Chapter 23: Stormlanders XII

Early 155 AC

Most other lords arrived a day or so before his own, having been closer to receive the messengers. That a few straggler Dornish raiders had escaped was still on everyone's minds, but the sheer number reportedly captured or killed by this plan filled every man there with a new beacon of hope. Truly they had managed to overcome their foes' tactics this time and had a great deal to show for it. Were this the end to this conflict, they would finally return home. Such an uplifting mood had seen the pace of his men increase enough that the journey seemed to pass by far smoother than before, and for that, as he crested the last hill between him and his destination, was something Royce Baratheon was grateful for.

The camp, situated upon a hill flanked by seas of grass both short and tall, still bore the marks of battle these several days later. Flattened or cut areas of grass, muddied trails where a great number of hooves had trampled it, even the burnt husks of what must have been great fires in the night still laid about the area. The remainder of the lords set up their own camps on it, adding their own defenses to the framework of what had so greatly destroyed the raiders that night. The stench of the Dornish bodies was just beginning to dissipate, many of them being buried or burned by whatever troops were not drilling or sifting through the spoils. Vultures had gotten to the pile well before the graves had been dug, so many of the sand serpents were missing good bits of their flesh. Easier to bury, at any rate.

Lord Baratheon was impressed by the reports from Lords Windhill and Wytch of the matter, as well as the handy little thing he was tumbling in his hands. Fashioned by the camp smiths from the remnants of whatever iron had been scrapped from every raided village, it had been used to an astounding effect against the charging Dornish raiders several nights ago. A 'caltrop' Lord Wytch had called it, and already he could see its advantages. Deny an area of any battlefield to the enemy cavalry or even massed infantry, and you could divert them where you wanted to, or slow them enough to fall back, counterattack or flank with near impunity. He dreaded to think of how much more dangerous these would be if they were coated in poisons. It was a good thing they were nowhere near a populated area, and that Lord Windhill's men had made sure to collect all that remained, lest they be a problem for their own troops or passing smallfolk.

Best to keep this new weapon of war a secret if possible and begin manufacturing it back at Storm's End for the good of the Stormlands. Whilst the surviving raiders had likely fled, and would not return anytime soon, it would do well to be prepared for a potential return. That was the way of the Dornish, much like that of rats. Kill a whole slew of them, and they may be gone for a while, but they will be back before you know it, and potentially in greater numbers. They indeed seemed to so readily slip through the cracks in the guarded passes meant to keep them out, much like rats getting into granaries despite how well-built they might be.

"My lords," he said, sipping his brandy, enjoying the peach flavor of this one. A report from Lord Wytch mentioned that whilst his personal peach orchard did not produce fruit near the size of Reach ones, the trees instead produced far, far more peaches of a somewhat smaller but no less sweet size. "This victory for the Marches will be spoken of for years to come, mark my words. Were this the only thing you'd be known for, Lord Wytch, your name would be remembered for decades by the smallfolk of Selmy and Dondarrion lands."

"My thanks, my lord," the young man replied. "Yet, I must ask, what is our next objective? We have accounted for half of those few raiders that escaped. If they are not dying from their wounds, their numbers are now so small as to be liable to be threatened by smallfolk with pitchforks, should they attempt a raid. I believe them to be headed back towards the Dornish border."

"I concur with Lord Wytch," Lord Windhill muttered, sipping his own brandy. "We will not be able to catch them, but we should follow them past Blackhaven, just to be sure. It is entirely possible they are injured enough to slow their pace, or their horses are already dying from their wounds. Many an arrow was loosed into those sand steeds that night, and some arrows were not recovered in the aftermath."

"We shall pursue the Dornish to the border, but we cannot simply cross the border in such force," Lord Baratheon replied. "Such an act would be a declaration of war, regardless of the circumstances, and I will not bring such a conflict to the already-bereaved people of the Marches. We have won a great victory, let us secure our border against further aggression, nothing more."

"We've no need to enter the Dornish borders to ensure future incursions are disheartened or completely ruined before they can begin, my lord," Lord Wytch said, swirling his brandy before giving a deep sip. "There are… ways to dissuade further aggression from the Dornish, or at least, those along the border, beyond simply building massive walls and forts between the mountain passes."

"Explain, if you would."

"There are methods that some might balk at in afflicting upon the Dornish, myself amongst them. Most Stormlords will not bat an eye at us simply killing these raiders and washing our hands of them, but there are ways that would serve us twofold in leaving them alive. The Dornish may be prideful and fierce, but they are also close-knit in their communities, either through blood or common cause, and taking advantage of the latter will assuredly scare some of the weaker-willed into leaving the Marches alone. Even if this means only a small amount stay out of the Marches, that is still less men to deal with."

"You would leave them alive, to return to Dorne?"

Casper nodded. "Yes, they would live, but really, after I am through with them, I doubt any Stormlander would call these released wretches as 'living' by any standard."

"Show me once we reach the border," Lord Baratheon replied, finishing his glass. "In the meantime, however, I would see your methods before I make such a decision with too great of haste. For now, they shall live."

"Before we set out for the border, my lord, I would wish to show you how we treat those who… reject our hospitality," Lord Wytch muttered as they rose from their seats. "Despite my most gracious offers, there are those who would deny themselves such luxuries, and even attempt bodily harm on myself or the men at my command."

"Such a grievous offence cannot be allowed," Royce agreed. "Take me to them first."

The second tent away from Lord Wytch's primary domicile was an odd one. Mostly empty, save for a waiting scribe and several camp attendants, it seemed rather barren for a place meant for 'interrogating' prisoners. Yet from what he'd seen, Royce knew the young lord's approach of utilizing every scrap of what he had available meant little waste was created. In his time out in the Marches, he had come to appreciate efficiency amongst his lords.

The raider lying before them was strapped to a large sturdy bench, the angle tilting back just enough so that their feet were slightly elevated above their head. The number of straps limited the movement of the man enough that, save for fingers and feet, no part of him could do more than push against the bindings. It was a most curious getup; the purpose of which Lord Baratheon was unsure of.

"We had this one almost get out of the first set of straps when we first began, going for a guard's dagger to try and slice his throat, a mistake we have since rectified," Lord Wytch said, as his men brought in several buckets of water.

Royce noticed several of them to be in casks, sealed against the warm air. When he gave them a questioning glance, Lord Windhill spoke up.

"Chilled from the night as much as can be, my lord. Lord Wytch has found one of his ways of using cold water to be especially effective, though time-consuming in preparation. Were it any other time than summer, it would be a far easier endeavor."

"I see," Royce replied, before motioning to the strapped-in raider. "Please, continue."

"Hello again, Edgar," Lord Wytch said with a blank look. No hint of enjoyment of what was to come, something the lord paramount was glad for. Too often there were men who would genuinely enjoy something like this, and such men were wont to engage in other, far more unpleasant activities to sate themselves.

The man said nothing, instead spitting at Lord Wytch, only for the glob to miss. The guards made to pummel the man, but the young lord waved them off.

"Well that was rude," Lord Wytch replied nonchalantly. "Guess someone needs to cool down for a bit. Now, before I leave you to my capable men, I'm going to ask you one question, Edgar, and I want you to be truthful with me, as it'll make your time here that much easier. How many more raiders are out here, in the Marches?"

The man said nothing, though if glares were arrows, the young lord would have been riddled with them.

Casper shrugged before turning to his troops, a captain amongst them. "Fine then, have it your way. You all know what to do, but be sure to gag him this time, perhaps with some thick rope. Half the camp heard the last fellow's screams by the time we were finished."

As an apparatus was affixed above the man's head, and the bucket above filled with the chilled water, Lord Baratheon followed his lord out of the tent, and towards the large stockade filled with men in varying degrees of dress. Most had been stripped down to smallclothes or the barest undershirts, and were either caked in dried mud, blood, or some mixture of the two.

"How many remain?"

"Well, we had four die on us out in the pen, so they were removed after they started to stink. Our guess at first was internal injuries, but the camp attendants have been dissecting the corpses to find out more. With any luck, their notes will help increase our understandings of the human body," Lord Wytch said, walking up to the cramped men. "Now, gentlemen, have we come to our decision yet? Edgar is currently taking his bath to cool his hot Dornish blood, so that leaves me with you lot. While I have kept you watered so that you don't all die on me from thirst, I'm sure you're all starving by now, given that you likely last ate, what is it, two day ago? Or is it three?"

"Three days, and we've made our choice," one of them said. "Two of us will go with you, one by vote, one by choice."

Lord Baratheon noticed a slight shift in the behaviors of the men in the cage at that. Some seemed to glare at the speaker, heir silent mutters likely ill, but others looked to the man in surprise, or perhaps even grateful resignation. Just how long had Lord Wytch thought to keep them from food?

"Your names?" Lord Wytch continued.

"Lewyn, and Doran," the young man replied, motioning to another Dornishman. Gods, he couldn't have been much older than Casper, more a boy than a man in Royce's eyes. A good number of these surviving raiders were of similar ages as well. "If I volunteer, will you see to the wounds of my fellows?"

"Of course, let it not be said that I am an ungracious host," Lord Wytch said. "As Doran has been chosen by you lot, you'll all receive the food you have been promised, within the hour at that. As you have also volunteered, Dornishman, I see no reason to not tend to wounds, although they shall be one at a time."

Lord Wytch's features took on a hard, almost dark aspect. "Should any of you attempt something whilst your wounds are tended to, under guard mind you, I'll ensure your screams are heard all the way to Sunspear itself. Do we have an understanding?"

The men in the cage grumbled and hissed at these words, but nodded anyways.

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Baelor VI

Focus.

Nock.

Draw.

Take aim.

Steady.

Exhale.

Release.

He breathed a sigh of contentment, his mind mercifully clear as the twang from the arrow's release was soon followed by a solid thump into the target. Slightly high, and to the left, but still a direct hit upon the centermost rings before him. A small ripple of applause followed, mostly from passing squires or nearby guards, which he acknowledged with a nod.

He then drew another arrow from his quiver and repeated the process. Under his breath, on the barest slivers of a whisper, he prayed for an aim both true and just. The gods answered his call, for his next arrow, upon release, struck next to his first, a direct bullseye.

As luck would have it, amongst another applause, he found his quiver empty, and turning away from his handiwork, he spied the sun, just barely peaking from behind a cloud. Lunch would not be long, and his arms grew sore from the strain of firing his yew bow. With a wave to the master at arms, he moved to retrieve his arrows. More than once he'd needed to ensure the squires did not retrieve them for him, as the master at arms had originally wanted. They'd been eager enough to do so whilst he was still firing, something that rather irked him. Were they truly so willing to try and gain some perceived favor with a prince that they'd needlessly risk their lives so?

Pulling the arrows from the target, and glad for the fingerless gloves he wore, Baelor returned them to Roland, who was just instructing the most recently-arrived group of crossbowmen-to-be on where to find Arstan out in the outer training yards. Due to the dangers of the crossbow bolts going somewhere they perhaps shouldn't, they'd moved the target range into a large barn, whose walls were more than thick enough to stop them from flying off elsewhere.

"Another fine bout, my prince," the gruff man said, giving a small bow Baelor felt he had earned this day, rather than one of usual deference. He'd not missed the target at all today, with his least accurate shot still sticking in the target. "Keep at this, and by the time you're a man, you'll be the finest bowman in Kings Landing."

"Only with great dedication and perseverance, of course," Baelor added, giving a returned bow. "My thanks, Master Roland. Same time tomorrow morning, barring rain?"

"Indeed, my prince. Now, be off with you, hopefully you've impressed some of the other squires enough to try and hit their targets today, for a change."

With a gentle smile, he turned left the training yard behind, passing by the newest additions and expansions to the castle. Much had been done in his time here, before Casper's departure, and much more continued to be accomplished in his absence. A greater number of guest rooms had been constructed, to seat a greater portion of visitors, and while the main hall had not been expanded, the larders and kitchen to support it had. New towers were being built even now, one of them an observatory, another as the primary storage for the tax records and financial implements of Lord Wytch, and a few more as barracks for the guards.

However, the tower of his current interest was filled not with arms, nor guests, nor records of taxes, but with books, and maintained by the maester. Gorman was skilled, more in some areas than others, but one great focus of his was economics, and the means of generating wealth from wealth. As his brother Daeron's potential future Hand, and a prince, it would behoove him to learn a great deal on the matter, to better support the Targaryen dynasty once he became a man.

Arriving at the doors, and with a nod from the guards, he entered, finding the maester pouring over a great deal of parchment. In his time in Casper's study, amongst a great number of his writings, books, parchment, and various notes detailing his rule, he had come across a great number of fascinating concepts and ideas he never knew existed. At least, the ones he was allowed access to. The maester had piqued his curiosity when he'd overheard the man discussing the lord's more private or secure journals, but lost interest out of respect for his friend, rather than lack of actual interest. Asking Casper about it later would hopefully prove fruitful, but in the meantime, he had so much more to dwell upon.

What ideas he had found were incredible, something akin to a gift from the gods themselves, perhaps. Windmills for not only grinding grain, but also powering the bellows and drop hammers of forges, wherever needed across Wytch lands. Watermills doing the same along every significant river, every strong stream, driving industry and increasing the output of whatever they produced. Plows and drills for planting more fields than ever before with less men and horses than originally thought possible. He'd even found plans of what appeared to be a wine press that, when properly arranged, could press words onto parchment faster than any scribe could write them out! However, he immediately saw that supplying such a beast would be prohibitively expensive, both in ink and parchment, and set it aside. Perhaps only replace it with a handheld version, much like a royal stamp, for signing letters or making small missives? He'd seen his uncle's hand cramp more times than not when writing correspondences and figured it would made signing any document that much easier.

The older gentleman looked up from his most pertinent pile of parchment. "Good morning, my prince, finished with the training yard for the day?"

"Indeed, Maester Gorman," he replied, taking his seat. "What are we to learn of today?"

"Well, you've already had your lessons on both economics and the political houses of the Stormlands for the week, and you are all up to date on your lessons for letters and figures…"

"What of practical applications?"

The older man paused. "What of, my prince?"

"Well," he began, fidgeting in a most unprincely manner. "Casper has been most gracious in allowing me to see what he has been building and planning for his lands. Few lords would allow for another to be as involved in their dealings as he has. My time away from Storm's End might soon end, upon Lord Baratheon's return from the Marches once that conflict has been taken care of. I do not know when my family may recall me to Kings Landing, or if Lord Baratheon may be needed to visit there and take me along, and I should not like to arrive without something to show for my time away from home."

"So, you would like to create something for your family, to show that your time here in the Stormlands has not been without merit?"

Baelor nodded, motioning to a map of the lower eastern portion of Westeros, ranging from the Bay of Crabs and Cracklaw Point down to Cape Wrath and the Dornish Marches. "Casper has been implementing ideas and introducing devices that have done nothing but improve the lives of his smallfolk and the lands upon which they dwell. I should wish to do the same, to leave a mark upon the Crownlands if possible, should my family deem it an acceptable task for a prince of the realm."

Self-reflection had begun to take up a small but no less important part of his day. Every night, before he said his prayers and went to bed, he would think back to the events of the day, and by extension, those before it. What weaknesses had he overcome, or virtues acquired, as stated in Casper's book? A great deal of both, he had noticed, especially since his departure from home and his journey into the Stormlands.

The greatest of these, brought out by Casper of all people, had been his lack of doing something. He had learned his sums and letters, yes, and was a faithful adherent to most of the teachings of the Seven before his arrival, but outside of that, for a prince, he hadn't done much of anything noteworthy in his own eyes. Some might say that for a boy of ten, that was fine, but he was a prince. Princes were always accomplishing something of note by certain ages, or so he had been told, and were it not for his daily lessons in the bow, axe and staff, as well as occasional attempts at swordplay, he was certain he would have been hopelessly behind had he endeavored to begin later. Yet it was not his martial prowess he sought to maximize, but the usage of implementing what he had learned in so short a time by Casper's side.

"Well, what would you like to do, my prince? Bring about the improved plow? Create the means of producing a seed drill? Reworking the Kingsroad nearest Kings Landing in the Wytch style?"

"All good ideas, but no, good sir. I've seen the lengths to which Casper has gone to improve the efficiency of both his smallfolk and his lands, namely in the manner of his sawmills in Timberstone. I too would wish to develop such an industry, based around the southern shores of the Blackwater. For south of here, along both the Kingsroad and a portion of the Roseroad, lies the greatest extent of forest near Kings Landing."

Much of the lands his family ruled were sorely underdeveloped when compared to Casper's. For a young, fresh noble family, House Wytch had done more in a decade than his family had done in some areas of the Crownlands since their arrival with the Conqueror. It actually pained him to realize this, that his family was always so focused on one personal plight or another that they failed to realize the sheer power awaiting the Targaryen who could simply seize it without the need for bloodshed or court intrigue. Case in point, the vast forest that lay to their south, primarily under their direct control or through one or two proxy lords.

"The Kingswood," Maester Gorman muttered with a nod. "A great forest, vast and almost entirely untamed. Your father had a difficult time dealing with bandits in those parts in his earlier years, if I recall, and it has only just settled down in recent years, or so I've heard."

"I would see these lands used for the benefit of the kingdoms and my family. Timbers for ships and planks for building projects, wood for tools and other crafts, charcoal made from its scraps and the land sewn once more once the trees are gone, to ensure the Kingswood remains a great forest." Were it successful, more could be done elsewhere, but Casper's wisdom in the folly of attempting too much at once was nearly as ingrained as his respect for the older boy lord.

"There are laws in place limiting what can and cannot be done in the Kingswood, my prince."

"I shall have to speak with my father and uncle about amending these laws. The times have changed, as Casper has so frequently showed me, and I would do well to implement some of the same advances and changes he has made, if I wish to be remembered as a prince that fulfilled his duty to the gods and men alike."

"I am… not entirely sure I follow, my prince. You would see the Kingswood opened to greater exploitation of its vast material wealth?"

"Indeed, for the benefit of my family and the smallfolk that would work it, and thus the kingdoms as well. I know little of the specifics, but for such a vast region, it seemed remarkably poor when I traveled through it towards Storm's End to begin my fosterage. I would see the Blackwater receiving shipments of logs by carriage every day, creating all manner of supplies and tools for Kings Landing. I would see the smallfolk living there reap the rewards of working for these industries, to support themselves and their families through times both lean and plenty. Casper's smallfolk, for all their relative isolation and lack of numbers, do better for themselves than most smallfolk I've heard of or seen in my travels. I would see the same for those directly under the purview of my family."

The Targaryens had lost their primary source of power and legitimacy with the deaths of their dragons. Even though it was never spoken of in Stormhall or the Red Keep, he knew this, Casper knew this, the whole world knew this to be the case. Their family remained in power through the accrued prestige and loyalty of its vassals, but there would potentially come a day where this would not be the case. Investing in securing and expanding the power of his family, not only for the good of themselves, but for those they ruled over, would be essential to seeing the same prosperity brought on in Casper's lands implemented in Kings Landing, and perhaps Westeros as a whole. Taking advantage of the wealth of resources at disposal to the Targaryen family would be just the first step in reshaping their foothold in this world, one no longer dependent upon great flying beasts of flame, but on the courage of arms and the power of industry.

He could already see it now. The Street of Steel remade like Casper's sawmills, powering larger bellows and drop hammers to drive steel production higher and quality to greater heights. Fleets of ships, both trading and otherwise, built from the great trunks of trees from the Kingswood, projecting Targaryen influence and piety far and wide. Tools made in great numbers for the smallfolk, easing their labor whilst increasing their efficiency for the dragons that so judiciously watched over them. Planks for rebuilding portions of the docks in Kings Landing, and its numerous slums, to large efficient wharfs and bright and cheerful 'apartments' like those of Wytch lands. Perhaps even a great wooden sept, larger than any before it, deep within the Kingswood, a pilgrimage site to the faithful of the Crownlands…

"I see. Well then, until your father or uncle approve of such an action, how would you wish to plan it? Showing them a great analysis of the costs and benefits would certainly only aid in swaying them to your side on the matter."

Baelor softly smiled. "We would begin, of course, with the funds needed to support the initial investment in supplies for cutting and hauling the wood to the Blackwater, where we would then built the mills that would receive and cut them…"

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Dorne II

Alfrid silently seethed as he guzzled wine from the flask, the sour taste of homegrown Dornish red parching his thirst and easing the ache in his stomach. The surgeon had told him the arrow had just grazed his upper abdomen, and that with good bandages and poultices it would heal with naught but a wicked-looking scar. 'For the ladies', the man had said with a knowing smirk, one Alfrid shared before returning to his wine.

He and the others had crossed the border not long ago, but the delirium of the pain had muddled his senses. Had it been days? Or at least a week? He could not tell, and neither could the other survivors with him.

Gods, there were so few of them now. Where once there had been eighty, there were now the three of them, the rest dead or likely captured. They had managed to flee that fuckin' ambush with no less than a dozen men, but the rest had died of their wounds or lost their mounts. A few he had had to leave behind, their pitiful cries to take them with him still echoing in his ears when he tried to fall asleep. Never had he had to leave living men behind, only the dead. With what little water they could still carry would likely not have lasted them the journey to safer lands.

The plan had been to make their way to the Prince's Pass, raiding along the way before slipping past House Caron in Nightsong, completing a circuit that would have seen them lauded as mighty heroes by the smallfolk and nobility alike. There was always an allure of successful raiders, who were often showered with wine, gifts, and women in equal measure if they managed to make enough of a name for themselves at the expense of Dorne's neighbors. Instead, they'd been ambushed, and forced to come back through whence they came.

The Boneway.

Along this treacherous trail, they'd managed to sneak by the border guards of House Dondarrion, much as they had when they'd first set out. Not long after, the familiar sights of the lands he had grown up in had greeted him, and not long after that, they'd finally reached their destination. The lands of his forefathers, the castle of his people, even with his… extramarital origins from the ruling lord's brother.

The great castle Wyl, the last line of defense in the Dornish portion of the Boneway after the seat of the Yronwoods to their south. It was not great for its size nor its area of control, but because of how sturdy, how strong, and how fortified it was. The caves underneath had been carved into from the castle keep, creating more room for larders, so that a siege could be held out nigh indefinitely unless facing something entirely stupendous, such as a horrible plague. The house that ruled it were as indomitable as the lands that supported it, those lands being as harsh and beautiful as its people. After he had ridden through the gate and his kin had recognized him amongst his wounds and sorry state, he'd finally found the time to rest.

Yet he could not tarry for long, for vengeance burned in his heart, a vengeance all Dornishmen felt when dealt a stinging blow by their neighbors to the north. This attack could not be allowed to fester, but to be met with a stinging reprisal borne of scorching fury and relentless aggression. The Stormlanders would pay for this, but for that dream to be realized, he would need men once more, the supplies to wreak havoc, and the blessings of his uncle to commit to such an act.

All of these would take time, one thing the Dornish were always in short supply of. Time in Dorne was always the enemy, the risk of thirst or sunstroke sometimes mere hours compared to other lands. Yet it was this same race against time that had allowed for Dorne to learn its patience, to lie in wait like the viper that graced the sigils of his kin.

A tall, weathered man strode into the room, flanked by a pair of large, dark-skinned guards. Ex-slaves from a pirate galley, perhaps? Slavers occasionally attempted to land and pillage the coastlines of Dorne, after all.

"Uncle Wyllam," he said, inclining his head. "Forgive me if I don't stand."

"Of course, Alfrid," the man replied. "I see you have returned with far fewer men. What has happened?"

"Bloody Stormfuckers didn't act like they should, ambushed us somehow," he muttered with a scowl. "Horses reared like I've never seen before, some even fell before the arrows started flying, and those damn bastards had enough pikes coming out of the grass to pen us in like cattle. A dozen of us escaped the slaughter, but the other two and I are the only ones left."

"What of Lewyn and the others?"

Alfrid paused for a moment. "As I manage to slip away, I don't remember much else other than it was all a great blur. Happened too fast, so if he's not dead, he's a prisoner of the fuckers."

"A terrible fate, but not the worst if they should learn of who he is," Wyllam replied with a firm frown. "Better he had been the one to escape than you, nephew, or for none of you to be captured at all, but what is done is done. All we can do now is proceed with what we originally planned, and attempt to change things to favor our current situation. Fate is a fickle mistress, after all."

"I should lead another force back out there to smash them. They think us gone, they'll likely be marching towards Blackhaven to see off Lord Dondarrion and his men. We should strike when their guard is lowered, and our borders are closer in case of troubles."

"Mayhaps," Lord Wyl replied. "How would you convince men to follow you after such a debacle of a raid? From your reports with the occasional scout, all was going quite well. Smallfolk butchered, lands pillaged, villages razed, and the Stormlord response eating your trails of dust at every turn. Some of your cousins wished to ride out to join you, enraptured by your exploits, but now they will likely no longer wish to. For that, I cannot blame them, it is hard to follow a man who returns with so few. Your father is away and would likely box your ears for your failure, if not for his own failings in previous years."

"Sending word to the local bandit kings would easily see the ranks replenished," Alfrid countered, a sly grin gracing his sunkissed skin. "Just as would the prospect of support from the lord guarding the Boneway's progress into Dorne."

The guards beside his uncle bristled, but the elder man paid them no mind. "You would have me support them, from my own larders, to see retribution delivered upon a posse of Stormlords who so resoundingly defeated your forces?"

"It wasn't the whole group of them," he countered. "Just one, whose name we don't know, but I intend to find out at the edge of a knife."

"Held to his manhood, no doubt. You remind me of the tales of Wyl of Wyl sometimes, nephew, both good and ill. Yet I cannot in good faith allow for the usage of my troops nor my supplies to aid you in such an action…"

Alfrid made to say something, but his uncle held up a hand.

"-yet. Rest, heal, our spies along the border will keep us abreast of the situation. No injury upon kin of mine shall go unpunished, but we shall not commit to such action without good cause and greater faith. Should you manage to convince me by the time you are healed or have accrued enough support amongst your kin and our countrymen, then I shall reconsider this proposal of yours. For now, eat, drink, and recover your strength, and enjoy my hospitality."

Alfrid Sand scowled slightly but nodded. As much as he wished to ignore it, the pain his belly would not be healed near soon enough for his vengeance to take place, but it would, and once that day came, he would revisit that stupid spear-tip banner, and see its lord suffer for this slight.

"In the meantime," his uncle continued. "You should send a letter to Allyria, she has asked about you whenever she visited, and best be quick about it, lest she forgets about you and decides that Dayne boy is more worth her time. Suitors come and go for any lady but be mindful you do not dally too long."

"Allyria Jordayne would no more marry that oaf Trebor Dayne than she would a Stormlander," was his reply. "Yet should I succeed, you promised me the Wyl name, which remains our final obstacle to a union. After I have slept, I shall write to her, uncle. Until then, let my cousins know I still live, I'm certain they'll want to hear my stories."

Wyllam nodded, the ghost of a smile gracing his lips. "Indeed, I am sure they are waiting outside these doors even now to hear the tales of their raider cousin."