Chapter 6: SI IV

153 AC

I'd left my home with my notes, and returned with a betrothal, a representative of my liege lord, and a great deal of work to do. The hours we had spent in his solar had been rather eye-opening to the feudal system, to say the least, considering just how much of my life I've lived in Westeros. Then again, understandable, as my previous life was just shy of three decades, rather than less than one as of my current recollection. I still caught myself from time to time humming songs not of this world, or thinking of cheesy movie lines as I train in the yard.

Selling him the four field crop rotation, or 'Stormhall' as the other lords now knew it as, had been more difficult than I'd thought. I assumed any lord would want to take immediate advantage of what another lord had made, but this was Westeros. Capitalism was seen as a vice of the lowly merchants, not as an asset for a lord to have. Come to think of it, maybe this was why some of the other lords had not been forthcoming with betrothal offers before Lord Windhill? They saw my house as too mercantile, too capitalistic to want to tie themselves to?

I'd just managed to convince him to invest the practice in just his own lands, but I'd said nothing of mentioning it to the other lords. I'd not missed the rather cheeky grin he'd sent me when the heir of Tarth had asked on the validity of the method being used on the Sapphire Isle for his father, as the man had been too ill to come himself. Gods, if I'd been reborn as a Tarth, perhaps then I'd have been able to get work done on ships, overseas trade and the like, being the calmest shoreline of the Stormlands by far.

Focus! Okay, yes, I'd successfully sold the idea to my liege, but then he'd wanted nothing to do with whatever else I'd had in my sack. I'd been more than a bit relieved, but also, that niggling sense of disappointment. Perhaps I'd been trying to do too much at once with my fellow Stormlanders?

Anyway, some of the interested lords had lost interest when they'd heard of the potential expense involved, especially the more martial ones. Yet, the others, ones who had deeper pockets, seemed most intrigued, and I'd spent most of the night talking with them of the methods for it. None suspected anything of my iron plows or seed drill, or at least I think none did. That cat would eventually get out of the bag, but by then I'd be well and truly past the phase of needing to worry about that.

As it stood, however, other things were going to be changing quickly over the next few years. I was to be married within five years, but I knew war was likely to erupt within four. My liege lord had sent his castellan, one Barristan Buckler, to oversee my developments of my farmlands, specifically how I planted my fields, but I knew he believed himself more a spy than an overseerad would likely report back on other things he saw. There was much development to do in the coming years, both in my lands and that of my betrothed, but I did not know if I'd be able to oversee that while also serving in, let alone surviving, the coming Conquest of Dorne and its aftermath.

Perhaps I was a little in over my head.

Then again, in this world, who wasn't at some point?

As it stood, I had four things to focus on.

First and foremost, find the men who had killed my father and wounded me in that attack. I had my suspicions as to my other neighbors, hells, I had suspected Lord Windhill for a while, and still did, although less than before. Even if I were betrothed to his granddaughter, playing the long game, of siring an heir or two before an 'untimely accident' could claim me could definitely be a plot by the old man. Or I was reading too much into it, becoming more paranoid now that I was a lord and not just the precocious heir.

As it stood, I would send additional men out, to look for clues of habitation, like the remains of cooking fires or old lean-tos. The trails were likely cold, if not gone, but presenting a strong front could keep them cowed if they were watching, and perhaps luck would smile upon me and my men would find some sort of evidence that I could use. Of course, I could always spring a trap on them, should they attempt something similar again in my lands. That would take some careful planning, though, and time I needed to spend on other matters.

Secondly, I needed to show Ser Buckler the validity of my farms and how I was managing them compared to the older way. I also suspected he didn't quite believe my taxes were accurate, even if the records showed they clearly were. While implementing my system of crop rotation had been a hard sell, if only because he hadn't wanted to step on too many of his lord's toes, in the end, he'd agreed adopt it for his own lands. A good portion of the argument I'd used to convince him was that more food meant better fed and thus stronger smallfolk, which meant stronger levies, which meant a stronger Stormlands. A lord paramount had to think of those sorts of things, after all.

Sure, it meant a whole lot more than that, but that pitch was the best I could come up with on short notice. Now that I had a reliable witness with me, this immediacy for my lord could either be really, really good or really, really bad. If he determined I was merely doing my lordly duties, I'd be left alone, or I might be summoned to explain why I was apparently preparing for a war. Since, to some, stocking up on a lot of war-related materials, like bandages or armor would be seen as worrying.

Thirdly came the developments I would need to try and accomplish in the lands of my future wife Mylenda. She was an odd sort, in that ungainly phase of puberty, but then again, so was I, physically at least. The hormones were starting to act up, but I'd had near an extra forty years to mentally rein those in, so this time around, they shouldn't be as much of a problem. Or I was wrong, and the whoring side of Robert might be a Baratheon/Durrandon quirk that I'd have to rein in.

I'd need a survey done of the Windhill lands, and I didn't have much gold to spare for that right now. In a year, perhaps, if I squirreled some away I could do so, but before I could do anything significant, I would need to know what I was working with. Lord Windhill was placing an awful lot of trust in me to do this, and if I set the standard and quality just right, other lords might hire me or the future companies under my control. Namely, the 'school' of engineers I knew I'd need.

Lastly, came the developments for my own lands. These, of course, would take most of my time and effort, but somehow had still found themselves at the bottom of this sudden list in my head. Oh well, maybe it was just the order in which they were thought of, not actual importance. Still, there was much to do, and not much time to do it. To start, I'd found a good room for Ser Buckler in my hold, one that gave him the privacy he wanted whilst still being worthy of his station.

As it stood, the very first thing after was sending out teams of men to aid in finding evidence of the attack on my father and I. Most were armsmen on horseback, not exactly knights but still armed, dangerous, and skilled, with some hunters from Timberstone acting as their trackers. A few had hounds of some sort with them, but none of them looked like bloodhounds from what I could see. These groups were to gather what evidence they could from the general area of the attack, and report back to me when they had found all they could.

Immediately after they rode out, I met with Maester Gorman and my mother, informing them of the betrothal and scheduling my more advanced lessons. Mother was overjoyed, and I suspect if she had been big or strong enough, she'd have swept me up in a hug like when I was young. Instead, hugs and kisses, no less embarrassing in front of the maester who was surely becoming my right-hand man, who merely chuckled at the sight. Arenna and Shyra, both still being a bit too young to understand the significance, merely hugged my sides and congratulated me.

After dinner, where the details were explained and filed away by Gorman, along with the unused notes I'd returned with, Ser Buckler and I moved to discuss matters in my study, where I'd showed him the ledgers detailing the increase in taxes I'd been paying. Suffice to say, he wasn't impressed, having come from a far wealthier and prestigious family, but I hoped he was at least convinced of the validity of the documents. No telling what he might say to my liege lord, but hey, you can't win them all.

The next morning, I was looking forward to showing Ser Buckler what I was going to do with Lowhill and its farms, but in my absence, some of the petitioners from my lands had been piling up. As my mother and maester could only make so many decisions for me during my time at Storm's End, there were many people to meet this morning, and if I wanted to get anything else done before midday, I would need to see to them pronto.

Seated in my hall, the first petitioners came forward.

"For the record, state your name and your origin," I said, hoping to get through this quickly. I had plenty of things to do, but not plenty of time to do them.

A relatively young man, perhaps in his early twenties, stepped forward. "Arrold, your lordship, I came from Oldtown with several companions during your absence."

Immediately I noticed his lack of smallfolk drawl. A noble, then? This was interesting. "The number of these companions?"

"Four, including myself. The others are Denys, Gawen and Petyr."

"What brings you from Oldtown?"

"We are, or were, acolytes of the Citadel, your lordship. We gave up our family names years ago when we joined the order, but we didn't quite make the cut, so to speak, and were looking for work. Some passing merchants told of your lands, and seeing as we hadn't had a set destination, a flip of a coin brought us here, rather than Castamere."

An odd turn of phrase in Westeros, but perhaps such phrases were more common in this world than I'd thought. However, far more importantly, was the fact that these were former maesters in training. That meant they likely knew their numbers, could read and write, and perhaps also had earned some degree of skill in one chosen field or another. "What did you learn in your time as acolytes?" I asked.

"Gawen and Petyr were mostly studying economics, whilst Denys and I were split between warcraft and magic. However, two areas we all shared were of our foci on engineering and medicine, though we'd not done much in our time other than learning most of the basics."

I could have jumped for joy. These four men, as green as they were, could form the basis of my unarmed army of learned men, serving the needs of my lands and helping shape the plans I had for the future. Maester Gorman already had a link in economics, but additional help couldn't hurt. Magic wasn't liable to be important to me, unless it showed up somewhere I could, but given its volatile and often unreliable or random nature, I'd try and stay away from it when possible.

Warcraft I could definitely use, I was going to be using the iron and tin in those mines of Lord Windhill to create and maintain my personal retinue as well as arming my levies beyond what most others would. Thus, I'd need a man who had learned what went into waging and winning wars. Medicine of course would be the basis for a huge portion of my plans, a more comprehensive understanding of not only the human body, but also how it worked, and how to keep it running. With former acolytes by my side, I could develop the systems that could give rise to a genuine medical field.

However, the engineering… this was exactly what I'd needed. A company formed and staffed to build bridges, roads, buildings, and whatever else I or others would need, in order to develop the lands or make them more prosperous. Stormhall was soon going to be in dire need of expansion and refitting, the wood giving way to stone, and my towns, oh the amount of Wytch-stone and engineers I would need to reshape it all.

"I will accept you into my service, Arrold, along with your companions. My guards shall find you suitable quarters for the time being, as I will have need of your services soon."

A nod of thanks, and the four men were escorted from my sight. The next man to step forward, an older yet surprisingly athletic fellow, with a shock of white hair circling his bald head and connecting with an equally white goatee, bowed before my seat.

"Your name and origin?"

"Arstan, milord. Originally from the Crownlands, Kings Landing actually, been wandering most my life with just family in tow. Mercenary, you see, quick with a crossbow and quicker with a dagger, but kin need someplace to settle now that there's been no war for years, figured I might offer my services in the meantime."

My master at arms Roland grumbled at that. "We have no need of mercenaries, my lord," he said. "Cutthroats and pillagers have no place in Stormhall."

"A decision that still falls to me, Roland, and many a man will pillage in time of war, no matter his lord," I replied coolly, though not without giving him a nod. "Arstan, as a mercenary, just what did you do for a living?"

"Most others spent their time killing, I did as well," he said. "I also made men talk, so we didn't need to do so much killing."

"A torturer?" I asked.

"Nay, more of a… persuader, if you will. Never drew blood if I could help it, but some men just don't know how to cooperate until you give them an incentive to."

While I did have cells beneath my keep, though very few for now, I was going to be in need of a man of such services. With what I was planning for whatever men killed my father, I would be in need of those that could 'convince' them to confess to their crimes, as well as rat out their conspirators.

Then again, accepting someone like this into my personal services could be a double edged sword. On the one hand, knowing that I had such a man might make other lords wary of dealing with me. Some lords took even what they thought was a slight to extremes, ala Tywin Lannister of the future, and that could scare my fellow Stormlanders. Or, lords might respect me for having a 'properly' lordly retinue of my own, given the youth of my house. Almost any lord had someone to interrogate or 'persuade' those who have done wrong to confess their crimes, with wealthier lords often employing more professional men or hiring in greater numbers.

"Your family may settle in Lowhill, Arstan, but you will need to earn your keep in my halls. While I do not yet have need of your services in persuasion, your background in mercenary work I may have need of. Roland is my master at arms, and I will be increasing the size of my retinue soon enough, perhaps more than he will be able to handle in line with his other duties. Even if not, I anticipate the need for my levies soon, and they'll need the kind of training you can offer."

"Aye, I can train green boys into killers, takes time but I can do it," Arstan replied. "If it's all right with you, milord, I'll stay with my kin until I'm needed. My wife won't take kindly to me being away for longer than I need to be, and she's still scarier than I ever was."

"That is acceptable," I said, rather disturbed at that thought.

So it went, most of the great gathering belonging to some group of migrants or another. As it turns out, much to my genuine surprise, smallfolk like to move when there's a better opportunity some ways over. There's little loyalty when lands are harsh, as sticking it out in one place could easily lead to starvation in such a society. I don't think most of the nearby lords have noticed this new movement, especially since these immigrants were from a wider area, rather than just from my immediate neighbors.

The most common to arrive have been Stormlanders, the vast majority from the fringes of my lands, where eking out a living had been the best they could hope for. Now, with good farmlands available for work around my keep for miles upon miles, and growing steadily, it made sense for them to move to Lowhill and its surrounding fields. Some brought their herds of sheep, rather small but no less important for my future plans. Very few were skilled laborers or craftsmen so far, but a carpenter or blacksmith here or there was a nice surprise. Come to think of it, I wonder just how many distant and miniscule villages I'll come across one day that were completely abandoned when the residents moved closer to my seat.

The next most common immigrants were Reachmen, though in their case a series of skirmishes between bandits and their liege lords had seen their villages ruined. Some had simply gone further into the Reach, towards Tyrell lands specifically, but the rest had made their way to my lands. Turns out, that old shepherd Myles knew some of them, having been neighbors a few miles out from one another.

Farmers all, but given their origin, that was to be expected. A few brought with them some seedlings for orchards, peaches and cherries to be precise, so setting those up had been a priority for expanding my distillery business. My own orchards already contained apples and pears, but new fruits were always welcome. A few had even brought grapes for wines, but only time would tell if they were hardy enough for my lands. Wines were more a forte of the Reach and Dorne, after all.

Some more Crownlanders had shown up, making a rather perilous journey through the Kingswood to reach my lands. Most had apparently been living on the fringes of that great woods, but had heard of better opportunities in my lands from some of my passing merchants heading to Kings Landing. Mostly crofters and hunters, whom I'd then sent to Timberstone, but there were a number of weavers as well, whom I'd told to settle in Highmarsh for now. With them had come a few septas and septons, and since Lowhill had need of a few of them, splitting them between Lowhill and the other towns had been a fairly painless decision. I'd eventually need to build them septs, though, but with my Wytch-stone set to be increasing in production shortly, and the four ex-acolytes now here, I could finally start on such projects.

The last, smallest, and perhaps strangest group of migrants I'd received were led by a wizened woman, though I could tell she was not old from age, but the working conditions of her life. Dark hair tinged with grey, bright eyes, a dark olive complexion, she was either from Dorne or somewhere in Essos, and had likely been a great beauty in her youth. Even now, she was moderately attractive, but I blame that observation on the hormones and the unusual amount of beauty many in this world seemed to be blessed with.

"Your name and origin?" I asked, glad to have arrived at the final group of the day. I had shit to do, so getting my bureaucracy up and running to take care of stuff like this would be something else to bring near the top of the list.

"Arianne, milord," she said pleasantly. "My family and four others come from Dorne, though not of our initial choice."

"Dorne? That certainly is a good ways from here," I said. "How did you come to be in my lands?"

As Arianne explained it, her group had been ousted from their lord's lands during some sort of civil strife amongst a house, driving them to book passage out of Plankytown with all they possessions they owned. Originally, they'd been looking to venture to Sunspear, but bad luck ruined that plan when their ships were attacked by pirates of Dorne's coast, likely originating from the Stepstones, just barely managing to escape north through a storm to the Stormlands. In their escape, their ships were damaged, forcing them to take refuge in a local lord's harbor. The man had wanted them gone at first opportunity, apparently suffering from the very Stormlandish grudge against Dornish due their long history of conflict. Having nothing of value left to book another passage with, and being strangers in a strange land, they'd set off towards my lands after hearing of my apparent prosperity from passing merchants.

Seriously, I needed to talk with these merchants, they'd be having smallfolk from other lands flocking to my own if I didn't put the kibosh to such rumor-mongering. While I wouldn't mind more people, I'd prefer it slow and steady, where I can prepare and get things in order. Too many at once could be disastrous for all involved. Visions of shantytowns, Kings Landing-esque numbers and outbreaks of plague flitted by in my mind.

"Around a third of us have died so far, milord," Arianne said. "Bandits near the mountains, and some came down with a fever after a rain storm caught us in the open."

"The latter is common, sadly, but the former is not one I'm unused to," I said. No need to tell them of my father, but this struck me as odd. "Do you know whose lands you were in during when the bandits attacked?"

"I believe it to have been Lord Craggner's."

Interesting. This man had had a grudge against my father, and while he may not have noticed, I saw the odd way he looked at several of our mutual neighbors during the summons in Storm's End. I would have to keep an eye out that way, in case more 'bandit' attacks were to occur near, or gods forbid, in my lands once again.

"I see," I said. "What exactly did you do in Dorne?"

"I was once a lady in waiting for my lord's eldest daughter," she said. Well, that certainly explained her diminished smallfolk accent. "However, after she wed it was determined I was no longer needed, so I joined my father in the orchards, where I have worked the remainder of my life."

"What of those with you?"

"Wineries and orchards all, my lord. We tended to the wells and drew water for the irrigation channels. Others kept the weeds and pests at bay, and come harvest, we all would aid in gathering the crop."

Orchard work was definitely going to become big for my distillery, as would wines if I were able to get the grapes to grow the Reachmen had brought with them. Yet, for all that these Dornish were some of the most bedraggled, destitute, desperate people I think I'd met to date, I had no idea as to what to do with them. Stormlords were notorious for their mistrust and even hatred of the Dornish, given the thousands of years of skirmishes, open warfare and the like between them. Accepting them could incur the scorn of my fellow Stormlords, yet I could not turn them away for no reason, given their suffering, and that was where the septons came into play.

"Milord," one septon said, a Crownlander if I recalled correctly. "In our time before our turns, I spoke with these people. Yes, they may of Dornish and Rhoynish descent, but in their hearts beats true the call of the Seven. They know of and follow the true gods, and woe be to the lord who turns away the faithful in their time of need."

Even some of my guards nodded at this, Roland among them to my surprise.

"You follow the Seven?" I asked.

"Indeed, my lord, long have we been faithful adherents to the new gods," old Arianne said.

Well, this changed things, as I, a pious young lord, could not in good faith turn away the faithful, no matter their origins. "In that case, you are free to settle my lands, but I have need of a people with skills such as yours. I have orchards in place, with more to come, that will have need of those who know how to tend to them with proper care, and teach those who will be joining them."

"We would most graciously accept your offer, milord," she said with a bow.

"The gods bless you for your kindness and generosity, milord, surely they will smile upon you," one of the septas added.

Say what you will about the religion of the Seven in Westeros, but the septons sure made good hype-men when it came down to it. A gracious, pious young lord, willing to accept the downtrodden, even if they were historically outsiders of his lands and enemies of his people? Despite having ancestors likely raided by these same peoples, the smallfolk would likely eat that up like honey cakes.

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Stormlanders III

It had been a long trip back to his hall, and an even longer week arranging the proper channels through his smallfolk as to the coming changes to his lands. Now, nearing evening, he sat in his solar, the fire softly crackling as the sounds of the mountain birds echoed on the soft breeze.

"Grandfather?"

"Yes, Mylenda?"

"Do you really believe Lord Wytch is capable of what you asked him?"

His granddaughter was a smart one, to be sure. Not wise, not yet, but that came with age. She could see the issues with Casper tending to her lands as if they were his own, which was why she'd suggested to him, before the betrothal had been set, that he oversee the young lord's development.

"Aye, I do," he said, comforted in his solar by her presence. It made him feel less alone in the world. The loss of his lady wife and two sons over the past decades had left him as the last Windhill, save for Mylenda. With luck, she would birth Casper enough sons for one to carry one the Windhill name. "He seems to be a smart boy, smarter than most at his age. I do wonder when Morden Wytch first saw that."

"What do you mean?"

"I was in correspondence with his father for a few years, sweetling, even met him in person a few times. He was not a terribly bright man, but he was no oafish fool either, a middling mind if you will, uniquely wise but often overly cautious. His lady wife had been a merchant's daughter, she was quick and clever, but their son… he is something else."

"Do you truly believe these plows and seed drills, whatever they are, can help our farmland?"

"Aye, the way the smallfolk tell it, the seeds practically grow overnight. I doubt that is the case, but if he can make farmland grow more food, then by all means, we should follow his example. We are not the Reach or Riverlands, our farms struggle from wind and rain brought by our storms."

"Would he not take my name, being the junior house?"

"Only if we were greater lords, sweetling," he said. "Ancient queens often did this with their consorts, hells Rhaenyra tried it herself, but it does not always work. Nay, you shall become a Wytch, but you'll always be a Windhill, remember that."

There was a knock at the door of his solar. With a nod, his heir rose and answered it.

Their maester, who also doubled as their castellan, entered. "My lord, a gift has arrived for you."

"A gift?" he asked, sharing a confused glance with his granddaughter. "From who?"

"Lord Wytch, the writing mentions." A pair of burly Stormlanders, two of his best men at arms, carried in a strange chair. It wasn't huge or bulky, simply shaped oddly enough to require more than one man to transport, and as they set it down, he noticed the legs upon which it rested met on a long pair of wooden beams. Yet… these beams were curved, equally so between the two of them, and the chair seemed to rock back and forth. The chair itself was carved rather beautifully with a deep, richly colored wood, though it lacked any ornamentation, and the seat bottom and back seemed to be comprised of doubly-woven wicker stretched across a latticework of small wooden poles.

"Did the note say the purpose of this thing?" he asked.

"Well," his maester replied. "Lord Wytch calls it a rocking chair, one of the first he has made in his halls. The message says it is designed to relax and relieve stress, perhaps even improve blood flow, for the aged or the ill. He also mentions that he prays you do not find it offensive, and wishes you, um, 'good sitting' in it."

"A gift so soon after a betrothal is not unheard of, but I've yet to see anything like this before. Well now, let's see what this is all about," he muttered, rising with Mylenda's aid from his study chair. An old, stout piece of wood, the kind that had stood the test of time since his father's time as Lord Windhill.

Sitting in the 'rocking' chair, he placed his feet awkwardly upon the jutting wooden rest at its base, and pressed down. Almost immediately, the chair began to move forward, and then moved backwards, and for a moment, he worried he would tumble out of it. Yet, it caught itself, and moved forwards once more, softly creaking beneath him like the boards of a ship. Adjusting himself, and amidst the course of the last of his work, he slowly achieved a mastery over the chair, the gentle swaying easing an ache he hadn't known he was feeling in his lower back. Now past sunset, with evening in full swing, he decided it would be best to go to bed.

Yet he didn't want to get up, and not in the way that sometimes surprised or scared him. No, he just… felt too nice to rise to his feet.

"Grandfather?" Mylenda asked as he gave a content smile.

"By the gods, Mylenda, your betrothed… he is no mere man," he said, suppressing the urge to groan in delight. Gods, this chair, it felt so good on his old body, and yet he felt as if he were a child again, rocking in his mother's arms after he'd fallen and scraped his knee running through their halls. Such memories usually began his shakes, the past haunting him even now, but his hands didn't even twitch at the thought, the palsy, somehow, kept at bay for the moment.

"He is not?" she asked.

"Nay, he is a wondermaker, I'm sure of it, blessed by the Smith and Crone both," he said. "What was it he called this device?"

"A rocking chair, my lord," the maester replied.

"I will have to write to the lad about it, I know a few old lords who would pay this chair's weight in gold for what I'm feeling right now," he muttered, feeling drowsy all of a sudden. "Mylenda, fetch me a blanket, I think I'll take my rest for the night."

"As you wish, grandfather," she said, retrieving an old woolen thing from the nearby trunk. Covering his chest and legs, she kissed his cheek. "I will see to you in the morning with the septa."

"Good girl," he said with a yawn. As they departed, he closed his eyes, looking forward to sleep.

Yes, he'd made a good decision with Casper. He could only hope, as his head grew hazy and the world began to change to that of a dreamscape, that he could uphold his end of the bargain.