Chapter 36: Smallfolk III

Mid 157 AC

Edric knew that the lands of House Wytch had been a part of a remarkable change since the time of his youth. Food was more abundant than anyone could possibly eat, the fields greener, the livestock larger, and the people were happier than ever before. The villages and towns grew, as did the families of every smallfolk, and their coffers seemed greater than ever, to where simple luxuries could be bought for the wealthier smallfolk. Fine furniture from Timberstone, goose feather stuffing for mattresses and pillows from Highmarsh, scented soaps from the Lowhill sept, even the 'paraffin' wax candles from the Wytchmill could be bought at prices that were unthinkably low to the previous generation. Many whispered thanks to the Seven at their evening prayers for House Wytch, and for continued good fortune and health for the young lord, as well as an heir or two to carry on his legacy, even as he and his lady wife departed for her ancestral lands to the west some weeks before.

Yet things less visible to most lords had come to Wytch lands as well, ones that were likely already there, but not as apparent as now. Crime had not risen, or at least was of the sort that was not noticeable, as theft was rare, and murder rarer still. Yet there was a sense of growing darkness in these lands, nothing more than a shadow, but an ever-present one that seeped into the realm. Was it the newfound prosperity bringing out vices in men that had normally been tempered by harsh times, where they now had coin and time to throw into new and uncharted pleasures? Or was it simply more apparent, now that few grew sick and fewer still went hungry, and coin flowed in faster than some could spend it?

His brother Berric was nowhere to be found when Meredyth had come calling early that evening, which was entirely unlike him. He'd been raised better than to simply skip out on such a meeting, as he'd pined for that sweet lass for years, ever since he found out girls weren't as 'icky' as they appeared, and that she'd finally returned his advances should have sent his brother through the roof of their cottage. Their mother had joked of wedding bells sounding whenever the two looked at one another, a sentiment Edric found himself agreeing with, as they were a good match. The dowry of a small herd of good Wytch-born dairy cattle, perfect for making cheese to be sold at market, was left unsaid.

Yet when looking for him as Meredyth waited with their mother, he'd not been at his usual haunts. They were too far from Lowhill for him to be there, the nearby innkeeper hadn't seen him, and a patrol of Guardsmen hadn't noticed him either. Perhaps he'd found additional work, as he so often claimed was the source of his coin?

Meandering around some of the larger and wealthier farms, he'd found a trio of younger men, boys really, making their way to one of the larger barns a few parcels down the road, looking both excited and nervous. This seemed odd, and when Edric followed them, he'd found a group of workers milling about the place, eating, drinking, and making rather… lewd conversation with a great number of women. To Edric's surprise he found his brother, lying upon a pile of straw in the arms of a young lass, a farmer's daughter from the looks of it, laughing merrily and taking long swigs from a flask. In fact, every man had a wine flask with him, and seemed to be enjoying the company of many a farmer's daughter. Old Jon was known for having quite a few nieces and many daughters from his previous wives, as well as a taste for finer wines, and it would seem the new prosperity of the lands had done little to slake his thirst for the drink or the coin it took to keep him supplied.

It would appear a few of his nieces and daughters were, for lack of a better term, whores, though nobody was outright saying that, merely calling them 'farmhand companions' or other such nonsense. It kept them out of the eyes of the local authorities, though Edric had heard from farmer gossip that at least one captain of the Guardsmen was a weekly regular of this establishment. Whether Old Jon had whored them out, or they'd come up with the idea as a means of earning more coin, Edric didn't know, but he'd earned a few surprised laughs from the other 'patrons' stumbling around, and a harsh glare from the younger woman as he grabbed his drunk brother and dragged him from her embrace.

"Gods Berric, what the hells are you doing?" he'd harshly whispered, grabbing the wineskin from his somehow standing brother. The farm girl was immediately swooped up by another man, and with a girlish laugh, carried off towards a distant cluster of trees.

"Hey, that's my wine." Priorities, his brother had, focusing on the wine and not his lost lady.

"Berric, Meredyth is waiting with mother, and you're out here? In the company of these… women?"

"Hey," Berric said, somehow slurring such a simple word. "Betsy ain't whatcha think she is, she's a good lass, with an even bigger ass," he added with an uncharacteristic giggle, even as Betsy's squeals of enjoyment in the distance became decidedly less chaste.

"So is Meredyth, brother, and she's a woman true and grown, not some filly barely old enough to be lookin' at a man. She's finally returned your advances, something you've been hoping for ever since your cock first got hard, and you're not home when she shows up? You two planned on meeting today, for Seven's sake! What's gotten into you these days? I've been finding wine flasks whenever you're out on chores, you go through coins almost as fast as you earn them, and by the Seven, sometimes you don't look like you've slept in weeks! Ever since we got back from the Marches, you ain't been yourself, and it's been getting worse."

"I's tolja, it ain't nothin' for you to concern yourself with," Berric muttered, trying to push his brother away. "It's mah life, I want to live it like I should. Besides, what's the worry Ed? Plenty o' ladies out there for men like us, eh? Heroes, cuttin' down Dornish dogs like they deserve!"

"There won't be any ladies for you if you keep this up," Edric replied. "Drinkin' is fine but being a drunkard ain't what a woman wants. Now, get that wine outta yet gullet, and tell me what's goin' on. I'm your brother, for Seven's sake! Kin stick together through thick and thin, 'cause in the end, it's all we got."

"Ain't no kin of mine knows what I feel like," Berric said, his goofy smile turning into a hard frown as his glassy eyes took on a distant look. "They weren't out in the Marches."

"We went to battle together, Berric, I know what it was like. You haven't been yourself, just like Terrence the tailor was for a while. His wife said he'd wake up crying, muttering about dead folks blaming him for not getting there in time. One o' the septons down in town gave him some herbal tea or summat to calm him down during his night terrors, and last I've heard, he only dreams of those days when he's been on the drink." Hence why the man had sworn off all drink, even hard cider. It'd made him less… popular with the men working a nearby alehouse, at least until he'd gifted them an extra sack of grain for whatever they brewed over there.

"I don't need no tea; I want my wine!" Berric grunted, making a lunge for the wineskin, only for Edric to spin out of the way with nary any effort, sending Berric sprawling to the ground. Gods, the man was never this drunk before, and he'd never seen him so stumbly. How much wine had the lush drank before he'd gotten there?

"No, brother, I think you've had enough for a long while now. Get up, let's go home and get you some time with Meredyth. I don't think she'd the kind o' lass to be made a fool of."

"I said, give me mah wine!" Berric roared, drunkenly scrambling to his feet, and making another lunge, teeth bared, and fist cocked back to strike him, his own brother.

Seeing no other option, Edric clocked him upside the head as he moved to the side again, his own hand colliding hard as his leg tripped his flailing kin. Berric hit the dirt, silent for a dreadful moment before suddenly snoring, out cold from either his drunken fall or the slap colliding with the side of his head. Either way, some rest would do him some good, as well as some time away from the drink. Picking him up and tossing the wineskin aside, Edric half-carried, half-dragged his brother back to the house, just as Meredyth was exiting the door.

"What happened?" she asked, rushing to help him move Berric into the house.

"Found him drinking when he shouldn't be, but it's not his fault," Edric muttered, the lie coming easy to his lips. Though, was it a lie when he knew something in the Marches had hurt his brother? Ever since that night of the ambush, his little brother hadn't been well. It'd started with the arrow counting, but after a while, the gambling he'd caught him participating in, earning coin from places he couldn't quite remember, and now visiting an unsanctioned brothel? His brother needed Meredyth far more than he likely knew himself.

"Wine?"

"Aye, just like Terrence the tailor used to," Edric muttered, the two of them laying his brother onto a bed, just as his mother came in, her face filled with worry and weary sadness. "He needs his rest, and some help."

"Ever since the Marches, he's been… unwell," his mother added, though Edric felt she didn't know the half of it. What his family saw, what their friends and neighbors saw, was only a small part of whatever battle Berric was fighting. He'd overcome his own troubles from his time out west, but little 'Berri' hadn't recovered as he had. "Berric was always a gentler soul than his father, but we've heard tales of battle changing men for good or ill, and we fear that Berric has changed for the worse."

"I will stay with him, until he awakes," Meredyth offered, sitting upon the bed as Berric snored away.

"What about your folks?"

"Pa will not mind me spending the night with close friends, especially once he hears of the reason," she said, quietly. "After I'd told him of Terrence's troubles some moons ago, he spoke about his time in the Dance, but never gave us any details after that night. I believe he must have suffered as Berric is now, but somehow overcame it."

"Come first light, I think I should bring him to the sept, some rest in their 'hospital' would do him good," Edric muttered, wiping his eyes. "For all his faults, he won't disobey a septa, he's always been pious enough to heed their words. Hopefully, the herbal tea the septon had for Terrence will work for Berric."

As his mother left to fetch something, from the larder or so she claimed, he pulled up a chair by the bedside. Berric really did look like shit, even in the low light of the large candle by the bedside.

"You care for him greatly," Meredyth said, quietly. They'd been polite but distant growing up, as Berric was really the only thing that tied them together. Now, it seemed, that would still be the case.

"Aye, that's what older brothers are for. If ma or pa's not around, I gotta look out for him." Ever since he was old enough to put a stop to the bullies that had picked on Berric, he'd had his back, even when the odds weren't in their favor. He'd earned more than a few shares of black eyes or busted lips for sticking up for his little 'Berri' in an unfair fight.

"An admirable thing."

"You care for him too."

"… aye, after all this time, I do believe I do," Meredyth said. "Hard to believe the boy I hated for throwing mud in my hair for years would become the man that I fell for."

"You'll be good for him, better than he'll want to admit," Edric muttered. "I can't always be there to look out for him, but I know you can, should you so choose. He's a good man, Berric, but he's… hurt, from his time in the Marches. He won't say what's wrong, but I know it's something you can help with, better than me anyway."

"He'll need us all," she replied.

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With his brother sound asleep, and Meredyth watching over him, Edric felt little need to linger any longer. Meredyth was too good for his brother, but she would do wonders for him. Unless he messed that up, and hurt her, then Edric would have no choice but to pummel him into the ground. Most women didn't pay either of them much attention, at least not in a way that would lead to a happy marriage, which suited him just fine. He'd already found his lady and knew that his loyalty to her was what kept him from turning out like his brother was. With luck, Meredyth would help his brother in the same way.

He slipped quietly out of the house, mounting his horse and followed the road towards Lowhill, the encroaching evening casting the area into a deeper gloom. On the outskirts there sat a large cottage, the light of the red lantern above telling him the lady of the hour was there. Tying off his horse near several others, he approached, to find a pair of burly men standing under the front overhang, muscles bulging under their tight clothes.

"Ryam, Gregor," he said, the two letting him pass with merely a nod. Not the most talkative of fellows, but smarter than they looked, and more than willing to ensure you knew if you weren't wanted on the premise. Those muscles weren't just for show.

Once inside, he worked his way up the stairs, coming to an otherwise inauspicious door, through which he entered with nary a care. Edric knew that nobody came into this place unless they'd been invited, and he was one of the few people that were not only such a… distinguished guest, but also expected to be there. He'd found out the hard way, or at least old Forrest had, what happened when people came in when they weren't wanted.

There, at the head of the table, sat his lady in all her glory. Long and curly auburn locks, with pale pinkish skin, and a body that most men might find highly desirable, she was also gifted with a glare that could freeze a man's blood and send more than one running without so much as a word. Everyone who 'knew' her said she'd been a shepherd's daughter some years ago on Lowhill's outskirts, though the exact time was unknown, but as Lowhill's prosperity grew, 'Lady' Floris had seen fit to not let her origins detract from her ambitions. There were rumors as to what she had done, what middling or well-to-do older men she'd married to inherit their modest earnings, or at the very least, 'graciously' divide it between herself and their living children. That said men had usually died within a year of marrying her had earned her the name 'Red Widow', though the fact most had died from seemingly unrelated accidents had dispelled some of the rumors of her poisoning them for their wealth. Whichever rumor one believed, there was likely some truth to them all, but none could confirm it for certain, not even the 'lady' herself.

She currently ran the growingly seedy underbelly of Lowhill and its surrounding 'enterprises', and it would not surprise Edric if the lady of his affections had partial ownership of Old Jon's barnyard brothel. Everything else she had a hand in at some point, or her more direct subordinates did, ranging from 'victimless' racketeering, to fixing local dog races, 'protection' collection, and settling scores between rival merchants without the law knowing. Word was that she personally knew the mayor and at least two of the sheriffs, but there was no telling if this was true or not. Their time in bed together strictly brooked no time for business, only pleasure.

The others in the room were much like him, those his 'Red Widow' had seen fit to recruit for her needs. The fact that most of the others were women somewhat surprised him, as other than the bodyguards and escorts she and her subordinates employed, there were few men in her more inner circle.

"Edric, good of you to join us," she purred, giving him one of her rare smiles that, somehow, only he seemed to earn. The slightly jealous looks the others gave him were not born of lust, but of wishing for Floris' similar approval. "Come, sit by me, there is much to discuss this night. My little spiders, what is there to report this fine evening?"

Spiders is what she called her cadre of informants and whatever subordinates had proven themselves to her. 'Lady' Floris was nothing if not creative, and the term fit wonderfully. Rarely did her 'spiders' engage in anything unseemly, merely gathering information, delivering orders to those under their sway, or simply acting as the face of their leader's little party. Spinning their webs slowly but surely, to collect or deliver information, true or false, and reaping the benefits of such actions. Edric knew he didn't have it in him to lead such an effort, but that she'd brought him on well before they'd begun sleeping together helped him feel appreciated… in his own way.

As he took his seat, much of the conversation was the same as he'd heard before; what dog races had been fixed, which businesses had bought into their 'insurance' against fires, which Guardsmen captain could be counted on to either look the other way or 'crack down' on whatever small operations potential rivals could be attempting to create…

While not boring, it was a bit too much for Edric to care for. His part to play was expanding the 'services' his lady offered to other yeomen and their families. Your beef bull died from unknown means, right before the cows were set to be bred? A bit of some 'additional pay' and you'd find yourself a nice new bull waiting in your paddock the next morning, no questions asked as to how to it got there or where it came from. A daughter being harassed by some young man you didn't like? Suddenly he'd find himself 'growing a conscience' and treating her with respect or leaving her alone entirely. Other services, such as access to gambling dens, the small but profitable black market of goods brought in from other lands, and certain 'substances' that the authorities either ignored or didn't know of were provided as well. He had to make extra money somehow, and what better way than provide the connection between his lady's enterprises and men with more coin than they could possibly need?

Yet the fact that much of that additional money went to his family was one of the bitterer truths he'd had to swallow. 'Taking extra work' had always been his go-to excuse for his larger contribution, as he knew his father was getting on in age, and in time it'd be his turn to take over the farm. His mother was grateful for the number of people he'd been able to hire for doing much of the work around their parcels, but he'd never have managed it without his 'Lady' Floris coopting him into this line of work. He didn't enjoy the work he did, but he didn't outright hate it, as it allowed him to invest in their orchards and beef herd while the laborers to did more of the farm work.

Yet the question in the back of his mind continued, the one that only went away when Floris would dismiss her confidants and invite him to her bed. Would this all be worth it in the end? Would the Seven curse him with misfortune as he aided in spreading his lover's influence, even if it bettered his life? One day, he would ask her if their future together would last. He felt that he loved her, and was certain she felt something strong for him, but would this always be a part of their life? Or would it be possible for them to expand their legal operations, as she'd talked of before, to where they could escape from the criminal aspects of their lives? Money honestly earned, he'd heard his father say, can never be honestly taken away, yet he'd always wondered how true that was.

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Mylenda Wytch I

Mylenda believed any good lord or lady should rise with the sun when able, much as the smallfolk did, but for entirely different reasons. There was always a great deal of work to be accomplished before one's fast was broken, or at least, that was what her grandfather had always told her. Forms to be signed, letters to be written, orders given, patrols sent, and many more possibilities could make up a lord or lady's morning before they ate. Hence, why upon sneaking out of her 'second' marriage bed, a sleeping Casper cuddling up with her pillow in her place, she entered her solar in the thick woolen dress she'd become fond of these past few mornings. Something about the slight chill of autumn's grasp seemed to upset her stomach these days, and the warmth it retained helped to ease this odd feeling.

"Good morning Yohn."

The maester, a Valeman by origin, rose and gave her a proper bow. "Good morning, my lady. I have managed to gather the reports you wished to see, concerning your future projects for the southern highlands. Ambitious, but not without merit, given the constraints that no longer plague your family. I take it Lord Wytch is yet asleep?"

"Indeed, and it has taken weeks for him to do so longer than the bare minimum. Time away from Lowhill and the other towns has worked wonders, and for that I am certain my goodmother will be most grateful. He needs his rest more than he is willing to entertain sometimes."

"How goes your efforts to manage a staff for him?"

She smiled. "Slowly but surely, he is coming around to going beyond the base necessities he currently manages. My own staff and my goodmother's help on occasion, but he needs to be at peace with the men he will use to ensure his will is known and his tasks are carried out properly. For all his success, it would do well for him to remember he is a lord that men will gladly serve, not a foreman on a quarry."

"Excellent, my lady. Now, as to your plans for the highlands, I have been in correspondence with a group of maesters that specialize in weather predictions. They agree that save for a drought unlike any in surviving records, such a mountain reservoir is unlikely to dry enough that it cannot be used for irrigation. The sheer volume of water would become an obstacle to evaporation all its own."

Mylenda nodded. "It would not do well for me to simply try to mimic the accomplishments of my husband for my ancestral lands. Indeed, I wish to expand or even improve upon them, even if it mirrors my husband's ventures into uncharted actions." Not far from Windhall lay a barren valley, surrounded by steep mountains and often scorched by the summer sun. The only water in the valley was fed from snowmelt and the glaciers higher yet in the hills, the resulting stream often drying in the hotter summers before it could descend further. Only in the wintry months did the land receive relief, the cooling mists and snows bringing about a great growth of this small river. She would see this land turned into a lake as well, built by both casting down great boulders and building a dam, much as Casper had done, though not simply for the purpose of a lake.

Indeed, a great deal of Windhill lands near this valley were of higher elevation, ranging from hills to mountain slopes, with dryer forests usually mixing between the two, many of which were drained by the small streams that ran into them from snowmelt or the occasional rainstorm. The smallfolk eking out a living here could hardly be expected to grow crops, usually harvesting wild fruits and tending to their herds of sheep. In fact, since the expansion of the cropland in the lower areas, a good number of smallfolk had departed these lands for quite literally 'greener pastures', a loss for the land itself.

Mylenda abhorred the thought of simply allowing this to continue. Best to make the land of use, rather than leave it to go to waste.

"It is an ambitious undertaking, my lady, to not only create a 'reservoir' as Lord Wytch calls it, but to also then use that water to irrigate crops. The soils of our uplands are well enough for most plants to grow, but with the heat of summer often driving away rains or drying up the streams we would use instead, keeping crops watered has always been the greatest challenge to the prosperity of the land. Only sheep and perhaps goats do well in such a land, and even then, many smallfolk in leaner times have left the highlands for work in Oretown or the nearby farms these days."

"The aqueduct system, both of the structure itself and the great basin it would deposit water into, how long do you believe it would last? We've not the more severe climate of portions of Dorne, the eastern Stormlands, or even the Vale. I will not commit to investing this much of my house's coffers into a project, no matter how promising, if it will not last for some time."

The maester was silent for a few moments, deep in thought. "With great care taken in its construction, and a focus on higher quality materials, I do not see why it shouldn't last at least a few generations in nigh pristine condition. Dare I say, if doubly built for longevity, it could survive for a few centuries, perhaps even longer."

"Excellent," she said, a sliver of dread in her stomach turning into a mere sense of unease. Any such project was undoubtedly able to create doubt in someone wishing to have it completed. Surely that was why she felt ill after such thoughts? Mere stress?

"I must say, though, your insistence on planting most of the land with chestnuts, apples and other hardier tree crops is most… ambitious. Even with the irrigation systems in place, it would be some time before these trees produced their crop, or at least in the numbers by which would be feasible for their harvest."

"I have seen with my own eyes the plantations of chestnut near Ironvein's hills. Even for such a small area to be planted, compared to wheat or rye fields, we know that what few chestnut trees some shepherds tend to will produce bushels of nuts with every harvesting season. I've heard tales of some hillier Reach lands subsisting almost entirely off such crops, so prosperous are they. With our own plantations, as well as orchards of apples and other hardier fruits, we would bring to the area a great deal more than we would need to invest in it."

"Well, I suppose simply growing root vegetables would do in the meantime, so long as the smallfolk have the means of supporting themselves with their pastures," Yohn said. "If your lord husband is amenable to it, once the apples come in, spirits could be distilled from the fruit."

The thought of overly ripe apples made Mylenda's stomach churn suddenly. Tamping it down, as she had done these past few days, she nodded. "As for the times when the dam and aqueduct may not be enough for the lake to contain, such as in the aftermath of a great storm?"

"Well, much as Lord Wytch's reservoir has its own drain for such times, a similar drain for this mountain lake would be best direct away from where it could cause damage. Through a smaller aqueduct and then over a parapet, perhaps, to fall down a steep slope and away from any villages or pastures? Unless it were to be a storm unlike any other, any overflow would turn into little more than mist by the time it fell to the valley floor."

"A waterfall? Hmm, that would be nice, I suppose. Rather beautiful, I think, especially if it were not always occurring."

The thought of a waterfall, glistening in the light of a morning sun after a night's storm gave her upset stomach a soothing sensation. Indeed, much of her time with Casper these past few weeks had been spent not on work, but in exploring their home together. Visits to the catacombs to learn more of her Windhall ancestors, plying their falcons along ridges overlooking green valleys, and picnics in beautiful alpine meadows abloom in autumn's flowers before the snows would come to bury them… it was something out of a maiden's tale. Some of their outings would last for days at a time in secluded cottages, where they would catch their supper from cold mountain streams and spend a night or two under the cloudless skies, pointing out the stars and tracing old constellations before retiring to bed. It was idyllic in ways that made her smile.

Yet for all the peaceful tranquility it brought to them, her time out in the cool evenings mut have given her a slight sickness, as she felt an overwhelming urge to vomit this morning, as she had the past two and ten. She'd managed to stave it off more than once, often emptying herself before breaking their fast, but today it was an especially strong urge, and the talk of fermenting fruits did not help it at all.

Speaking of which, the maester gave her a curious look. "My lady, are you quite all right? You've not said anything for some time now, even after I finished with the status of your inns along our main trade road."

Inns? That's right, she'd begun to place inns about a day's travel apart in her lands, much as Casper had in his own. She had fewer, with there being only one main road up to Oretown, but it was growing busier every month it seemed. "It, it is fine, Maester Yohn, I… I merely do not feel myself this morning, something with the chill perhaps. So, yes, the inns, how go their support?"

"Well, with the increased activity of the merchants coming to Oretown, trade has risen considerably, meaning the inns do not lack for coin from travelers, and are thus able to purchase more than enough food for themselves and their guests. With crop totals on the rise, the innkeepers are taking to planting larger gardens with whatever they can use for their inns' benefit. Herbs and spices, hops, small orchards, whatever can be used to brew ale, flavor food or make pies. Are… are you certain, my lady? You seem unwell."

"It is nothing, maester, I just… my stomach is a tad upset this morning."

"Oh? Just this morning? Or has it been before?"

She managed a ladylike shrug. "Perhaps more than this morning, though this is the worst it's been."

"How long ago did this feeling of sickness begin, my lady?"

"It is not a sickness, Yohn, I'm sure of it. Around two and ten days ago, perhaps? Perhaps I shouldn't have stayed out under the stars with Casper so long? I know one can catch a chill from the night's cold, but I've nothing to show for it other than this odd morning sickness."

"Morning sickness? My lady, as your maester, I must ask you… when was your last moonblood?"

"Moonblood? I don't know, perhaps a month ago? Maybe more? I've missed them on occasion in the past, why do you ask?" There was something she was missing, some hint that she'd not recognized, but what was it?

The maester gave her a smile that reminded her of her grandfather, kindly, and with a hint of knowing something she did not. "Though we shall have to wait and see if this is true, I do believe you might be with child, my lady."

Oh.

Oh.

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Stormlanders XVII

The young squire was one of the larger ones of the yard, of good Stormland stock and as tough as they came, the son of a good tourney knight and well on his way to earning his spurs in the coming years. Equipped with a blunted training axe and wooden shield, he cut an imposing figure in the training yard compared to most other young men. Yet Royce Baratheon, with a hidden smile, noticed the lad had looked nervous, just as the other squires had before their bouts, despite his best attempts to hide it. The other squires, many of them panting with exhaustion or wincing from the bruises they'd earned, were watching the big lad spar, the last of the day. Though he was not facing Royce himself, the master at arms in the sparring yard, or any number of knights in his service, it looked as if he was facing a Lord Paramount.

Instead, his opponent was none other than the boy the squires had so needlessly ignored only a few years before. Prince Baelor would never be a master swordsman, a good one, but no master at the blade. What he had become though, in his few short years of living in the Stormlands, was respectable at the quarterstaff, promising with a bow for a boy of his age, and now something some older knights would begrudgingly call a prodigy at the axe. Some might scoff at the thought of a prince so readily taking to the training of an axe, even at a tender age of three and ten, but seeing the boy in action quelled most doubt.

Case in point, the squire was nearly a head taller than the prince, and at least twenty pounds heavier, yet the prince dodged his blows and returned ones with equal fervor, driving the squire back whenever he had made progress. That the prince continued to dodge so swiftly, despite his clear exhaustion, was a testament to both his training and his efforts to minimize wasted movement. He never moved more than he needed to, retained his balance as best he could, and although he was not yet big or strong enough to return blows with the same strength as others, he made up for it with the sheer number of rapid strikes he would make, leaving little if any room for his opponent to strike back. Even then, those rare strikes were either handily deflected by Baelor's shield or sidestepped entirely.

Baelor's opponent fell back again under a flurry of blows, each one unsettling him more and more, just barely managing to direct his shield in the path of coming blunted axe. Then, after a sharp swing that nearly sent the lad stumbling, Baelor swung his shield, delivering a sharp blow to the lad's exposed chest, sending him sprawling upon his back within the dueling ring. In an instant, Baelor's foot was on the squire's weapon arm, and his blunted blade near the beaten boy's neck.

"Do you yield?"

Giving a soft wheeze, the boy nodded. "Yes, my prince, I yield, I yield!"

"Cease!" the master at arms cried, as Baelor retreated. A pair of squires rushed forward, helping the beaten boy to his feet, his shield and axe left on the ground.

"A good spar, Edric, you have my thanks," Baelor said, giving one of his rare smiles. While not in the league of Daeron's daring smirks, it was charismatic enough in its own way, an appreciation of his opponent's attempts to defeat him.

"Aye, my prince," the big squire wheezed, likely thinking the same as the other squires who had faced Baelor that morning. Just how did a boy who had been so reedy gain such speed? How was he that strong behind arms that had been so scrawny?

"Again, tomorrow?"

"Maybe in a few days, my prince, once my bruises have healed."

As the rest of the squires filed off, many of them wincing from the blows they had taken from the prince, Royce smiled, glad to know Baelor had taken well to the training yard. While not with the same fervor that possessed the boy when tasks were placed upon him, the fact that he had progressed at all, never mind this much, was a great source of pride for Royce. In time, the prince would be a vital source of prestige and honor for House Baratheon and the Stormlands at large.

"My prince," he said, a young page retrieving the training axe Baelor offered to him before turning to his foster father. "You are improving."

"Indeed, my lord," the young man said. "While not Storm's End, Blackhaven does have an excellent training yard, and the surrounding countryside gives me ideas for other projects."

"Aye, and in time, we shall be marching with the men of the Marches, just in time for our invasion." King Daeron the First had laid out his plans for the taking of Dorne shortly after his coronation. In what could only be called a thing of genius, his invasion would come in four directions, so that the entirety of Dorne would be overwhelmed by both numbers and an inability to hold the enemy at a few choice locations. A combined Westermen and Reach force moving by sea up to the Torrentine to seize the westernmost regions, and while not the most well received, several Ironborn captains and lords had pledged their support in joining them, likely thinking the lands ripe for plunder. Meanwhile, a massive force of Reachmen, Valemen and Rivermen would move down and through Prince's Pass, dividing the realm and preventing reinforcements. His own contingent, accruing as he made his way westward, would join with Crownland forces under Daeron himself to tread the Boneway, and last, Alyn Velaryon would lead a host to smash their way onto the Greenblood. It was an ambitious task, requiring many lords and armies to accomplish their objectives in a timely manner. Already, most lords had gathered their banners and were moving south, as Daeron had declared the element of surprise would be vital for finishing what he saw as unresolved business between his ancestors and the lands of Dorne. While the Crownland lords and host was still a good week's ride away, they were to cross the border within a week of receiving their ravens of Daeron's declaration to the Dornish prince.

They knew Dorne would not fall easily. The lands were not suited for supporting an invasion but were almost ideal for supporting a staunch but small group of defenders. Narrow passes, easily defended hills and overlooks, natural chokepoints along rivers and canyons, a fierce and cunning foe who knew the land better than any invader could hope to, and to say less of the heat, the better. Any army marches on its stomach, but no force in this world can march without water, and for some time, the entire operation was hinging on the cooler autumn winds to reduce the severity of the heat.

Baelor had come to the aid of them, surprisingly, with something he had seen in his time out west. A small wedding had seen some men bring large barrels of ale, loaded onto a cart, and the idea of transporting drink with them was nothing new. However, as Baelor mentioned, many parts of Dorne were dry enough that finding enough water to keep the men from dying would be a challenge, no matter the size of their forces. One thing of aid to them was, however, that Dorne's wells were of greater importance than anything, and that securing the wells would be ideal for supporting their forces and the invasion itself. Not even the Dornish would poison their own wells unless things were truly desperate.

So, it came as a great surprise to many lords, save for Royce of course, that within a day, Baelor and a small group of craftsmen had created large carts whose sole purpose was to carry water as securely as possible. These 'water wagons' would carry hundreds of gallons of water apiece, were solidly built to handle almost any terrain, and thanks to the new harnesses would not take an entire team of horses to pull each one. Baelor had also proposed layering linen or woolen blankets over the barrels once in Dorne, to prevent an enemy raid from peppering them with arrows. Some of the other lords had scoffed at that, one Reach lord in particular saying that layering it with metal would work better to fend off arrows. Baelor had politely replied that the heat of Dorne's sun would likely cause the metal to grow hot enough to boil the water in the barrels, or at the very least, heat them to the point of bursting.

So it was that even now, cartwrights and coopers throughout the Stormlands were putting together these 'water wagons', a good number of which were coming directly from Timberstone.

"Whilst I support my brother in his… ambition," the prince said as they left the training yard. "I do not agree with his vision of the aftermath. The smallfolk are always those who bear the greatest brunt of any war, be it supporting their departing army, or suffering under an invading one. To have them be the ones to repay the cost of the invasion will surely sour any opinions they have of us. If we do not somehow win the support of the smallfolk, as Lord Wytch has done so admirably with his own, they will surely resist us as their lords will, and the smallfolk will always outnumber those that have sway over them."

"My prince, in the face of such numbers, resistance would be futile, as even the Dornish know that fighting back against a host far larger than yours can spell disaster on an open field," Royce replied.

"Yet they are Dornish, my lord. You and the others have said so yourselves, they will not fight on an open field, not if they can help it. No defender would meet an enemy where he does not have an advantage against their numbers."

"Be that as it may, what can they do against such numbers? The time it would take to whittle down any significant occupation would surely be longer than the men's will to fight would last. They would return to their homes and accept the dragon's dominion in time, of this I have little doubt."

As they entered the main hall, amidst the other gathered Stormlords readying for lunch, Lord Dondarrion approached them, a small scroll in his hands.

"My lord, the Dornish have received the declaration of war," he replied, his voice carrying enough to rouse a great cheer from the gathered lords.

Royce smiled, turning to his vassals. "Then we are to move by the end of the week, no later," he replied loudly, turning to Baelor. "Once your brother the king and his forces arrive, we shall see an end to the raiding of the Dornish, and their admittance into the kingdoms as a whole."

"Seven kingdoms under one king," Lord Dondarrion added with a subdued look of awe. "Imagine that."

"What of the Iron Islands?" Baelor asked.

"What about them?" Royce countered with a chuckle, as a man entered the hall, his face stained with dust and dirt. Rushing as quickly as the guards alongside him could manage, he fell to his knee before the three of them.

"My lord, I bring a message of great importance!" His livery was that of House Dondarrion, as dusty and dirty as it was, and given his disheveled appearance, must have been riding hard for some time.

"Yes, what is it?" his lord asked, drawing looks from other Stormlords.

"The Dornish, they have crossed the border!"

The hall fell silent at this, the shock as palpable as a thick fog.

"How many?" the stunned Lord Dondarrion asked.

"Thousands, my lord, many bearing the banner of House Wyl, Jordayne, Yronwood, and others still. They are moving directly into the Stormlands, burning everything in their wake."

"This is no mere raid," Baelor replied, going a bit pale. "My good man, what is their direction?"

"My prince, it would seem they are looking to bypass Blackhaven, and headed straight through the Marches, towards the interior. It has been observed that… they follow the white roads. We must send word to the lords of the area, that the Dornish ride to them."

"Towards Windhall, Cragghall… Stormhall," Royce muttered, turning to his lords, the hall silent as they waitied his next words with bated breath. "Rally your men! To arms, my loyal vassals, we must turn back these Dornish dogs, as our ancestors have for untold generations! Let them see the might of Stormland steel and know that Ours is the Fury! To war!"

END OF PART II