabble in such affairs if they could help it, and if they had to, why, there were others available to do that for them! She cared more for the intricacies of alliances through marriage and relation, or of using acquaintances to build a system of support for one's plans.

Setting her book aside, and motioning for a servant, she was brought a cooled decanter of diluted wine, with a splash of fresh lemon juice added to it. Her companion had been content to drink his wine and eat figs in the shade during her reading.

"So, Michael," she said, after a long silence. "How stands House Wyl in its efforts?"

The youngest son of that house smiled. "As far as I have been told, my lady, the efforts of my father and cousin have not gone unnoticed. Word has it other lords investigating these mysterious riders have faltered or failed, yet Alfrid remains abreast of the situation. I am quite confident he shall, in time, solve this mystery, and regain some of his honor."

"I should hope so," she said with a smile. "His gallantry in the Marches, despite the… unpleasantness of his near demise, is something to be noted. Many a fair maiden may have by now heard of him, and should your father grant him a name, more than a few will be liable to look to him for a match. Even should they remain under their father's roof, many a Dornish lady would wish for a dashing, skilled rogue such as him for a husband."

"You are more desirable than most, as well as more cunning by half," Michael replied. "Yet with the outcome of his fellows, some might come to question his motives. I assume you have heard talk of this, on your travels?"

She knew Alfrid desired her, as did other young lords, but the game of earning their devotion, whilst also ensuring they would be more than prestigious enough for her hand, encouraged her to play them out bit by bit. Some had fallen away, but what did she care for the losers? Only the best of her suitors would win her hand and her heart. "Indeed, most have heard of plight of the Blinded Bandits, and though I assume such tales grow more outlandish over time, what later happened to those mysterious riders remains too horrible to contemplate. I often pray to the Seven for their departed souls." That was a rather generous claim, given that she rarely visited the small sept in the Tor. The last time she had, she'd prayed for her mother's health, and her prayers had been answered.

"Yet what of the other two survivors? Did you by chance meet them during your stay in Sunspear?"

"That I did," she replied. "Most curious, how little I was able to meet with Lewyn or Doran, despite seeing them there. One could almost think they were being kept from the smallfolk's eye by our Martell prince."

"Indeed he may, but some lords find it distasteful that he had been so forthcoming in his efforts to save his fellows. Other also find it brave of him to risk himself for his fellow Dornish, even if his punishment was only half of theirs."

"A split in the opinions of lords does little to diminish the fact that the Stormlords at our border are no doubt celebrating their victory, at the expense of our people," her younger brother piped up, from his small hammock between a pair of pillars. He had sat in silence this entire time, and once more, was butting in on matters he did not understand. "Likely charging additional tolls on whatever brave Dornish still come to their lands for trade."

"Now Franklyn, let us not be too hasty," she reprimanded. "While the punishment was unduly harsh, the passions of men are most easily riled in times of battle. I am certain that, after some time has passed, this 'Lord Wytch' will feel most guilty for what he did to those he had captured. The same would go for those with whom we trade, for in the end, we have spices and goods they do not, and if they wish to part with that coin, then they must not hate us all that much."

"How can a Stormlander feel any remorse for such an action?" her brother countered. "They are brutish thugs, who know little of the struggle we Dornish face with dignity and guile. He likely blinded them himself, enjoying the pain he inflicted."

"I doubt that," Michael of House Wyl offered. "He may be a blight upon the honor of my cousin, and my house by extension, but I doubt him to be so ruthless as to enjoy such an act. What he did, however, has changed the face of raiding, at least for some time. Fewer men I have spoken with seem eager to try their hand at it, if blindness awaits them."

"I am certain this entire ordeal will end sooner than later. You men and your focus on war, when there are plenty of other noble pursuits to aspire for," Allyria said, rising from under her parasol. "Michael, give my regards to Alfrid, next you see him, and thank him for his letter, I look forward to the next one. I must return my book to the maester, lest he grow upset again. Come, brother."

Leaving the courtyard, with her younger brother following close behind her, she sighed. As the youngest, he had so much ahead of him, but also so many men to look up to. To hear of Alfrid's exploits at so young an age was not good for him. It gave him… ideas, ones her father, and frankly she, did not care for.

"Franklyn, temper your passions, for father's sake. He has enough to worry about these days."

Her younger brother scowled. "I just don't understand why he won't let me go on such an adventure. Grandfather did when he was my age."

"At that age, our grandfather had needed to, to ensure his hold on the Tor was strong and unchallenged. The death of his father had made that a necessity. You, on the other hand, are not yet two and ten, and father has many more years yet to live. Father would not want you to return from a jaunt into the Marches missing your eyes, or worse."

"Easy for you to say, he lets you and the others do whatever you wish," Franklyn muttered. "How long until I am old enough that father will let me go off on my own adventures?"

"Near five years yet, at least. The sooner father feels you are mature enough to go off, the sooner you will be able to."

"But that's so long away! Why must I wait so long for my life to start?"

She sighed, rubbing her temple in frustration. "We all had to wait, little brother. You'll just have to wait a bit longer until it's your turn. In the meantime, please visit mother, she is recovering well from her fever, and the maester said she can receive visitors now.''