Chapter 35: The Old Man in the North II

Early 157 AC

With blackberry brandy in hand, and supper sitting well in his belly, Cregan Stark surveyed the great table around which he and his lords sat, the low rumble of an approaching autumn storm sounding in the distant east. The crackling fireplace and flickering braziers gave the room an air of relaxation, a homey feel, one that made them eager to return to their holdfasts in the North. Their passage through the Stormlands by horse, though slower than by ship, had been far safer as the autumn storms raged, and moving by water had never sat well with Cregan Stark. As such, they'd sent a raven for Winterfell before leaving for the Stormlands, to inform his current lady wife of the need for Manderly ships in the port of House Whitehead, a town whose name he didn't quite recall.

He remained confident she would be able to convince the Lord of White Harbor that such a request was not to be spurned like his last one.

Their arrival in the lands of House Wytch were a stark reminder of just how much these lands had changed. Even if the lands of most Stormlords now used the 'Stormhall rotation' for their crops, it was as if they had stepped into another kingdom entirely, or perhaps a different world altogether. Gone were the muddied tracks serving as passage through the lands, instead replaced by great white roads, their sturdy construction mirrored by the few bridges that crossed what counted for large streams in these lands. The long, thin strips of land that dour smallfolk worked were replaced by large square parcels, forming a tapestry of color around the villages that tended to them. Small flocks of sheep and the occasional herd of dairy cattle gave way to vast tracts of pasture, with sheep, cattle and even horses numbering far greater than elsewhere.

The villages, by the Old Gods, the villages were so unlike their fellows it beggared belief. Every house was comparably a manor for its smallfolk, with thick walls, a sturdy roof, and a large garden wall, in which the womenfolk tended to whatever was kept there, such as pumpkins, beans, squash, waterfowl, chickens, and so much more. Gaggles of children bound through the streets, at play or aiding their parents in their daily tasks. Sons followed fathers, directing horses, spreading manure, or helping to throw bundles of grain stalks into lines of carts. Meanwhile, daughters trailed after their mothers, picking eggs, filling bushels with fruit, or removing weeds from their gardens.

Around the villages were fields of wheat, rye, barley, and corn that stretched from low stone walls along the roads to the distant horizon. Sturdy barns and shepherd's huts dotted the landscape, bordered by fields of milking cows, sheep and occasionally horses, all grazing in their thickly growing pastures. Autumn flowers bloomed in abundance along the roadside, many of which were being plucked of their petals for dyes or decoration. The smallfolk themselves were Stormlanders, of that there was no doubt, but they were unlike their fellows in other lands. Broader, haler, heartier, with finer working clothes, tools that flashed in the sunshine, and with boots! How did so many have boots? Long did Cregan and his lords ponder where were they getting enough leather that passing smallfolk had boots most knights and minor lords would wear.

As they moved through the land, the villages began to blur together, all thriving, bustling with the work of the harvest and the smiling smallfolk that called them home. In some there were more orchards, laden with apples, whilst others had more sheep, or more milking cows, or small herds of large horses. One common trait shared among them was a tavern, built along the road through the village, and it was large enough that all Cregan's lords, as well as their guards and the Wytch patrol serving as their escort, could comfortably sleep inside. Cooking fires and tents, even in a land as comparably warm as this, were not quite the same as a soft goose feather bed, good blankets, and more than enough food and drink to satisfy their lordly appetites.

They had met the young Lord Wytch on the outskirts of Lowhill at the onset of evening, a surprise given news of his whereabouts from their Wytch escorts. According to them, he had been overseeing the progress of nearby smallfolk levies, the day of their arrival coinciding with two of the four days a month they were to drill. With what, or how, they did not say, and Cregan did not pry, though that they were preparing for a fight did rouse his curiosity for a while. Yet those thoughts were put aside when the young lord greeted them all the same, welcomed them to his lands, and brought them into his castle, bread and salt being offered by his young lady wife. What followed was a filling feast, with more beef than Cregan had ever eaten in one sitting or form, and an excellent night's rest in guest rooms fit for a prince, despite the smaller size of the castle and the lands that supported it.

The following morning, after a similarly hearty breakfast, the young lord had invited them to speak with him, as he had received the prince's letter ahead of their entry into his lands, hence the escort. Cregan knew naivety when he saw it, he could smell it from a league away, and the boy lord reeked of it, but in a peculiar way. Not in that he was unaware of what the prince had asked of him to part with, but almost as if sharing such information with the North didn't bother him in the slightest. Perhaps the boy simply thought nothing would come of Cregan and his lords growing more food for their people? It was not as if the kingdoms were at war or set to be at war with one another. It would be potentially dangerous for this young house to give up such secrets so readily, but better for the North that Cregan did not bring that to Casper's attention.

Their first task was to see the town of Lowhill for what it was, and as their 'tour' commenced, the more of it Cregan saw, the greater his envy grew. The land around the town, if it was not pasture, road or orchard, was farmland, and what farmland it was. Rich soil, black as the night, which the smallfolk harvested, planted, or fertilized with great carts of manure brought from the cow and horse pastures. More bundles of wheat, rye and barely came from an acre than he thought possible, the rows of grains in such neat and orderly fashion, it was if they were a column of professional soldiers on the march. Being far enough from potential conflict, the number of granaries he saw were astounding, as were their size and the amounts being stored in them. An odd thing to see was that every so often, a field bore nor crop for man, but clover, thick and being bundled with great lengths of thin, fibrous rope. When Arnolf Umber asked, Lord Wytch explained that it was feed for the livestock come the winter months. That such a thing was done was nothing new, but that so much was being prepared just for livestock certainly was out of the ordinary. Then again, with so much livestock frolicking in their fields, Cregan reasoned it would do well to be prepared for any coming snows that prevented grazing.

The town itself was more like a small city to him and his fellow Northmen, with Desmond comparing it to White Harbor in many regards, including the great sept he paid visit to during the tour. Cregan and his fellow followers of the Old Gods paid it little mind, save for admiring its sturdy construction and how quickly it had been built, for the town itself drew their attention far more readily. Wide, clean streets intersected with discernibly different quarters of the city, many of them with differently colored rooftops, banners, or doors to signify their district. The merchant's quarter held the tallest and grandest manors, nearer the markets, the mayor's manorial residence, and the great warehouses in which they stored their goods. Though they did not tour the Corps building, to his relief, given the size of the furnaces he glimpsed within, Cregan understood this was where the material for the roads and buildings was made, yet he didn't need to know about roads just yet. Nearby was Smith's Row, as it was called, which held the metalsmiths, blacksmiths, goldsmiths, the occasional tinker, and whatever other professions dealt in metals and their processing, and the amount of material being brought in or processed was rather surprising. Tailors, weavers, tanners, and other craftsmen came to and from this area of the town, bringing with them goods or leaving with finished products for their own use. That there was this much work available for these smiths in a town so far removed from ore deposits spoke volumes to Cregan of how well the roads allowed for easier, quicker, and greater transport of materiel.

Yet craftsmen were not the only ones moving to and fro amongst the town. A veritable swarm of smallfolk moved about the town, ranging from an errant knightly traveler or two amidst merchant caravans to patrols of town guards, groups of laborers, and even families bringing carts of crop or wool to market. Much like their Wytch counterparts in the more rural areas, these smallfolk were healthy, fitter, wore much finer clothes, were trailed by a flock of children and all seemed to have some semblance of fine boots or shoes. With even the smallfolk of this town dwelling in tall houses with a garden wall around each, the industriousness before them in such a comparably compact town was nothing short of inspiring. Were these inventions to work as intended, Cregan pondered that perhaps he could restructure Wintertown in such a manner. The walls and roofs on these houses seemed more than thick enough to keep out winter's chill, and their added height certainly seemed an efficient means of allowing more people to dwell in a small space without the crowding he had seen in Kings Landing. As well, it didn't smell near as foul, which was a bonus for the northern lord.

At dusk they had returned from Lowhill, and the next morning, after breaking their fast with a hearty meal, Lord Wytch had taken them upon a tour of the fields around Stormhall itself, especially near the great cattle paddock which contained his prize aurochs bull. The young lord was rather forthcoming in his explanation of why he had captured such a large and wild beast, willing to answer the questions Cregan's fellow Northmen gave, but there was something… odd about the lad. Case in point, his efforts to breed larger cattle, for their meat and their milk, was a task already years in the making, one that had been started when young men usually gave little thought to such ventures. Combined with the additional food available to the creatures rendering them haler and heartier than before, the noticeable difference in size between aurochs-stock and not was intriguing. Cregan especially noted the fascination shown by Arnolf Umber, as their lands were known for still having occasional herds of such wild cattle roaming in the more isolated mountain valleys and hilly forests. Capturing a young bull or two could allow the Umbers to start their own such herds, come to think of it.

This breeding effort was, as it turned out, the reason for so many boots being available for the smallfolk. With the number of cattle increasing every year, good leather was becoming more available for those who worked the material, and according to Lord Wytch, boot making was becoming a common profession wherever these 'beef' cattle could be found. It was much the same for cheese with the larger dairy cows, with Lowhill having become the largest provider in all Wytch lands. Yet it was not leather nor cheese that so piqued his interest as did the Wytchmill. Much of it they did not see, to his hidden annoyance, but Cregan deigned to let the young lord keep his secrets. It would not do for him to press young Casper when he was already being more than generous in what he did show them. The metal tools for smallfolk, the wheelbarrows, the plows and seed drills themselves… it was not overwhelming, but Cregan could see how one might needlessly toil if someone did not explain how it worked. Smallfolk, northern ones especially, were not slow on the uptake because they were stupid. They knew the tried-and-true methods for farming, husbandry, and gardening, and moving from the known to the unknown could have more disastrous consequences for Northmen than elsewhere. Trying something that none knew if it worked or not could quickly lead to reduced yields and thus starvation, hence their reluctance to try something different. He would have to ensure that a few of his personal fields were tended to first, so that the brunt of experimenting with new methods did not fall upon his smallfolk. He was a Stark; he would gladly bear the cost of using this new plow and seed drill first. Speaking of which, the seed drill… ingenious thing really, to pour the seeds into neat furrows and then immediately cover to prevent bird or pest from eating them.

The 'touring' continued the next few days away from Stormhall, first towards the north and west, where they arrived at the teeming pastures and lake of Highmarsh. Here he saw Lords Bolton and Reed take particular interest, the former in the sheer pasturage and the latter in the lake that had been created. To think that so short a wall could so profoundly change the landscape, not to mention the fish, mussels, clams, and crayfish harvesting the smallfolk partook in, along with the sheep, cattle and horses frolicking as they pleased on such great 'ranges' of grass. Days later in Timberstone, Cregan nearly wept when he saw the amount of wood being processed by such a comparably small region, yet the forests remained healthy or were being replanted even as trees were cut. The Wolfswood was on the doorstep of Winterfell, as were a great many other forests in the North for his other lords, and yet he'd never imagined creating such a means of both harvesting their bounty and ensuring their replacement for the next generation.

Yet he also knew that his true purpose here must come before, as there was little time to waste. For while he was this far south, far more than any Stark save for perhaps Brandon the Builder from ages past, the winds of winter grew closer to Winterfell, and the cold, dark days lay ahead of his people. It ached that he could not return sooner, with such a bounty of food as he saw here, but there was a time and place for caution, and this was one of those times. He could not afford to haggle too hard, lest the lord refuse him on grounds of offense, but time was of the essence, and Lord Wytch had seemed unlikely to refuse them on such a matter. The prince had written to him ahead of their arrival, after all, and he had been nothing but forthright with them thus far. After returning to Stormhall, the young lord had even been gracious enough to allow them to peruse copies of some of his harvests going back ten years, as further proof of his sincerity. He had, however, declined parting with a select few, deeming them 'vital to his current operations', whatever that meant. Cregan guessed it had something to with his alcohol from the Wytchmill, whose borders he'd been told were growing larger, to make more room for a larger distillery.

"By the Old Gods," muttered Bennard Bolton as he leaned back in his seat, having just finished looking through his small stack of reports on sheep breeding. He took a swift chug of his whiskey, grimacing as it burned his throat. "I never knew sums could be put together like this, let alone the findings he is making. My maester always said more food makes animals healthier, and that we can make larger sheep by only breeding the larger ones, but this… I've never seen anything like it before. This sort of planning ahead is nothing short of inspiring, in a way. I'd like to see if my nephews could achieve a similar achievement with our lands."

"The boy's more a scribe and coin counter than proper lord," Arnolf Umber grumbled, finishing another mug of hard cider. "Why should a lord delve into such sums when he can pay others to do it? My pa has the maester and castellan for things like this."

"Clearly his involvement in such affairs has led to more success than most might think," Desmond Manderly admonished, the Umber grumbling at his remark. "Especially where his smallfolk are concerned. Whilst not fawning over the lad, they think very highly of House Wytch, much as if the house had been here for generations on end. The number of children running around is simply unbelievable for lands not part of the Reach, as they've almost twice the children we saw elsewhere in the Stormlands. Just as well, every one of those children will learn from their parents of the harder times in the days before Casper and his father became their lords. Unless some catastrophe was to befall their house, they will have the loyalty of their smallfolk for generations to come."

"Indeed, and despite the numbers of children, they're not likely to perish anytime soon, not from hunger anyway," Theon replied. "I've seen too much food in these lands to believe famine could rear its ugly head, and my people know that the more you eat, the less likely some pox is strong enough to come along and kill you."

"Yet we must remain cautious, my lords, for what we see now is the results of nearly a decade of work, much of it unseen and unknowable to any but House Wytch and its smallfolk. It is easy to desire the same results whilst not having seen the work that went into it, as my father says," Bennard said. "Should we rush into this too quickly and put too much stock into imitating the same success Lord Wytch has accomplished, I guarantee we stand to lose more than we think."

"I agree, but we mustn't tarry," Lord Reed said. "What are we willing to negotiate for to achieve even some of Lord Wytch's success?"

"A great deal, knowing my father," the Karstark heir said. "We've long struggled with teams of oxen for plowing fields, the damnable plows being so heavy it was easier to just plow long, narrow fields rather than turn the damn thing around. Now, with this harness and newfangled plow? The smallfolk could plow a larger field, in less time, with just a horse or two. If the field isn't as long but only a bit wider, it'll be easier to plant and harvest it, I'll wager."

"The lad is already married, quite happily too, given how affectionate he and his wife are during supper," Cregan replied, his first words since they had gathered. His silent contemplation of the issues at hand had been long in the making, ever since Baelor had told him of the possibilities that awaited them here in the Stormlands. Now here, having seen it for himself, he deigned to keep as quiet on it as possible, until his input was needed. "Marriage is thus not an option, even if he has a younger sister not yet betrothed. Stormlords and their heirs will come calling for little Shyra soon enough, I wager, and even with these potential boons, most Northern lords would not accept such a young southron bride for their sons, especially one who holds to the Seven."

"Fostering might work, but not too many at once," Lord Bolton added. "We've the means of growing more food than ever before, but the rest of the realms will notice if half of the lords of the North send a second son or heir to be fostered by the same house. This will raise questions we do not need, especially with an encroaching winter."

"I agree to the fostering, but which lords send their sons must be carefully selected, should they be a part of this," Desmond said. "It would make little sense to send sons for fostering if their lordly fathers do not participate in some equal exchange, and while as a show of gratitude these young men would bring House Wytch prestige, hosting and fostering so many at once would undoubtedly take away from the act itself. There would be little reason for, say, House Mormont to foster a son here, unless Lord Wytch found the means of more successfully repelling Ironborn raiders, which I cannot see him having accomplished. As for trade, the most reliable method would be by ship, and my father has the largest collection of trade vessels under the banners of the North. Any further deals would have to be mediated through my father, who holds grudges rather harshly, as we all know."

"Aye, so only a select number of sons would be sent if possible. What are you willing to provide in exchange, should Lord Wytch or our fathers decline fostering?" the Karstark heir asked.

Arnolf grunted. "Resources that we've in abundance, perhaps? Iron, tin and the like? It's not as if he needs our wool, he has more than enough of that. Perhaps our limestone, then? We've that in abundance for certain, and I saw them bringing that in by the cart to that foundry of theirs."

"Aye, but should he agree to such an exchange, we mustn't send too much of some, my lord. We'll have need of that iron once our craftsmen are able to make those plows," Bennard said. "Just as well, our ironwood is too precious a commodity for trade, I should think, as it would also draw a great deal of unwanted attention showing up in the Stormlands of all places. Many a more prestigious or wealthy lord has long sought ironwood, even if most do not attain it. For such a young house to have access to that which many have sought for centuries would be taken as a grave insult I fear."

"Aye, as it is so rare for ironwood to leave the North, that must remain off the bargaining table. Just as well, with these plows and seed drills, we must heed the caution and hopes of the prince in this case. If Stormhall was along the eastern coast, as well as a more prestigious house, then perhaps they need not fear the ramifications of strengthening the North. Yet they are not, and once the Reach finds out they may be losing the North as a source of exporting their vast grain stores, many of their lords will surely be upset," Desmond replied. "Yet there was something else amongst these lands I noticed, my lords, something that does not bode well for the future of these lands, should Reachmen seek retribution for their lost revenue."

"The smallfolk levies?" Lord Reed asked. "Aye, Lord Wytch mentioned they drilled every other week's end. A bit much, but he seems to prefer them to be ready. What is it?"

"They've better boots, arms and armor than any levy I've known, save for some of the richer houses we trade with," Desmond replied. "Yet it is likely for a good reason, as he had a hand in repelling those Dornish bandits some time ago. It is likely a mere precaution, should they somehow cross the border again and bypass the Marcher lords, as there are those that would likely seek to target his lands out of revenge for his actions."

Cregan nodded silently. "Regardless of his smallfolk levies and their apparent readiness to do battle with any invader, I should think even the foppish Reachmen would hesitate to take action against a friend of the prince and crown heir. Still, what Lord Wytch and Prince Baelor offer us is something we cannot afford to tarry on for too long. Winter is coming, my lords, and we've no knowledge of harsh this one will be. Our course of action thus must be decisive, and quick, lest we stay longer in the south than needed. We must find out what he needs that we can deliver, as he has the stronger position in this matter. Should we have something he could use, other than ironwood, then that shall be the basis of our dealings." Cregan knew sending Jonnel would be an agreeable deal, he was of a fostering age, having just reached his eighth nameday, and even fostering a second son of a Lord Paramount and Warden was not to be dismissed as beneath a lord. However, he did not wish for his granddaughters by Rickard to be sent as ladies in waiting, that was too southron for him, and they were too young for it by half in his mind.

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Janyce Wytch VI

The Northmen were an odd bunch to host. In some ways, they were rather foreign, their mannerism either a tad solemn or even crude, but in others, they were strangely familiar. Was it their shared First Men ancestry, perhaps? Or that in some way, they reminded her of other Stormlords, gruff but smarter than foppish Reachmen and valorous Valemen might take them to be. Eking out a living in lands comparably barren to those realms was neither for the weak nor the faint of heart, after all. It was good to see them leave, though not for their company, but simply that she knew a homesick sigh when she heard it. Time and time again she could hear how they missed their families, their holdfasts, their lands, and with the approach of winter, they could ill afford to be away for too long. That they had come here, to her home of all places, had been nothing short of simply unbelievable. No Stark had ever been this far south in living memory, and even in the annals of history, especially before the Conquest. She would know, she'd had Maester Gorman check through whatever historical tomes they had.

That her son was so generous with these lords and their heirs was not surprising to her, she'd raised her boy right in that regard. That he had sent a good number of seed drills, iron plows and horse harnesses ahead to the port town under House Whitehead was unexpected, but sure to generate a good amount of goodwill between the North and Stormlands. The other gifts were another matter entirely, one she intended to discuss with her son shortly after their Northern guests had departed. Hundreds of pounds of seeds, for example, of crops known for their tolerance of cold rain and snow, taken from their personal stocks, and the plans to something she was not privy to, but judging from the fierce hug the Manderly boy gave her son, it was something that would greatly benefit their house.

As he had left to oversee a problem with the construction of a bridge near the border with House Wysp, she'd found herself unable to accomplish this task. Much of her tasks had been completed that morning, so instead of taking her guards down to Lowhill to see the progression of the sept grounds, she deigned it better to spend some time with the newest member of their family. Whilst her daughters were attending their studies with Maester Gorman, she had managed to arrange a light luncheon with her gooddaughter in the shade of their garden wall, the autumn flowers yet in full bloom, and the eastern breeze almost entirely blocked by the castle itself. Rather idyllic, and a favorite place for both her son and his wife to spend time together when they were not running around Stormhall.

Sipping her tea, she looked her gooddaughter over. Now that she was no longer the only 'Lady Wytch', some of her duties had fallen to that of Mylenda. Maintaining connections with her mercantile kin, ensuring guests were cared for, and overseeing the developments of the Guardsmen remained some of her tasks, but the overseeing of petitioners when Casper was away, ensuring wages in a timely fashion, and sending of couriers were tasks Mylenda had taken with a diligence that some could misconstrue as zealotry. She appeared none the worse for wear, which the older woman was glad for, and while she did not seem to need as much sleep as others might, Janyce knew she was able to sneak in a nap just after lunch to refresh herself for the coming afternoon. After all, it would not do for her gooddaughter to be too stressed about matters whilst she was still settling into her new role as Lady of Stormhall. Then again, she was still technically Lady of Windhall, so perhaps there really were few others she could be compared to.

"Mylenda," she said. "How goes your life in our lands so far? I know this time away from the lands and castle you called home might be difficult, but is it as you imagined even a scant few years ago?" Gone was a girl just beginning to grow into her looks and smarts, instead replaced by a lovely, intelligent woman who took to running a household as a fish might to water. Her son had always seemed to be a lucky boy, and now he was undoubtedly a lucky man, to have a wife so fair, intelligent, and kind.

"It is a peaceful one, more than I imagined it might be, given the amount of work being accomplished," the young lady replied. "There is so much to do, but it is easy to see both the importance and results of such work, as the lands of my ancestors will be facing the same changes and improvements as here. My grandfather once told me that accomplishing a task, no matter its difficulty, could bring a catharsis that few other actions in life could replicate. My husband is most diligent in his tasks, a trait I am proud to share with him. Yet it leaves little time for us to spend time together outside of our marriage bed."

"I see. Has he given thought to our proposal, on taking on more clerks to aid in your tasks? It did wonders for me to find that group of scribes willing to work in such a clerical setting." Having her own staff had allowed for far more couriers to be sent, to other lords, her merchant cousins, or to the various yeomen and knights in service to Lord Wytch. It was through these men that she had learned of new developments in their lands, such as Ser Robar, the Valeman, managing to erect that windmill to power the bellows of Ironvein's largest smithy, or of the Westerland twins breaking in several gorgeous colts, offspring of their own mares and several steeds claimed as prizes from her son's time in the Marches. Whilst not as fast or light limbed as their fathers, they would undoubtedly be prized warhorses come their own majority.

"He does wish to do so, goodmother, but he frets over the possibility of corruption amongst his future staff, of the acceptance of bribes, embezzling, or sloth behavior. I told him that so long as we can hold accountable those under our purview, then if they wish to engage in such acts, it is not our fault if they choose to do so, only that it is our right to punish them for it. Yet rather than simply expel or hang them, all that we can do is reign in their excesses, or at the very least, be the ones to manage them. If they choose to embrace corruption or vices, then let us be the ones they turn to, rather than outside forces, to fulfill their needs."

"He is still having trouble letting go of the control he maintains over us all, or that which he thinks himself to have," Janyce said with a soft chuckle. "It has done wonders for our family, the amount of work he has done, but I fear he is beginning to lose sight of what is important for this immediate future of ours. He is running around as a beheaded chicken, flipping from this task to that task, as if the idea of clerks, scribes and other such learned servants is anathema to him. He spends nowhere near as much time with his sisters as he did even a year ago, and Arenna and Shyra alike are disappointed that their story time is nothing like it once was." In time they would likely grow out of it but hearing their excited retelling of whatever new tale her son had spun for them remained one of Janyce's greatest sources of amusement as well as joy.

"I agree and will speak to him on the matter upon his return, something I have been intending to do for some time now," Mylenda replied with a frown. "There are days that we do not speak with each other between the hours of breaking our fast and once we go to bed. Part of the fault for such a lack of communication lies with me, for I am often as tired as he is, but it falls to me to remind him that his own failing is more a fault of his tasks, and not himself. He is not shunning us by any stretch, I should think, but he is focusing on tasks that, whilst important to the success and growth of our houses, could easily be accomplished by other men under his direction. He need not to visit Timberstone every time there is an issue with the newest plantations of seedlings, any more than he must venture to Highmarsh to check on the progress of the newest expansion of industries therein."

"It would do well for my son to not work himself into an early grave. He may be blessed by the Seven, but he forgets that he is head of a house, not a foreman of a quarry or a quartermaster of an army. Family comes before all else, for be it smallfolk or lords, that is the first and often last thing we have in this world. While I would never disparage his friendship with the prince, his time with Baelor did take quite some time away from his family."

"Is it not a good thing for him and the prince to be friends? I should think that such a connection to the Targaryens could only benefit our houses."

"Yes, given some of the rumors of the prince's behavior before my son became what some might call a mentor. Yet even in this instance, it was not his task or duty to treat with the prince as he has done. I am grateful that it had not lasted too long, for the return of the prince allowed for my son to return to his other duties, not that he allowed them to fall by the wayside. It is just a mother's worry that he loses sight of what needs to be done, rather than what he wishes to do." That her son had almost seemed to adopt the prince as a son was, while heartwarming, more than a bit strange. Did her son know something of the prince that nobody else did, and sought to guide him in his own way? As strange a thought as it was, Janyce knew her boy was smart enough to see things in others some might miss. Had he done this with the prince, as he had with the knights who now served their house?

"In this I hesitantly agree, Janyce, though I do not wish for us to sound so harsh in our observations. It is clear he thinks of us when he is away on his errands, but it is also clear he is thinking of his errands when he is with us. He is as a line of rope pulled in two directions, each with great importance, but for differing reasons. The progress I have made with my own group of scribes and clerks mirrors yours I should think, goodmother. It allows for me to work on greater projects that, whilst decidedly more difficult, take up less time overall in their accomplishing. I will convince him of such a necessity upon his return."

"How so?"

"Well, goodmother, I was thinking of us taking the time to visit Stormhall, not as Lord and Lady Wytch, but as Casper and Myelnda. It would do him some good, I think, to be away from the tasks he so readily throws himself into. The training of the smallfolk levies can be overseen by Roland, Arstan, or any one of his captains. The progress of the Wytchmill expansion can be left to Maester Gorman, or even you, as he trusts few in the world as he does us three. We could ride along the winding roads, or take picnics into the mountain pastures, sleep beneath the stars, even explore the halls of my ancestors. Anything to take his mind off his work, even if for a while, would likely do wonders for his sleep, as he has been plagued by dreams as of late."

"The same could be said for Lowhill's preparations for winter, as with all our lands. Despite his insistence to oversee it all, our larders are full, more than ever before, so much so that we must almost constantly make room for more or find news ways to store it. Our purses are fuller than ever, as trade, tax and gifts fill them well past bursting. The smallfolk have never had such sturdy tools, fine homes, or sufficient supplies as they do now. Just as well, despite his insistence, it will be sooner than later that we simply run out of room for our treasury and its contents. Even with the costs of the dam now complete, and its strain just beginning to dissipate, the new village near its outlet will bring an additional revenue stream to our coffers that he likely did not anticipate."

"Speaking of which, goodmother, how goes our little project along the shores of our new reservoir?"

"I'm certain Casper remains unaware of it, but it will be a pleasant surprise, I should think. A manorly house, much like a cottage most Stormlanders call home yet fit for a lord of his growing stature." It was to be a great site, much like the retreats of greater lords in more storied lands. Nestled betwixt a pair of hills, along where the shallowest waters of the reservoir will come to stop, the shores of its sheltered bay were being planted by willow, oak, birch, and pine to shade it from rain, wind, and sun. Fish, frogs, the small creatures that dwelt under rocks in streams, and whatever else grew in water was being dumped into that lake, much as lords stocked ponds for their own consumption. After the trees were to be large enough, wild turkeys, deer, and the like to be trapped and released there, as game for hunts. "It will be a good place for him to venture to and relax for a time, I would think, upon its completion. A family outing would be better for him than he thinks."

"Especially once the children are old enough to travel there safely."

"Children?" Janyce asked, nearly dropping her tea in surprise. "Are you…?"

"No, goodmother, or at least, I do not believe so yet," Mylenda replied, though she sounded a bit frustrated at this. "We have often discussed it but find ourselves too tired at the end of the day to give it much attempt on a more regular basis. Here and there we have had… relations, but it is not as if we are focusing entirely on such matters. We are yet young, he says, and mentions that perhaps during a lull we can more readily attempt for an heir."

"Well, better you do than not, but I cannot fault you for your tiredness," Janyce said. "In the years leading up to Arenna and Shyra's births, my husband and I, Seven rest his soul, often found ourselves in much the same situation you and my son now do. Work, work, work, always work to be done, issues to be settled, petitioners to be heard, and a great many more tasks to be accomplished. It is a wonder that Casper had any siblings at all."

"How did you manage it all, goodmother? I do not feel as if I'm torn in differing directions, between my life away from the work of a Lady, and the life I live when with my husband, but there is an undercurrent of stress I do not particularly enjoy on some days. Did you and Morden ever have other issues besides the tiredness?"

"Nothing serious, thank the Seven, but there were plenty of times it felt we were strangers in our own home, often spending time away from one another just to ensure our smallfolk did not starve or our coffers were not depleted. I carried on knowing that the mistakes I made would be my own but could prove worse for my husband and son than for myself. It was through that love for Morden and Casper, and later my daughters, that I persevered so, despite the difficulty of some days. Where there is such love in a family and a marriage, a great many difficulties may be overcome, but it is not necessarily the same for all noble ladies in our position. You are yet young, Mylenda, as is my son, so I no more wish of you to stop your work and try for an heir than I would you to stop ruling as you do. My time as Lady of House Wytch has passed, for good or ill, and despite the years of hardship, struggle, and even tears, our family emerged stronger for it. Casper has embraced that same self-sacrifice, but I fear he is too-readily throwing himself into such a life. It will fall to you, not his sisters, nor his mother, to support him until he learns to trust those outside of the family."

Mylenda smiled. "I am gladdened that you have such words of wisdom for me, as I know our combined youth and inexperience could be a dangerous combination for our joined houses. Many a greater house has faced great troubles in such circumstances as ours, but I do believe the Seven would not test us with such matters if they did not feel us as able to accomplish these tasks somehow."

"Whether or not it is man or the gods that thrust upon us such troubles, fret not my dear," Janyce replied, finishing her tea. "I don't plan on leaving you, my son or my daughters anytime soon. Should you ever have need of this old woman's advice, you know where to find me."

"Of course, goodmother, but I must disagree on one thing," her gooddaughter said with a girlish giggle after finishing her own tea. "You are not old."

"Oh, my aches in the morning would tell me otherwise. Then again, that just might be the cold, I suppose," Janyce said, sending them both in a fit of giggles as the sun shone softly above them.