Chapter 4: SI II

153 AC

Only a moon had passed since that day.

The training sword felt heavy in my hands, but that was normal. I'd been training in the yard for hours now, trying to take my mind off of this sudden divergence in my life. With any luck, my father would have lived for a few decades more, perhaps going off to fight and earn glory in the Conquest of Dorne while I stayed back and developed our lands. Yet now, he was gone, and I would likely have to take his place in that conflict, while still going through with as many of my projects and plans as I could.

Hence my training. I was, as Roland put it, "almost decent with a sword or lance", but my main area had become the flail, specifically larger and larger ones as I grew older and larger myself. If Bobby B could swing a warhammer with ease that most men struggled to lift, likely due to whatever odd magic was in his Durrandon/Baratheon and Targaryen blood, it was likely I too had some of that same odd strength. My flail would not become cartoonishly large, mind you, but at this rate, it might be comparable to a smaller version of what the Witch King of Angmar used on the fields of Pelennor.

But let's be real, I'm only thirteen. I may be a big man eventually, but first I have to reach that point in life before I can decide my choice of weapon. As I put away the sword, Roland nodding at my progress, I noticed my maester standing off to the side, looking anxious.

"Maester Gorman?"

"Lord Wytch, you have the petitioners for today awaiting you in the hall."

Once I'd taken a quick shower, i.e. having two servants dump warm water over me while I scrubbed myself, and then changing, I moved to our, no, what was now my main hall. It was nothing substantial, maybe large enough to host thirty people sitting or twice that if everyone stood, and my seat wasn't impressive, but it was home, and I'd be making some changes in the future.

Seating myself, I cast a quick glance over the small group. Not a lot of people, honestly, but that was supposed to be a given. Their features were a bit curious, though, they seemed travel-worn, and judging from some of their clothes or appearances, they'd likely not all come from the edges of my lands. Immigrants, perhaps?

I'd used my personal funds, courtesy of my father gifting me a small percentage of our taxes for the Stormhall crop rotation and plow, for a census a year or two ago, done shortly after the end of spring. It'd nearly drained them all, putting some of my other projects on hold, but in the end, it'd been worth it. At the time of the survey there were around fifteen to seventeen thousand people within my lands, give or take a few hundred, with over half the population residing in ten settlements. I'd been very surprised to find we had several towns in our lands other than Lowhill, though to call them towns was a bit overblown. More like very large villages, some of them with around a thousand people apiece, and others a bit less than that.

So, thus the question begged: would I actively seek immigrants, or consolidate and slowly grow my own population? I'd rather not deal with accusations of smallfolk poaching, as until I found out those responsible my father had likely paid the price for such an accusation, but I'd prefer not to rely just on birthrates to increase my smallfolk. Even with the plans I had for future growth and prosperity, smallfolk could only have so many children, and only so many of them would reach adulthood. Just letting people move into my lands could also be disastrous, there was no telling what unsavory characters might hide amongst them, and while I couldn't track them all, it'd be nice to notice trends before they blew up in my face.

Maester Gorman, as part of the census, had started a small but growing list of immigrant groups of some sort or another that had come to our lands over the past few years. I gave him a nod, his quill and parchment at the ready, knowing this might make that list a tad longer.

Gesturing to the first smallfolk in line, a rather bent old man with a gnarled walking stick, I spoke. "For the record, state your name, and your origin."

"Myles, milord, I come with me family from the edge o' the Reach, north o' here."

"How many are with you?" The Reach? Why had they come all the way here?

"Only the ten o' us, milord. Me sons are tending to the flock outside, me gooddaughters are keepin' an eye on the youngin's."

"Shepherds, eh? What brings you to my lands?"

"Pasture no good no more, milord, grasses weren't growing and the sheep were starving. Local lord said nothin they could do about it, will o' the Seven."

Well, I could use more shepherds. I've plenty of pastureland to dole out, but I wanted to spread smallfolk to Highmarsh, whose future as a cattle and sheep town would take longer than Lowhill's development. "I will accept you into my lands, Myles, and give you leave to venture to Highmarsh. There is good pasture there, more than enough for the herd, and the mayor will have reasonably priced goods to build your new homes. Be warned, though, that I will not tolerate sheep rustling nor any other crime in my lands."

He gave a fervent nod of thanks before one of the guards escorted him out. The next petitioner, a younger man this time, his roughspun wool similar to Myles', bowed before me.

"Your name?"

"Addam, milord, from north o' the Kingswood."

"How many?" Not quite as far as whatever part of the Reach Myles came from, but that's not exactly a short distance.

"A couple, I don't know me numbers too well above ten, milord." Gorman would need to check these people out, and while I didn't have the means of creating an education system for smallfolk just yet, that didn't mean I didn't want one. Gods, not knowing your numbers, as annoying as it was predictable.

"Your profession, then?"

"I be a blacksmith, milord, mostly for tools and the like."

"Your reason for coming to my lands?"

"Lived in a hamlet just about by the big woods, but a forest fire destroyed our village. I come with some crofter families, me own wife, and a small herd o' hogs."

Pigs were not common in my lands, or at least they weren't outside of the forested areas. That was the curious thing about domesticated pigs, they did better historically in many places with forests if raised in small herds, before the availability of animal food increased to where they could be kept almost anywhere. That had been part of the reason why some Earth cultures, especially those in hot, dry locales like scrubland or near-desert, didn't even eat pig. They just couldn't afford to raise them in that environment, which would be a net drain on any farmer or community as a whole.

"I will accept you into my lands, Addam, but you and yours will be settling in Timberstone. It is good forest country, perhaps not as large or vast as your old home, but they've the need of another blacksmith and crofters, as well as more hogs." While it would never become my cattle town like Highmarsh, having larger herds of hogs could definitely help Timberstone grow.

So it went, for a few hours at least. Just when some numbers would be thinning out, a few more would arrive, escorted by my guards. I'd no idea just how busy I could be with this many people asking things of me, usually permission for one thing or another. Gods, I needed to make my own bureaucracy, and fast, perhaps codifying my land's laws so that any problem could be dealt with without my immediate decision.

There was a man whose daughter had been kicked by one of my cows, breaking her arm, and was asking for some sort of exchange equating for the lost wages until she healed. He had every right to do so, but the pitiful way he asked, it was if he were expecting me to refuse.

Another man had accused one of my merchants of shorting him on his wool, saying he'd somehow made it lighter before the purchase and thus hadn't had to pay as much for it. At least he hadn't outright accused him of witchcraft.

Three women had come forward, accusing a young boy of spying on them whilst they bathed.

One of Lowhill's septons came forward, asking for permission to establish a food pantry-like charity in the future.

All in all, a general mix of frankly stupid or rather unimportant decisions, but ones I had to make regardless as lord. The first would receive the equivalent wages until his daughter healed, the second had seen the wool reweighed to ensure accuracy and found the merchant innocent, the third had seen the boy caned and made to work with the septons, the last of which I gave my permission for their charity.

With that finally finished, I'd returned to my study, going over notes and numbers with Gorman. While I had many plans in the works, or irons in the fire as some might say, there was one in particular I was not looking forward to.

Preparing for the war with Dorne. Oh, I'd definitely be old enough to fight, and unless Lord Baratheon said otherwise, I'd be there with the Stormlander contingent. I'd known very little about the war itself, or who fought it, only that it was liable to start within a few years, Dorne would kneel but then successfully rebel a few years later. Daeron would die, Baelor the glorified Jesus-proxy that I remembered him attempting to emulate would become king and manage to bring Dorne into the fold, but then not have kids and the throne would pass to his uncle, and then Aegon the Unworthy.

Then, the Blackfyre Rebellions would occur, with all those Great Bastards mucking about, and shit would just continue to go south for so many more Targaryens until the time of Aerys II. A man who, if things occur even slightly differently with my presence, may never come to exist. Hells, a lot of people might never be born just because I bought food that might have gone to someone else who then choked on it.

Okay, focus, the here and now, and perhaps the immediate future, are far more important. So, for the coming war, I'd need everything an army needs to run. Food, medical supplies, replacement parts for weapons and equipment, payment in loot or otherwise, the list went on and on. If I started stockpiling too much of this stuff openly, people might suspect I was preparing for war with a neighbor, or looking to claim my liege's seat.

That would not go well for me at all. No, I could start to stockpile, small amounts at first, gradually increasing, but it'd have to be well within my rights as a lord. However, stockpiling now would not be the best way for when the war arrives. No, setting up the industries I'll need to make these in larger quantities will be the more crucial aspect. Eventually, stock will run out, but continuing to produce will counteract that issue.

My most crucially small resource is my mines. I've only a few capable of producing good iron, and even they are a bit distant from my current developments. That means I'll be able to do little, if any, resupplying of weapons or armor. Just as well, I've so few miners working there, that developing the mines into more prosperous ones, would take away from my industries I'm looking to expand early.

One of which will be crucial to the war effort, spinsters and anything dealing with the spinning of thread. Why? Because a lot of men fighting will mean a lot of men wounded, lightly or otherwise, and that means bandages. I want my production to focus on wool garments and products, but to be easily changed over to cotton for this specific reason.

However, there is a problem with that. My lands can't grow cotton well enough for me to justify turning good, food-producing farmland into an area for such a cash crop. It'd be like the Irish turning potato fields into barley fields so they can make more whiskey.

You know who does grow cotton, and in large enough quantities to export it all the time?

Dorne.

Gods dammit, Dorne grows cotton, exactly what I need, and we'll be at war with them within a few years. I've put out feelers for anyone growing cotton in the Stormlands, but according to what maps my maester can scrounge up, the only likely candidates are to my extreme south and east, along the peninsula ending in Cape Wrath. Other than that, the southwestern portions of the Reach might also grow it, given the common nature of cotton in Westeros, but in all three cases, distances prohibit me from buying as much as I'd like at good prices.

So for now, I've been putting out word to merchants that I'm willing to buy cotton, though as close to home as possible and while few make their way into Dorne, I'll take what I can get, whenever I can get it.

The other industry that will be crucial to this war effort? My up and coming distillery, oddly enough. No, brandy and whiskey won't win the war, likely only pickle the livers of the lords who want to prove their manliness by chugging hard liquor until they puke, but what I also can distill certainly will. Namely, far, far stronger alcohol, the kind you can clean tools with. It won't be easy, and take a long time to make even some, but if I can convince whatever counts as doctors or medics in an army to clean their tools between uses, then I could potentially save thousands from death or disfigurement.

Other than that, building my own forces would be the third most useful step. However, on top of my levies, which I would hopefully be able to equip and train better than most, my personal retinue would be twofold. One would be the best kind of men for a rough and tough battle, but the other half would be the kind to hunt raiding parties or counterraid where possible. Lighter armor, fast horses, training to attack and disengage, deny the enemy supplies or rest, that sort of thing. The Dornish would have a homefield advantage, I would just have to try and mitigate that as much as possible.

My maester, having gone off to send a letter, had returned with two small rolls. His expression did not sit well with me.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Messages, my lord, one bearing the insignia of your neighbor, Lord Windhill," he said.

My neighbor to the west, with lands similar in size to mine, and by all accounts a likable old man. He'd discussed things with my father before, most of which I'd not been privy to, but I'd not seen him in near three years. Apparently he'd taken ill from something, and was forced to stay home due to the illness.

I took the note and unfurled it, reading it quickly, but then slowing down upon reaching a word that made my stomach drop.

Betrothal.

I reread the note until that point twice more, just to be sure I wasn't imagining things, and then managed to finish it. "A betrothal," I muttered, suddenly feeling scared.

"Yes, to his granddaughter and heir, Mylenda," Maester Gorman said. "She is of near your age, perhaps a few moons older."

"Why now? Father never mentioned anyone looking to betroth their daughter or granddaughter before. I wasn't good enough before, what changed?"

"You became lord, and that changed much. You are no longer a variable, a possible union and alliance, but a verifiable one. The marriage, should you accept this betrothal, will likely not be for a few years now, perhaps when you are both seven and ten."

That's in 157 AC. That's when the war is supposed to start.

Oh shit, am I hyperventilating? Calm down, calm down, I can handle this. I'm a lord, a man from another world, I've literally awoken as a new person and started making my way in this world in ways I'd never managed to before. I could deal with this.

"We will look things over before we reply," I said. "The other letter?"

"From our liege, Lord Baratheon," he said, handing it to me.

I read it over, dread replaced with curiosity and a tinge of excitement. "I've been summoned to Storm's End, there's to be an assembly of sorts," I said. "This is a perfect opportunity, Gorman. My lord will no doubt wish to speak with me on my father, but that will also give me the opening to talk about my lands."

"I do seem to recall that eventually what we've been doing would be noticed, but to possibly be able to speak directly with your liege lord, and thus control the narrative of how it is perceived, why, it's more than an opportunity, my lord," he said. "It is destiny."

"Not quite, but it'll certainly be good for my house that my lord wishes to know of what I've been doing."

"Shall I gather your notes?" he asked.

I nodded. "Aye, the copies at any rate. I'll not risk losing the originals in a storm or some other bandit attack along the way. Just as well, double the guards coming with, I'll not be taking any chances."

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Stormlanders I

"Three and ten years old, just entering the cusp of manhood, and his lands have become even more prosperous since the death of his father, some in less time than it's taken his balls to drop. The smallfolk whisper about Wytch-stone, seed drills and other preposterous creations. No such things existed, nor could they possibly do even half of what others claimed. If they were, then someone would have created them long ago, and we all would have been using such things!"

Lord Greycairn looked to his fellows, proud Stormlords all. None of them were very rich, nor mighty like their Baratheon lord's more powerful vassals closer to the coast, yet even if they were just a step above landed knights, they were still proud and accomplished in their own right. All of their families had held their lands for generations, sometimes as friends, sometimes as rivals. Yet now, despite their pasts, they had been united against a newcomer and the threat he posed to them and their houses.

"Something must be done about the new Lord Wytch, he's gathering power like a maiden might gather flowers, yet is still just a boy," Lord Wysp muttered, looking into his mug of ale. The tavern they had chosen for this rendezvous was owned by the man, and while he was a rather stingy old bastard, he made sure his smallfolk knew how to brew the good stuff. Meeting in any of their halls was too risky, here, anonymity was a greater asset.

"The plan failed, even if the death of Lord Wytch aids us," Lord Craggner, one of the lords along the mountains, muttered. "My bastard overstepped, I'd thought him capable of carrying out a simple task, injure one or both of them and make it look like banditry. Gods, Lord Baratheon's going to be looking closely now, I'm sure he'll suspect something."

"At least nobody knows for sure who was behind it," Lord Greycairn added, downing the last of his ale. "Last thing we need is for him to get funny ideas about fighting us, or worse, going to Lord Baratheon about it. The boy's getting bigger every year, they say. Durrandon blood for sure, but the eyes, his smallfolk say he's got them Valyrian eyes, probably from his smallfolk mother's side. Our lord might see him as kin in any disputes we bring forward, if we're not careful."

"To say nothing of his damnable lands," Lord Galewood muttered. "My maester's been losing sleep over just how much more wealth is flowing in and out of those lands, possibly more than all of ours combined. That's not even including what he makes from his taxes I'll wager, yet his lands barely amount to more than any one of ours in size. I don't know what he's doing, but it's something we aren't. You're one of the closest, Lord Greycairn, what do you make of it?"

"We need to find out exactly how he's making what he is, for either he has some genius but disgraced maester under his thumb or the lad it touched by the Smith himself. I will say, he's too soft on the smallfolk, from what I hear," he muttered. "Already enforcing the law on banning First Night, can you believe it? Cockless young lord doesn't want the smallfolk upset at a good bedding. Targaryens may have forbidden it years ago, but we know our lordly rights."

"What about Lord Windhill? Has he declined our offer?"

"Aye, old man's too scared of upsetting his neighboring lords to get involved, even if his border smallfolk have likely left for Wytch lands. The Marcher Lords won't take kindly to one of their own causing trouble for their neighbors, as they'll be the first they call to arms if some Dornish cause too much trouble. There's a great amount of trade beginning to go from Wytch lands to anywhere else there's a market for it, and the Marchers buy food like Northerners do, though in case of Dornish bandits rather than winter."

"He has a granddaughter of similar age to young Lord Wytch, his heir if I recall. Think he wants to make a match? Their lands border the most after your own, Greycairn, and I've heard he's been looking at purchasing some of those newfangled plows coming out of there."

"If either is true, we can't let that happen" said Lord Craggner. "Marrying the man's heir might double his lands once old Windhill croaks, and who knows how rich the lad'll become if he has more room to work with. Nay, we must not let him find an ally, either by marriage or through sale of those devices, and keep him down where he belongs. Any ideas from you lot? The bandit attack backfired, it'd look suspicious if we try that route again, and while he's not made noise about it, I'm sure he's plotting something. Just as well, his smallfolk are congregating in the towns, safely away from the borders, and my smallfolk haven't been leaving for his lands… yet."

"Some of mine have, the poorest of the poor, but I do worry others might follow," Lord Greycairn said. "So the four of us, Greycairn, Craggner, Wysp and Galewood, it'll fall to us. Maybe Windhill if we can convince him of the necessity, or barring that, convince him to marry his granddaughter to someone else. At least then he won't be a potential ally of Lord Wytch."

"How do you propose we do so?" Lord Wysp asked.

"The best ways we know how. Tolls for merchants passing to or from his lands, keep our retinues close on hand, that sort of thing. Our lord is having another meeting of his vassals at Storm's End soon, specifically those in and near the Dornish Marches, he's liable to invite Lord Wytch. Mayhaps we can accuse him of poaching our smallfolk then?"

"Aye, not a bad idea," Lord Galewood said. "Might get some other lords on our side if we raise a fuss over it, maybe get some payment out of it to avoid an outright conflict. A duel might be risky, though, he's not done anything overtly wrong to us just yet, and dueling such a lad wouldn't look good if you won or lost."

"My bastard son Roland could duel, he's about the same age, make up for his failure in dispatching Morden Wytch," Lord Craggner said, nursing another mug of ale. "Wouldn't be much of a loss for either, seeing as if my son wins I'm sure he could "accidentally" injure the lord. If he loses, well, Roland would be some poor child being mercilessly beaten by some upstart."

"All good ideas, all good plans," Lord Greycairn agreed, raising his mug of ale. "Then it is settled! Upon our summons, we will bring low this lowborn upstart, one way or another, as is our right."

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Barristan Buckler was not a great man by the standards of his house, both for his slight build, likely a gift from his mother, and for the fact he had been the third son. A smart man, to be sure, hence his position as the castellan of Storm's End, and primary partner of the maester within its walls, but overall nothing to sing songs about. For that, he was rather grateful, content to do a job well for his lord and ensure that Storm's End, as well as the Stormlands themselves, ran rather smoothly. That, and bring no dishonor to his house, nor his liege lord's.

As of late, the taxes had been good, some troubles here or there for various reasons, but otherwise well and truly good these days. However, one thing he had noticed was a newcomer, a newer house, was paying more in taxes than they previously had. At first he'd thought it a mere mistake, some clerical error in need of fixing, but checking with the treasury had yielded the fact that no, the man was indeed paying more in taxes, simply because he was also earning more.

House Wytch was new, even by the standards of the Stormlands, whose Lord Paramount was from a new family, having supplanted the name of the Durrandons, even if they had married into and assimilated with them during the Conquest. Many Stormlords were of ancient houses, some dating back to shortly after the Age of Heroes or the coming of the Andals. As such, there was a great deal of history, as well as prestige, involved in those houses, and the combative nature of those same lords meant slights were often met with violence.

House Wytch, as far as he could tell, had offered no such slight, but his tax reports indicated he was doing something unusual within his lands. He would have to consult with his lord on this. Perhaps it was time for Lord Wytch to visit Storm's End and meet with his liege on the matter?

Speaking of which, there was his lord now.

"Ser Buckler, tell me, what are our finances?" he asked, sitting at his desk, his solar one of both tidied shelves and disorderly reports yet to be filed. "Will they be enough for the coming gathering?"

"Indeed, and the larders are full enough for the duration as well. The Marcher lords have all corresponded that they shall be in attendance, as per your request, including young Lord Wytch."

"Terrible business, the loss of his father, a good man for a house still so early in its infancy," his lord said.

"I am certain someone will catch wind of the cretins, my lord. As it is, however, I was wishing to speak with you on Lord Wytch, namely, what he has been doing with his lands."

"Oh? Is it those strange devices working his fields? I've given them thought before, but other things have come up that have directed my attention elsewhere, and really, I see no reason to involve myself with the matter. I've only asked because merchants have asked to purchase them for their estates."

"It is not those devices, whatever they are my lord, but instead his taxes. They are higher than the lands he holds have ever been, and I've checked the records from before the Conquest."

"Truly? Nothing too remarkable about that, all lords have good years or bad ones."

"Not as many as he has, unless the Seven smile only upon his fields and flocks. Whatever young Casper of House Wytch is doing, he is doing it extremely well, thoughtfully, and dare I say, with a great deal of cunning. It is not every generation that sees lands improve so drastically, nor its lord gain so much wealth in so short a span."

"How much?"

"According to the reports, he has accrued well over twenty thousand gold dragons, with a good more tied up in his mercantile interests. In time, his coffers could grow to where he'll need to build a new treasury to hold it all."

"You think him a threat? My father knew of no bastards he or my grandfather had sown before the Dance, but it is not impossible that he is kin, though distant."

"No, I think him an asset, my lord, one that could be fully utilized for the benefit of House Baratheon and the Stormlands. Perhaps, even for the good of the Seven Kingdoms, if it comes to that."

"Very well, your advice has never steered my sails wrong yet, did his correspondence state his departure?"

"By the end of the moon, around the time his neighbors will be leaving as well."

"Good, when he gets here, make sure he's brought to my solar quietly, I don't want this getting out before I've heard it first. While I'll not begrudge a man seeking to improve his lands, when it draws the ire of his neighbors, it falls to me to mediate and determine if their claims are sound."

"Who has written?"

"Mostly his neighbors, those louts. Why they are so threatened by a new house, I'm not certain, but we shall look it over, to show that I am taking their correspondences seriously. As it stands, however, if it's nothing dangerous, I see no reason to investigate further than a simple conversation. We're Stormlanders, not Essosi, if our vassals are making a name for themselves, who are we to hold them back? Any good things that arise in one land will come to also spread to our own, be it prestige, food or even mercantile opportunities. See to it that upon arrival, he is given a good escort, men I trust."

"As you wish, Lord Baratheon."

"Oh, and send word to Lord Windhill, that he is to bring his granddaughter and heir with him. What was her name again?"

"Mylenda, I believe."

"Good, he informed me of the offer of betrothal, and whether or not they agree to one, I'll see that they sort it out now. I hate to be so heavy-handed in this, Barristan, but if we're not careful, he might find himself a wife of a house not aligned with the interests of the Stormlands. I gave Morden the leeway out of respect for the newness of his house, but Casper I cannot extend the same courtesy to."

"Who else would marry their relative, daughter or otherwise, to a newly minted house?"

"Someone who seeks to expand their influence, ser, one way or another. Now then, be sure to have Lord Windhill seated away from his neighbors, they might cause trouble if they find out Windhill and Wytch are discussing a possible betrothal."