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Chapter 24: Mylenda Windhill II

Early 155 AC

There had been times where her grandfather had gone off on business, for instance the fighting against Lord Craggner with her betrothed, but this was the longest he'd been away from home that she could remember. It was thus also the longest she had sat in for him as the reigning and only other member of the Windhill house. Petitioners had come to her every so often, seeking something to be granted or earned. Giving her blessing for a wedding between a merchant's daughter and the son of one of her father's knights, ruling on a trial over whether someone had stolen a sheep, or it simply wandered off, and great deal more usually took up a good portion of her mornings.

What time was not spent as the Lady of Windhall was with her septa and maester, her lessons having graduated from more youthful endeavors to those more befitting a future lady. The knowledge of Stormland houses and their sigils, the terrain of the surrounding lands, courtly etiquette and a whole host of other things took up a great portion of her day. Whilst she knew the septa saw no reason for it, Mylenda had been rather vocal in her wish to learn more of whatever engineering and economics lessons the maester could provide.

When asked, she surmised the reason for this was simple.

Her betrothed and future husband, Lord Wytch, had left quite the impression on her during their first, and thus far only 'time' together apart from their guards. She felt she'd gotten to know him a bit better but felt hopelessly ignorant at much of what he mentioned during that time. The projects for both of their lands, from the dam to the completion of the Wytchroad, to the implementation of windmills at every village and town in the hillier regions, to a series of other ideas had made her feel rather inadequate as a future spouse. Yet rather than dwell on such a thought, she'd done as her grandfather had raised her to do, and immediately sought to correct the issue, hence her insistence on learning her figures as well as reading whatever texts her maester had on hand pertaining to money and land development. Already, even with the reading being about as dry as Dorne, she was seeing an immense potential in the union of their lands, even if only until she birthed a second son to continue the name and the lands were then to remain separated.

What the Wytch lands lacked for mineral wealth, save for clay deposits, the Windhill lands had in abundance. Copper, tin, iron, coal, the rare slips of silver, and of course, good amounts of good stone, the kind that had built more than one castle in this part of the Stormlands. It was how they'd managed to accrue enough wealth to be able to pay for so many of the projects currently under way, it wasn't as if they were a trading house.

One of these major projects was the continued expansion of their farms and pastures. Never had so many fields been put to plow in Windhill lands, even when compared with records dating back centuries, nor had they been so bountiful for man and beast alike. The expansion of pastures, thanks to the fence logs supplied by Galewood trees and Timbertown sawmills, saw a marked decrease in sheep losses from weather or predators, and a great increase in the number of sheep in their lands overall. With an emphasis on more, smaller herds moving around rather than fewer, larger ones staying put for long periods of time, the pastures recovered far quicker after a grazing, and retained health far longer than before.

These increases coincided with an increase in the health of Oretown and its people. Her maester told her more food meant more people able to work, and though she had no idea why, the virulence of certain ailments seemed to be on the decline. Add to that the soap afforded as part of a deal with her betrothed, and the town seemed clean for once, or at least cleaner than in recent memory. The dust from the mines still filled the air some days, but never as harshly, and even with the lightest breeze, such a miasma dissipated rather quickly.

Yet all these projects, some of which were still developing, had given her a greater set of ideas to present to her grandfather upon his return. They had windmills for a variety of reason, yes, but what about using them to power some means of moving mined ores and stone from the bottoms of quarries and mines to the surface? Rather than trying to have mules haul their loads from within the darkness, or men push the carts up and out, could the wind drive such devices instead? What of damming other streams in their lands? Creating 'reservoirs' as Casper called it, could certainly aid in irrigating the dryer portions of their lands, or creating the means of supporting villages whose wells were often at risk of drying up from overuse. Could she create a reservoir for Oretown itself? There were more than a few deep valleys that were too rocky for anything, and the veins in their mines had long since dried up, so they sat empty and useless, like Casper's future reservoir. Yet she knew creating such a large body of water nearby could threaten the mines Oretown was so known for and relied upon, as flooding was a constant danger to any miner.

All these ideas had, in turn, given her an insight into her future husband that brought her a great deal of curiosity. He seemed to have an abject dislike for inefficiency, a sentiment she could appreciate, but he seemed to take it one step further than simply dislike it. Nay, he seemed intent on maximizing every single industry available in either of their lands. Crop production, livestock herd size, mineral and stone excavation, even improving the roads to increase the speed of travel; the sheer scope of it all was a tad intimidating at times. At times, she was curious what he could do if he were, say, a brother of Prince Baelor, and not merely his friend.

Being 'merely' a friend of the prince was nothing to scoff at, as she had learned. Already, more than one nearby noble had looked to 'getting in on the action', as her grandfather called it, in dealings with Lord Wytch. Several Reach lords along the border had made queries into creating a road from their soon-to-be combined lands up to the mouth of the Blueburn River and Grassy Vale, the town under the purview of House Meadows. There had even been talks of creating a Wytchroad to both Longtable and Ashford, of Houses Merryweather and Ashford, respectively, with one representative of Cider Hall turning away after finding out they would need to pay for their half of the road construction. To be honest, she didn't like the way that Fossoway fellow had turned his nose up at her fiancé's origins.

Yet as honest as Mylenda was, she was also intent on being a good wife and mother, much like what her mother had been, from what she could remember of her. A good wife, the septa told her, was a genteel and steadfast source of support for their husband, yet Mylenda did not desire to be a mere aide. She would be Casper's equal, and whilst she'd likely never see battle, she would no less contribute in every way she could to their coming union. She would slack on neither her studies or her duties and saw fit to pass as efficient of rulings and judgements as she could when needed. Upon their marriage, she would live with him in Stormhall, but she was already working on a proposal to spend time in Windhall as well, for moons on end, to more effectively unite their lands until a second son could inherit them.

Hence, her almost-daily journey down to the most recent completion of the Wytchroad outside of Oretown, the other portion having entered Windhill lands weeks prior, and its progress was matched only by its continued support from either of their families. With an abundance of nearby stone, they did not need to worry about reworking the roads of Oretown into Wytchroads, as even if their quality was not quite the same, it had stood the test of time thus far. Mylenda saw benefits to things rather quickly, and the benefits of the portions of the Wytchroad were obvious to someone as steeped in the knowledge of Windhill lands as her. Roads in these lands, as in many, tended to wash out or become quagmires of deep mud in the heavier storms, limiting travel and delaying or even stopping shipments to or from other lands. More than one load of stone bound for some project in a part of the Stormlands had been lost in the muddier parts of their lands, the carts of sinking deep enough to lose both cart and load. These roads, however, changed all of that.

She'd seen a vicious storm batter the countryside as she sheltered in a nearby inn and emerged a day later to find the nearby Wytchroad almost untouched by the event. Other nearby tracks and trails were impassable mud pits, yet these roads, aside from errant debris, seemed impervious to the fury of the storm. The sight of such engineering filled her with a great deal of confidence of just how much this would improve Windhill lands, and then an idea came to her. Travelers upon such roads often needed to stop at inns for the night or to avoid bad weather, but out here in the western Stormlands, there was often little cover. A series of inns, dotting the countryside and spaced every day's journey or so apart, would do wonders in preventing the loss of goods or people to storms. Of course, the issue of bandits and dishonest innkeepers would need to be addressed some other way, but as their lands were thankfully yet sparse on both, so perhaps she could attempt a solution at another time.

Overseeing the road construction was rather boring, especially since so little of the time there was spent overseeing the project. Signing off on requests from the quartermasters and foremen for additional supplies, ensuring fair payment in disputes, supervisory inspections of the camp conditions, pay and food stores, there was always so much to do whenever she came to the site, and while she knew that simply leaving it to the men placed in charge would work just fine, a part of Mylenda relished the opportunity to improve upon the process if she could. Issuing recently crafted bars of soap for the communal wash areas had seen a marked decrease in sickness amongst some workers, and the addition of a shipment of both cats and terriers had seen issues of pests decrease dramatically. With the aid of several carpenters, she'd also seen to the creation of small shacks that could assembled or disassembled in a matter of minutes with enough workers. The latter was still in a preliminary state, being used thus far for storing goods or documents out of potential wind and rain whilst the rest of a camp was set up, but she felt such readily buildable shelters could become a standard for such large work crews.

Yet despite throwing herself into these projects, her studies and her lessons, there was a part of Mylenda that yearned for something greater. Her grandfather, when she was younger, had always told her the stories of their founding, and the great adventures that their ancestors had partaken in so long ago. Wars against the Crownlands, Riverlands, Reach and Dorne, civil wars, the journeys of second sons across the Narrow Sea, and many other tales of Stormlander courage and knightly heroics. In the greatest of tales of the Stormlands, the Windhills had been there, either as primary participants or as a menagerie of background aides to their Durrandon and later Baratheon kin.

Perhaps it was a childish remainder of her far younger days that she too wished for adventure of sorts.

Upon her return to Windhall that evening, amidst the celebratory news of the defeat of the Dornish raiders, and the likelihood of her grandfather's safe return appearing ever-nearer, she thought of writing a letter for the courier to return, seeking her grandfather's permission for Lord Wytch to return with him to Windhall for a celebration. That, and as a way for Casper and her to spend some time together once again. He would most certainly have stories of his time out in the Marches, battling raiders and winning glory for his young house. The circulating rumors from the couriers had put it as an ambush by her betrothed wiping out a small army of raiders, but surely there hadn't been that many? Casper would be the one to clear up such nonsense, at any rate.

Yet what would they do if he were to arrive, and not simply continue to his own lands? It wasn't as if she would simply take him on a tour of Oretown, as prosperous as it had become, as it was simply an old mining town. It wasn't as if there was some new vein of silver found, or some new implementation of his or hers that would spark his interest.

The pastures? Perhaps for a picnic, much as they'd done near the sight of the upcoming dam, but what would they converse of? Sheep and pastures, or clover and wool? Hardly the stuff of tales of romantic jaunts of fair maidens and their noble fiancés.

The Wytch-Windhill reservoir project? No, they had already spent time there, and while it was progressing nicely, there was no need to return to it for the time being. She'd already began drawing up the plans for the manor that would be built upon its shores, while Casper was beginning the plans for introducing nearby lake plants to fill in the otherwise empty basin. Perhaps they could plan what fish to introduce? She'd enjoyed the few times her grandfather had taken her fishing along the mountain streams.

The catacombs?

She smiled at the idea. Of course! Her ancestors had been directly from the line of Durran Godsgrief, well before the arrival of Orys Baratheon and his alleged Targaryen kin. Her grandfather had taken her down there, some time in the past, and shown her relics of their family, from when the youngest Durrandon had been granted his own fief and lands as the first Windhill. Casper seemed the type of man to take interest in such history, and besides her grandfather, there was no better person than her to regale such knowledge of her family.

Grabbing an inkwell and her quill, she began the letter.

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Dorne III

The scar still itched from time to time, especially in the hottest parts of the day, but at least it had healed enough that bandages and poultices were no longer needed. Once he'd been well enough to take an outing into the nearby town, he found the whores certainly liked it, so the maester had been correct in that regard. Still, should he earn the Wyl name, he would marry a lady far higher than them, far higher than he could have hoped for, and would earn himself lands and titles for his children. Allyria Jordayne was a Dornish beauty, her looks betraying none of her Andal heritage save for her bright blue eyes, for her mother was a descendant of the Rhoynish-blooded that had assimilated from Nymeria's time. Though, was her mother a Dalt, or a Vaith? He couldn't recall and would have to ask her the next time he saw her.

Taking a swig from his wineskin, he smiled over at his cousin, the eldest and heir to the Wyl name, Wyllam the Younger, or 'young Wyl' as some called him. The spitting image of his father, he bore little of the elder's temperance, save for when in his father's company, but as the elder Wyllam was settling a dispute in a nearby town, there was none of that now. The rather fine woman who lap he was draped across was a clear enough indication, and as usual, his friends were nowhere to be found, 'occupied' with their own boys or girls in separate rooms.

"So, cousin, you would see my support in your vengeance visited upon this Stormlander lord," he said as the whore fed him some plump grapes. "I can certainly see the appeal, but the prospect of entering into something more than a mere skirmish with those Marcher lords would not be palatable to the Martells. Father has always warned of respecting the wishes of the princes and princesses of Dorne, even if many of us have no love for their family."

"Love and duty have their places, but so too does honor and vengeance," Alfrid replied. "Were it any other lords we had faced, we would have done our deeds and fallen back to our lands, out of the grips of those Stormfuckers with everything to show for it. Now, I've nothing but my remaining companions, and the thought of what they are doing to our kinsmen in their captivity."

"Let such thoughts temper your anger and focus it, for there is no use for brash actions this day, nor in the ones to follow. We are of the blood of the Wyl, we do not make decisions in haste without good cause. We plan accordingly and take advantage of every opening lain before us."

"As Wyl of Wyl did."

Wyllam nodded. "So then, if we are to prepare for such an eventuality, how should it come about? I will gladly join you if father gives his blessing, but for that we need to prove we are not only capable of success, but almost assured of it. Simply laying waste to the Marcher lords would not do, as they will likely take steps to curb such losses the next time around. They can learn quickly, sometimes."

"A thrust deep into enemy lands, much as we did, but we must avoid engaging their forces when at rest," Alfrid replied. "We suffered heavily for assaulting a point we did not know the entirety of, nor what additional defenses its lord created to counter us. With how the horses reacted in their charge, my guess is that something was lain upon the trail in the dark that we could not see, that did something to their hooves."

"So then avoid a static enemy. We would then need to make our attack whilst they are still on the move, perhaps during a march?"

"I do not agree with leaving the Marcher lords untouched, but perhaps the best means of avoiding an early warning would be to attack them only on our return from our target. Pillaging on our return would be a good way of making sure our message is heard loud and clear, cousin."

"Whose lands would you wish to bypass Marcher lords for? This unknown lord?"

"Aye, and to do that I intend to send spies, little snakes in the grass to find out whatever they can on this lord. The Stormlords likely know him well enough to allow him amongst their ranks, so if they know, then I shall as well."

Wyllam the Younger frowned. "Good spies can be expensive to train, even if they are smallfolk. Intermediaries and informants are needed, especially ones who will not expose or betray one another or gods forbid you if caught. We do not have the coin or influence to hire the best, cousin."

"We need not hire such overpriced assassins, as I would not have them kill the lord when I wish to do so myself. Have you heard of the troubles down near Planky Town these past few years?"

"Aye, a spat between some minor lords nearly turned the place into a small warzone. Smallfolk from many an orchard and vineyard fled the area, some to the north, others towards Sunspear, and yet more out to sea. It has only recently settled down, amidst a harsh crackdown by the Martells themselves."

"Well, it occurs to me that, according to rumors amongst the merchants around here, there have been sightings of Dornish in the Stormlands."

"Whereabouts?"

"In what were middling lands that are now good, perhaps halfway to the Marches, according to hearsay. Some newly risen lordly house, allegedly, has taken them in, Wytch or something, I can't recall, but if there are Dornish there, then sending some of our own 'refugees' from Planky Town should not be difficult. That would have been the only way for them to reach Wytch lands without passing through our own, I believe."

Wyllam was silent for a few moments. "Then with our own eyes and ears in 'Wytch' lands, we can find out the identity of our mutual enemy. I take it his lands are those you wish to burn?"

"Nay, much worse, dear cousin," Alfrid said, taking another swig of his wine as he glanced at a pair of whorish twins. He might have them later. "I intend to repay him in kind, much as our ancestor did in Fawnton."

Wyllam smiled at that. "A just reprisal indeed. As for these spies, after they have been sent, you must convince my father to support this endeavor at all. It would be men sworn to our house that would ride with you, true and hardened warriors, not mismatched bandits and bastards looking for glory."

"Then if we must, I will recruit and train my own for this endeavor. Tell me, has Michael sent any word of his recruitment efforts? Our nearby towns can certainly hold enough additional men, with the upcoming harvests and all, to arouse little suspicion."

"My father keeps a close eye on such things, but I believe I can convince him to not worry of it. As for Michael, my younger brother wrote that he is currently moving towards the Yronwoods, from whom he should be able to recruit a few younger yeomen, and then heading for the Greenblood, to search for interested parties from the nearby lords. The Yronwood bowmen are excellent, on or off horseback, cousin, and we will certainly need a few of them for our plans."

"He has asked to join you on this crusade of yours, you know. Father will not like that, not with my support as well. Both sons, heading out on such an adventure, it reeks of trouble to men like him."

"Regardless of his current opinion on the matter, Michael should know that I will not let him raid with us until I can prove myself reliable and able enough to lead this force. Only then, your father has said, would I earn the right to the Wyl name, and with it enough prestige to allow Michael to tag along."

"And earn Allyria's hand, no doubt."

Alfrid nodded, the thought of her stirring his loins as much as the whores in this brothel. "That is part of it, yes. Trebor Dayne shall not have her if I have a say in it, but for that to be true, I must have proven myself to both your father and her. Yet we must make sure that everything is accounted for, so that neither of us faces backlash for our coming actions. Has Michael been practicing the bow and lance?"

"Aye, and the spear as well, he's not the best at it but has taken to training with it daily, he tells me. I have been told he will be a worthy part of a hoplite wall, should such a need arise, yet my sister does not wish for us to join you in this, even with her enjoyment of your stories."

"Ashara is yet young, she will come to understand it is the duty of men to avenge such slights upon our family and people."

"She also cares for her brothers and would likely go to father immediately to put a stop to this if she knew what we were doing."

Alfrid chuckled. "Then I won't tell her, cousin, if you won't. I wouldn't put it past your father to put her up to trying to learn the details of our plans. She's always been a nosy little girl."

Wyllam nodded. "Father is a cautious and stern man, but not without reason, Alfrid. We Wyls have held our positions as the lords of this region simply because we alone have had the strength and will to do so. Were it not for our Yronwood neighbors to the south having far more prosperous lands and greater manpower, then we might have been their lords for centuries, rather than them ours. Father's caution serves him well under the banner of the Martells, for no great act can be taken without their notice or say. The Wyls would not last if we were to simply be hounds without a leash, and father's restraint has saved us twice already. If the Martells support our plan, as hopefully Michael can convince their kin, then such restraint is not needed, and the full might of Wyl may be employed in your retaliation. Until then, we keep our heads down."

"No true son of Dorne would allow their enemies to live after such a slight."

"You mean defeat, cousin. Your defeat is a setback, and you must realize this. I am more than willing to support this adventure of yours, but you must remember, you are yet a Sand, not a Wyl. To earn that name, you must show your cunning is equal to your caution. There was a reason Wyl was so successful against Orys Baratheon over a century ago, as he did not simply rush into things. He prepared, and for that, was able to capture a lord paramount of all things from the dragons themselves. Should you wish for similar success against whoever this Stormlander is, I suggest you read more of his life, some of his journals yet exist in the library in the maester tower."

Alfrid grumbled a bit at that. He didn't like reading; reading was for those who didn't know how to wield a sword or lead men into battle. "I… shall think on your words, cousin," he finally replied, motioning to the twin whores, who readily slunk his arms around their waists and led him away. "For now, I've something else to occupy my time."

Wyllam simply scoffed with a smile as the older whore continued to feed him grapes. Once his cousin was out of sight, she spoke.

"My lord, I may have a means of helping you, if you wish," she whispered.

"Oh? What is it?" he asked.

"For a route into those lands you mentioned, I know for a fact those Dornish sighted there are kin of mine."

"Indeed? How fortuitous, tell me more." He reached up to her shawl, slowly moving it away from her aged, yet still sultry face. He preferred older women, so what? They were more experienced than the younger ones, at any rate, and the risk of pregnancy was low, especially with moon tea at hand.

"My older sister was one of those who fled through Planky Town with some of her kin, Arianne is her name. I have received word from her from passing merchants that she has taken up residence under the protection of Lord Wytch himself. Travel through the Stormlands was harsh for her and her fellows, but they have found peace and prosperity there, and in turn, have sent me letters from time to time."

A whore who could read and write? Interesting…

"So, they have a lord's protection, thus removing them from immediate scrutiny, and also increasing the sensitivity of information they may have access to," Wyllam muttered, pushing her dress away from her shoulders. Not that it hid much anyway, to his great delight. "I would thank you for this, Obella, but I'm afraid I have already paid you."

"It is of no concern, my lord, it is something I am happy to pass to you, if only for your continued patronage," she replied, moving the grapes away. "Now, to continue this in your room, yes?"

"Yes, indeed."

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????

???? AC

The history of untold ages is most easily lost to those who see no reason to etch it into memory or song. Tablets may crumble, engravings may rot, and parchment may wither away, but the memory of a people was the surest way that the past would be remembered, that lessons might never be forgotten. It was the nature of imperfect beings, however, to forget, to misremember, to knowingly alter the vision of the past for their own or future needs.

The same strength of a people that could remember heroes and gods long after they had fallen by the wayside could be turned against those very same memories and ideals. Every new introduction of a people, of a religion, of a cultural shift could see thousands of years of history altered or forgotten in mere generations. Whilst they never truly fade away, the gods of eons past were forgotten, by chance or by purpose, by those that come to dwell in their lands with every passing age.

The woh dak nag gram sung the song of the earth, carved the faces of their gods and lived amidst the vast forests of the Edge of the World long before the first of the First Men arrived. The giants spoke in tongues unheard by even their own kind when first battling these newcomers, crying forth the names of their gods known now to none. The First Men brought with them their own gods, but these too were lost, many of their remnant followers succumbing to the ravages of the Hammer of the Waters, turning the Edge of the World into the Last Land.

It was not only the gods and their followers that were forgotten and destroyed, but the lands in which they had overseen. Gone were the flocks of the griffins, great beasts dwelling in their mountain strongholds along the eastern fringes, the storms and winds that aided them in their hunts for the great herds of aurochs, mammoths and other beasts that once roamed the grassy plains and valleys. Long dead were the 'hellhounds', packs of hounds given the gift of fire within their flesh, whose haunting cries and fiery eyes once ruled the nighttime forests and hills, occasionally at odds with their dire kin. The wandering cockatrices, fierce beings of scale and feather, lurking in the dark regions of the world, were ended by the coming of the treefolk and giants, as were the last of the eastern sea dragons, great scaly beasts who churned the waters and ruled the waves. Only their western kin remained, though now few, and straying further from the safer shores, driven towards the deep dark, where larger and fouler things lay in wait or dreamless sleep.

Yet as much as was gone by the coming of the First Men, more would follow. The wars that lasted ages, countless tales of betrayal and alliances against greater foes. Nothing of that time survives in the mortal realm, save for the merest whispers or rumors, etched into the living memory of any who choose to remember that time. The gods, for all their weakened state, do not forget the past, for they live outside of life as mortals see it, reliving the past without changing it, so that they may never forget. They see all, hear all, and when they can, influence those who carry with them some small part of their legacy. More than one of these mortals may lay claim to gods within their bloodline, be it through a chosen gift or through flesh and blood fact. The greatest and rarest among them may lay claim to certain titles, such as 'warg' or 'greenseer', yet these are but mere playthings to the true nature of their ancestral gifts. Yet the knowledge of how to utilize, to bear such burdens worthily, much like the names of the gods, have been lost to time. Even those that claim to remember, to hold reverence, know so little of the truth, of the true nature of what they claim, that to label them as merely ignorant could be construed as to be a compliment, rather than an insult.

Of the gods, from all over the world, from the lands of the rising suns and stars to the last lights of the known world, and from the great frozen north to the deep, unknowable tracts of the jungles of the south, all know of the interlopers and usurpers to have arisen over the eons. The black stone, fallen from the sky, to have held sway over the man who became the Bloodstone Emperor and unleashed the terror of the Long Night. The Drowned God, of salt and sea, whose service to its followers is matched in depravity only by their unending desire to feed its insatiable hunger. The Seven-Who-Are-One, a multi-faceted god whose arrival ushered in a new age of war and destruction across a land who had seen a general peace for untold centuries, among whose were followers that willfully misinterpreted its teachings for their own gain and yet expected the blessings they offered regardless. The bastard chimeric transplant from lands to the east, dwelling deep beneath desert rock and giving 'gifts' in exchange for sating its hunger, its progenitors having been lifelong foes.

The Cold One of the North, the youngest and oldest at once, the equal and opposite to so many others, whose ability to bury all of creation in his icy disdain was constantly held in check by the gods he had once called kin and friends. Creations bearing a sample of his power, formed and twisted by the earthsingers, calling upon his most basal form for their own ends yet knowing nothing of its extent, nor its true nature.

Yet the newest to arrive was not as they had expected. There was no invasion from the sea nor land, nor beings descending from the sky. No tumultuous turmoil had seen to its creation, nor worshipping of its form given flesh. Magic had no more fueled this than it had the breaking of Valyria, or the flooding of the Neck or Arm of Dorne. Even the most forgotten gods of ages past, whose worshippers had long since died off before the arrival of giants, children, and First Men, were made aware of this new arrival. It had not been the first, and would not be the last, but its appearance… changed things.

For it was dormant and docile, like a swaddled babe, unaware of all but what it remembered from another time, another place. It was no god, but merely both a boy and man, two beings occupying the same vessel without conflict. The gods knew it could be both an ally and a threat to gods and men alike, and, for it needed none of what they did, and it had already begun to influence the world away from destiny, and towards an unknowable future. For the most powerful of the remaining gods, to their senses, there lingered upon it a presence that could not be truly determined. Had it come into this world all its own, somehow? Or had it been placed there by whatever essence they could sense, as a parent might place its child into a crib, as a means of safekeeping? If the former were the case, then it would be watched, warily, to see how drastically it would undoubtedly shift the skeins of fate, but if the latter were to be true, and it was thought safe here, amidst such terrible fates and powers…

Then what was it capable of, for them and their remaining followers to not be considered at all? Should they who laid claim to its physical bloodline reach out to it, as best they could? Or would it discover them for itself, and learn of the dark truths it so innocently remained ignorant of?

Only time would tell, and in the meantime, they would watch, and wait.

A/N: yep, as much as the SI hasn't done anything to acknowledge it, there is going to be gods and magic in this story, sometimes practical, sometimes eldritch. Not necessarily on the same level as other stories, and not anywhere near as prevalent to the story as in other SI fics, but it's gonna get weird in places. Hopefully some of it can be used to acceptably explain certain tropes or trends in ASOIF that don't make sense. Also, I am so stoked to write the War for Dorne, having written up a large portion already of just the outline for that conflict, but we're not ready for that yet, as we've a bit more important stuff to do in the meantime. I may, in the future, publish small sidestory chapters as from the perspective of the writings of a book, such as "A History of the War for Dorne" or something. That way I can flex my creative side without spoiling anything too much, or give teases of what is to come without unnecessarily inflating a single chapter with fluff.

As always, I couldn't have come this far without your comments, critiques, helpful insights and discussions. I have had to (gladly) change the outline or pacing of the story several times as new topics were brought up or errors pointed out, and I am humbled that people are willing to do so out of their own time.

Last edited: Tuesday at 7:30 PM

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