Chapter 10: Stormlanders V

Late 153 AC

The continued success of the plows and seed drills were defying his already substantial expectations. Lands that had not been plowed since before the Conquest, harshly depopulated from the losses in manpower incurred against the Targaryens and Orys Baratheon generations ago, were being made ready for the next planting season. Villages who had been barely self-sufficient were now coming to him to seek permission to build additional granaries, a request he readily granted. He'd even been convinced by Mylenda to dip into their own coffers to purchase the additional seed they would need for all of these upcoming fields.

It'd been pittance, but he didn't want too many other lords suspecting his sudden increase in farmland too abruptly, hence the buying of spare seed from several of his neighbors, as well as a pair of Reach lords to his north. Each purchase had been overall minute, but combined together was something that would have drawn a great deal of attention elsewhere. He wanted to gain an advantage over his neighbors as soon as possible, much as Lord Wytch had done, but in a way that didn't reek of subterfuge to his fellow lords.

Yet as he ventured out of his lands, and into those of Lord Wytch, he was startled by the distinction between them. Where his own lands were just beginning to expand their farming operations, these lands must have been doing so for years. Far from the seat of Stormhall, small villages surrounded large, not-quite new granaries, with fields stretching from one sloped hill to the next. Farther out from these same villages, small herds of sheep frolicked in fine pastures, giving him no small amount of envy at the greenery and their apparent health. Yet he bit back at such thoughts, content in the knowledge that perhaps soon, his own pastures might see such a bounty of animals.

Over the crest of every hill was much the same. Every shallow valley had a village, with fields stretching to the hills, herds of sheep and even cattle surrounding them. Plots of trees dotted the rockier hills, some of them young enough to have been planted relatively recently. Occasionally, small orchards surrounded the villages themselves, many bearing a multitude of different apples, nearly ready for the coming harvest. Roads that had formerly been mere footpaths were now easily identifiable wagon trails, and as the group crested another hill, days after entering, they came across a great gathering of men and women.

A labor camp, one larger than any he'd seen before, situated along a great river of stone. No, no a river, but a road, a road fit for a king, winding along ridges and caressing lone hills as it wound its way off into the distance. The stone slabs and crushed gravel were laid in layers upon one another, a great trench dug to serve as the bed for the road itself before the material was placed. The excess dirt was hauled away, often scattered across the rockier areas, whereupon small trees and what looked like wild oats were sown. The camp was guarded by a patrol of lightly armored horsemen, with long, light lances and similarly-styled swords. A quick exchange of sigils and proof from Lord Wytch's accompanying messenger granted them passage.

That same messenger had brought three important missives to Windhall, for the eyes of its lord alone. The first had been a reaffirmation of their proposed mutual enrichment of their lands and the development needed between the two. The road builders from Lowhill and thus Stormhall, upon reaching the border, would fall under the jurisdiction of him and his granddaughter until they reached Ore Town and Windhill proper, whereupon they would be available to build a road to their nearest Marcher neighbors, or be sent back to Lowhill.

The second had been a bit odd, in that Stormhall was looking for the largest ram he could find on his lands, and in exchange, were willing to part with twenty cattle, including one young bull, for the start of their own cattle herd. He'd immediately sent out men to find the largest of rams, curious as to where this was going. His house had rarely tended to cattle in any great number, given the makeup of their lands, and after having lost their small herd during the Dance to a sickness, he had not yet managed to reacquire the necessary animals.

The last missive had been the most perplexing, this invitation of Lord Wytch's, extending to him and all of his knights, landed or otherwise, for a feast at his hall. Little had been explained of the matter, other than encouraging him and his men to dress for battle, in case of bandits. The thought of Morden Wytch's demise was more than enough to convince him of the potential for such harm, though he suspected more was involved in the matter than mere chance.

However, such thoughts were pushed aside upon arrival, the sheer industriousness of the roadbuilding taking him by surprise. He'd have thought the need for the patrols was a given, but the lines of workers moving to the erected tents for their midday meal, the wagons of food almost outnumbering the people, struck a chord with him with how chaotically efficient it seemed. The smallfolk laying out the stone at the direction of the foremen seemed to be happily singing about 'workin on the Wytchroad, all the live long day', and while it was clearly something they'd come up with to pass the time, he had to admit it was rather catchy.

A closer inspection and some questioning had revealed none of the materials were this "Wytch-stone" his granddaughter's betrothed was producing, but that made sense to Lord Windhill. Surely such a product would only be good for within a town, close to where it could be made. The thought of long stretches of the stuff, serving as roads leagues away from any habitation, made him chuckle at the absurdity of it.

After moving his baggage train and men onto the road, he was impressed by their increased pace. Bivouacking through even 'traveled' areas often had the dangers of random gopher holes, errant rocks, muddy pits, steep slopes of slick grass and a whole host of traveling obstacles. Now, they made such good time, his estimation of arrival was shortened by a matter of days.

Sure enough, after only a few days of moving along the road, passing by merchant and smallfolk caravans alike, and cresting the last in a long line of hilly fields filled with penned-in cattle, some of them rather shaggy at that, they found themselves overlooking Stormhall in the distance. Shortly afterwards, after they had crossed perhaps half the distance, an honor guard arrived, bearing the Wytch sigil and armored as could be.

"Lord Wytch has been expecting you, but not so soon, my lord," the captain said. "He is glad that you have made good time."

"I have his road to thank for that," Jon Windhill replied. "I have brought with me additional items for his feast, if he so wishes, courtesy of a Dornish merchant caravan passing through my lands."

"Certainly," had been the reply, though the remainder of the journey to Stormhall had been in silence. All around, fields were worked, animals fed and watered, and where the road diverged, Lowhill lay spread out before them. The walls of the town far exceeded the size of it, with the remainder likely open for future expansion, but with the bands of smallfolk they'd passed by coming on foot from other directions, it would likely fill sooner than later.

Turning away from Lowhill, the approach to Stormhall was uphill, along a road far wider and far nicer than even the one they'd traveled upon. Alongside it, in training fields that had to be only weeks old, were men gathered and practicing for war. Bowmen, wielding yew bows, fired into targets alongside crossbowmen doing the same. Men on horseback, with surprisingly little armor, skewered targets with long lances or slashed at them with swords. A few were even attempting to fire short bows while riding past a target, but seemed to be doing rather terribly.

Further up, men with long sticks were standing in formation, the tips of their mock weapons dripping in either blood or some reddish paint of some kind. Before them lay a series of men, heavily outfitted in mock armor and wielding what looked to be extremely large swords, almost too large to even use. Every now and then, these unusual swordsmen would move forward and knock away as many of these sticks as possible, some receiving no paint on their false armor and others being covered in it.

Arriving at the main gates of the keep, recent additions and renovations plain to see, he found Lord Wytch waiting for him, his lady mother and younger sisters alongside him. It was hard to believe it'd been near a year since he'd seen the boy, and now just shy of his fourteenth nameday, it was clear he'd be no small fellow. Already towering over his family, the young lord was as big as men near five years his senior.

Dismounting, he approached the lord, receiving a firm handshake. "Lord Wytch," he said.

"Lord Windhill," was the reply, and at those words, his lady mother Janyce produced a tray of bread and salt.

The words remained unspoken, but he nodded in thanks, and partook in the tradition. As his men behind him began to dismount, and the large carts with them were wheeled into the expanded courtyard, he glanced around.

"I see Stormhall has changed since my last visit."

"Indeed," Lord Wytch said with a smile. "Much has changed, Lord Windhill. But of course, there will be time to discuss that during our feast. Come, I'm sure you'll wish to have a shower and change."

"Shower? Surely you mean a bath?"

"You will have to see for yourself, my lord, it is a most recent addition to our more esteemed guest's quarters," Lady Wytch said. "My daughters, Arenna and Shyra."

"My lord, welcome to Stormhall," Arenna, the older of the two, said, the pair giving practiced curtseys. Were he had a young grandson to inherit instead of Mylenda, betrothing Arenna would have been a very viable option. Alas, he had Mylenda, and bless the gods for their mercy in allowing him her.

Giving the little lady a polite bow, he followed Lord Wytch away from the courtyard, past a training ground with a rather unfortunate wooden dummy. The dents and errant bits of wood must have come from some rather harsh swings of something heavy.

"How was your journey?" Lord Wytch asked.

"Fairly uneventful, thankfully. No errant storms to delay us, and we made much better time with the aid of your 'Wytchroad' as the smallfolk were calling it. Singing, actually, a catchy little tune to help pass the time. However, I must confess, I am a bit perplexed as to why you needed so many of my men with me."

"After the feast, perhaps," the young man said, waving away the question. "What did you think of my lands?"

He would definitely ask again, but yes, onto better things. "I've rarely seen such fields so full, or villages so brimming in the Stormlands. Many appeared to have recently planted orchards around their homes, the homes themselves sturdy little things of brick and mortar. I'd never have thought smallfolk capable of building something other than a hovel in a land with so few trees."

"Indeed, moving the loads of bricks would have been far too great a chore if not for the kilns built in the villages to supply their own needs. A great deal of soil beneath my lands is clay, much of it terrible for things like pottery but ideal for bricks. With the offal of the harvests serving as the fuel supply, along with the dried dung of their livestock, the smallfolk have done well remaking their homes into sturdier things."

He would have to look into such a possibility for his own smallfolk. Sturdy homes protected against storm and cold alike far better than hovels. "What is with the small clusters of trees I've seen on the hilltops?"

"Well, as you said, there are few trees out here. This is an experiment, to see if we can create small woods in areas where the pasture is terrible and the farming is even worse. Why leave land empty and useless if you could create your own wood supply instead?"

"I see, a worthy endeavor, to become more self-sufficient," he replied. "Many lords forget that during times of war, famine or likewise turmoil, it can oft be difficult to purchase materials from neighboring lords. I've done as much as I could in the past to do the same, though it seems now I still have much to learn."

"We always will, even if we lived forever," Lord Wytch said, showing him to his room. A small yet relatively open room, with a large bed, a small writing desk, and a small fireplace. Off to the side, through a currently open door, stood a large grate with rather small holes, the edges rising slightly over the sides. Handles jutted from the walls, as well as a small bench off to the side holding several towels, and above the drain was a large basin. From the bottom of the basin extended a rod, at the end of which appeared to be a large disk with a series of small holes punched into it. Alongside that, a lever was jutting forth, a long rod hanging from it.

"The shower," Lord Wytch explained, seeing his curious stare. "Above is the room in which the maids are able to heat and dump the water into the large basin. We've yet to find a way to install the pipes without ripping out walls, but think of this as the first step. Simply pull on the hanging rod, and the water will run down onto through the showerhead, as we call it. The maids began heating the water shortly after you were sighted, so it may yet be a tad hot."

"Is the water cleansed?"

"Indeed, but you'll have to scrub yourself, I'm afraid."

Having been out on the road for a while, that didn't sound so bad. "With what?"

"This," Casper said, pointing to a small shelf, upon which sat an odd bar of what looked to be beef fat. Only, upon closer inspection, it smelled of… flowers?

"What is this?"

"Soap, rendered from beef tallow and mixed with water, lye and oils, in this case, from crushed flowers."

Several guards entered the room, carrying with them his things. "I'll see you down at the feast," Casper said, before leaving him with his things. The guards took up positions outside the door, closing it behind them.

Suffice to say, after stripping down and entering the shower, he'd managed to barely suppress his small yelp from the hot water hitting his skin, though thankfully he'd not been standing under it at the time, merely extending his hand to test its warmth. Upon growing used to it, he grabbed the 'soap', only to find it rather slippery when wet. Thankfully, avoiding the issue of dropping it and then trying to pick up the slick thing, he scrubbed himself, relishing the feel of the hot water falling on him as the dust and grime of the road flowed under and away from him.

Afterwards, the ensuing feast was unlike many he'd been to. For starters, thought the festive mood was shared by his men and those of Lord Wytch, there was an edge to their celebratory nature. Nothing overt, but he hadn't grown to an old age by missing telltale signs of worry amongst the men, likely from the stories he'd been hearing of the confrontation with Lord Craggner only a short time ago. Still, the food was plentiful and very well done, some he was familiar with and others that were new, with the 'breadwytch' being his favorite amongst those. A most mysterious thing, thinking to place slices of meat, cheese and fresh vegetables upon slabs of bread, often with butter or a thick cream mixed with herbs spread across it. Other such novelties included 'Dornished eggs' which were boiled, the insides mixed with all sort of small vegetables and then sprinkled with a select number of seasonings, 'log rolls' in which thin dough was wrapped around vegetables and meat and then fried, and perhaps the strangest of all, a dish known as a 'wheeler' where one baked sauce, cheese and any number of ingredients upon a round flatbread approximately the size of a wagon wheel.

The ale was plentiful, as was wine and mead, but the newest drinks going around were something he'd never tried before. The whiskey he found to be a bit harsh on the tongue and throat, despite the pleasant warmth it left in his chest, and he could already see some of his soldiers starting to feel its strong effect. Yet the brandy… by the gods, Casper the Wondermaker indeed!

"If you've the extra barrel or three, I would gladly purchase it from you, Lord Wytch," he said, sipping brandy made from blackberries grown in the forests near Timberstone, or so Casper had claimed.

"I would be glad to partake in such an exchange, at a reduced price, of course," the young lord said, sipping his own drink. "In time we will be kin, after all, and family looks after family."

"Agreed," he muttered, glancing over at Casper's mother. Lady Janyce had been most polite in their conversations, but she seemed… distant, even as she watched her daughters begin to doze off from an excess intake of food. With only a glance to her son, earning a nod in response, she bid him goodnight, and ushered her two daughters off to bed.

"She was very worried, when Lord Craggner surrounded the manse," Lord Wytch muttered, draining the last of his brandy. "In her youth, her elder sister and friends was set upon by a knight and his mates, all of them very drunk at the time, but no less aware of their actions. While her sister escaped, those friends had a very… unpleasant experience. I'm afraid all she could do was think the same would happen to her and my sisters, or worse, if they'd decided to storm the manse."

"I shudder to think of the kind of animals that would do such things to children," Jon Windhill agreed. "Were it my own granddaughter, I'd have more than just gelded them, damn the consequences of their sires or lords."

"Aye, that's the thing about it, isn't it? Men may do as they wish, so long as they have the power or prestige to back it up. None care about the loss of face of some hedge knight raping a miller's daughter, but if it'd been the son of a high lord, perhaps even a lord paramount, then all of a sudden it is a grave sin that must be covered up or discredited."

"Many men lose restraint when alcohol is involved."

Lord Wytch grimaced. "Many more care not to have it in the first place." After a few moments of silence, the young lord turned to him. "I've noticed your glances at the men. Speak your mind, my lord."

"They are on edge, that I can see," he replied. "This business with Lord Craggner, it bodes ill."

"That's not the worst of it. My scouts, which I have been sending out as often as possible, have witnessed an amassing of men along my borders. Not just with Lord Craggner, but with others as well. Greycairn, Wysp and Galewood, they've all moved men towards my lands, small and mostly levies, but they've been spied nonetheless. It reeks of something ill, something I've not yet been able to determine, but one I have my suspicions of."

"Yes?"

"I believe them to have been behind my father's death in some way. Perhaps they allowed the bandits passage? Paid them to cause havoc in my lands to bring troubles upon my house, and just so happened to kill Morden Wytch? Perhaps they hired them to do the deed? Or were there no bandits at all, and the murder of my father was orchestrated by jealous neighbors using their own men?"

"All very serious crimes, each more so than the last," he replied. He was no fool, there was something afoot. The lords in question had approached him for an alliance shortly before Morden's wounding and eventual death, one of blocking the expansion of House Wytch. He'd declined, of course, knowing that messing with a lord whose food could be sent directly to Marcher lords was a surefire way of crippling the honor and prestige of his house. Getting mixed up in things beyond their ability to influence or control had ended far stronger houses than his.

"That is part of the reason I asked for you to travel in such numbers, and so greatly armed," Lord Wytch admitted, sounding a bit apologetic. "I thought it might make for a good deterrent, to show that I have allies in this possible fight. Word by way of smallfolk and merchant travels almost as fast as any messenger, and by now, they should be hearing of it."

"Elsewise, why extend the invitation?" He had to admit, it was a smart move. A show of strength, without a direct call of an ally, and it was indeed true that after ravens or reliable messengers, smallfolk spread news faster than any. Just as well, so many men showing up to a feast would be expected, and while he was only hosting Wytch and Windhill men, they would all spread tales of the bounty and exquisite food and drink where else they went, be it sober or in their cups.

"I wanted to propose a venture together, one that could see is both achieve a great deal of wealth and new opportunities in our lands, but one I needed to speak with you about directly. Along our border runs a small river, more a stream than anything, which drains into my lands. It passes by a section of both our lands that is, suffice to say, rather rocky and ill-suited for anything other than perhaps mining, but my prospectors have told me it is unlikely for there to be anything there."

"Aye, I believe I'm familiar with it, not even the smallfolk of the area have a name for it, just calling it 'the stony valley' if I recall."

"Indeed. I was looking, since it serves as our border, to create something useful out of it, seeing as the river itself is too shallow to use for watermills and too far from any settlements to be used for water. As we are too far from the coast to try and connect some sort of costly canal to it, the river being too small for that anyway, what say you about making a lake?"

"A lake? How would we make the river into a lake?"

"Dam it, of course! I've the Wytch-stone and experienced engineers to make it happen, but together we've both the manpower and the resources to see it done quickly, as I'll need good stone from your quarries to help make it solid enough to last. The rocky valley serves no purpose, and the hills surrounding it would serve as the walls to contain the waters. Were the stony valley to fill with water, it would be likely grow to well over a few hundred acres in size, perhaps being a hundred feet deep at the most. Carving a drain that would flow out into the old river, perhaps some ways off from it, would be best done first, I think, to ensure a flood does not occur during a particularly rainy storm, as well as to maintain an outlet."

"I can see the merits of making a lake, fishing opportunities aside. Water for nearby farm fields should they expand that way, water for flocks of sheep, perhaps even a means of reforesting an area, much like your rocky hills. Yet it won't be an easy thing, and what about the lords downstream? Their water rights are sacred."

"Indeed, hence why I'd wish to complete the drain for the lake before the dam is even built," Lord Wytch said. "I've estimated the entire project would take nearly a year to complete, preferably in winter when the water levels are lower, and the cost would near thirty thousand gold dragons, with an extra ten thousand accounting for delays or supply issues. I'll have the gold for it by then, barring something arising that would see my treasury be drained."

Jon Windhill let out a low whistle as a guard approached the table. That was no low sum, and it would take a great deal of time before the earnings from the lake eclipsed the cost. Yet, it was a practical idea, to be sure, and even if it failed, well, it wouldn't be draining his treasury, now would it?

"My lord, a messenger brought this for you," the guard said, handing a small scroll to Casper.

He watched at the young lord's face went from fairly jovial to serious in mere moments, and as he finished the note, the look had turned murderous.

"War," he muttered.

"What?"

Casper shook his head. "Craggner and his bastard have crossed into my lands with armed men at their backs once more. The scouts fled before they could be attacked, but already three of my more distant villages have been burnt."

"Not one to tell a fellow lord what to do, but should you not sound the call to arms? Gather the levies and strike back? Send a raven to Lord Baratheon?"

"Nay, levies will do me no good here. Reports indicate the men are near to my own in number, and are pillaging as they go, so they will be slow. Lord Baratheon would not know for days, perhaps a week or more if the ravens are intercepted or weather delays them, and his response would be even slower. Besides, Lord Craggner cares not for the threat of punishment, you've heard of his arrival in Lowhill and the events there. This… this is his endgame, to see me brought low, perhaps killed if I don't think things through."

"With my men here, the scales may be in our favor, but what of the others?"

"The other lords have made no moves yet, but if this goes on for too long, they just might, sensing weakness. We must strike hard and fast, but wisely, lest we fall into a trap."

"My men are ready to aid yours, Lord Wytch."

"They will be ready come morning, once they've slept and the alcohol wears off. Rushing into this fight, it'll cost us more than letting a few border villages burn overnight, and even Lord Craggner's men need sleep. Besides," Lord Wytch added, with a soft and harsh laugh, "is that not the power we lords have? To determine the lives of men and women in our lands, or in those we attack for one reason or another?"

"I will gladly give my counsel, if you will have it, my lord."

"Indeed, Lord Windhill, though we must ride come morning. Have you any ideas?"

"Staying supplied in your own lands will be easy, the smallfolk love you and would gladly assist in aiding their protective lord, so a supply line will not be as much of an issue. You also said that just Lord Craggner has attacked, boldly so, but in doing so has shown he is reckless, as most lords are unwilling to break the King's Peace over such a seemingly trivial matter. I would guess that his bastard is of the same mindset, mayhaps even more so. So, to avoid a possible trap…"

"We set one of our own," the young lord said, and his smile gave Jon Windhill a small spike of pity for House Craggner.

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"We are in agreement, then?" Lord Wysp said, his men mingling with those of his fellow lords. In their command tent, away from prying eyes and ears, they sat, suddenly unsure of the future they had so carefully been planning.

"Aye, Craggner went too far, too fast, and he'll drag us down with him if we're not careful," Lord Galewood said. "The boy's with Windhill now through that betrothal, and they're set to be thicker than thieves. Word is Lord Windhill is making use of farmland that's been fallow since the Conquest, only way that is if he's been supplied them newfangled plows and seed drills I've heard talk of."

"We've been too blinded by the threat the boy posed to see what he could do for us," Lord Greycairn said after a moment of silence. "I had some of my men dress as travelers, looking for work, and went through his lands to scout it out. Gods, those roads near his seat, they're better than the Kingsroad in most places! If we had roads like that…"

"Not to mention his farmland is expanding every passing season," Lord Wysp added, sipping his ale. "Before you know it, his lands'll produce more food than all ours combined. Were it not for our current situation, I would not be averse to buying some of his contraptions, if only to try and make my own."

"We must tread carefully, we've an opportunity here even greater than what we've been planning for, but it is riskier as a result," Lord Galewood said, dropping to a whisper. "If Craggner succeeds, or at least does well, then we proceed as planned, and this conversation is nothing more than smoke lost on the wind. However, if something were to happen to him or his bastard, such as death on the battlefield, then we must do something to remain unhindered by potential accusations. All of us could burn for the actions of one, or profit from them all the same."

"We shall have to wait and see," Lord Greycairn added. "My own forces can be in his lands the fastest, to reinforce his own troops, or to keep the peace, should things take a turn."

"Then wait we shall," Galewood said, his nod mirroring Lord Wysp's.