19 Chapter 19: Mylenda Windhill I

Late 154 AC

A bright, cloudless sky greeted her as she rode through the open grasslands, her guards flanking her palfrey as they ventured onwards into a gentle eastern breeze. She did not truly need them, as these lands were amongst the sparsest in the Stormlands, and she'd yet to see even a shepherd's hut, but one never knew if trouble could be nearby. Normally, under such circumstances, her grandfather would be riding with her, but alas, that was not to be. He was bedridden once again, though this time not so severely that he could not see her off. She had not been from home in so very long, longer than she could recall, and that her grandfather trusted her to find and discuss important matters with Lord Wytch meant he was, finally, no longer seeing her as his little girl.

She was flowered after all, had been for some time now, but was still experiencing the awkward growing pains of her teenage years, or so their maester said. Somewhat gangly limbs, growth in some places but not others, oily skin at times, odd hair showing up, cramps, the maids said it was a natural part of growing up but she wished it to be over. The maester had told her boys went through similar changes, but hadn't specified exactly what.

Perhaps he found the topic too icky, as one of the younger maids had put it.

Still, as she and her small cohort crested the last great hill, she spied the banners in the distance of her betrothed, a white spearhead upon a background of alternating red and blue. All around, at the base of the two great hills that would become the holders of the dam, was a great sprawling camp of tents and makeshift buildings, likely the only for miles upon miles this close to their shared borders. Mylenda smiled at the sight, as she could also see her grandfather's banners amongst the tents. This project, while expensive, would prove to be a major boon to both of their houses, and with luck, bring prestige to their families long after they both had left this world.

Their arrival hours later was met with little fanfare outside of the advance guard guiding them the remainder of their way and the smallfolk giving proper deference to their future Lady Wytch nee Windhill as she passed by. Dismounting with the aid of one of her older guards, she found the largest tent and approached, the rays of the setting sun behind her giving a glowing shimmer as the wind rippled the fabric.

The posted guards bowed. "Lady Windhill, Lord Wytch is awaiting you within the tent," one said, likely a captain from the markings upon his armor.

"My thanks, good ser," she replied, strolling inside as the man parted the flaps for her.

Within the center of the expansive tent was a large round table, upon which rested stacks of parchment, a large map, and a great deal of small journals, some haphazardly splayed open and others stacked neatly. Stepping in front of it, however, was a young man she'd not laid eyes on in well over a year, but was unmistakably her betrothed.

A boyish face with bright purple eyes and thick black hair, already wide and tall enough to be near the same size as most of her guards, wearing a light coat emblazoned with his house sigil, and with cheeks slightly smudged with dirt, likely from work. In his hands he held a small platter of bread, with a small dish of salt beside it.

"Lady Windhill?" he asked with voice not quite as deep as she'd have expected, offering the platter.

She bit into the bread, surprised at how crunchy the exterior was compared to the soft, almost buttery interior. "Indeed," Mylenda replied, then pinching and tossing her salt. "Lord Wytch?"

"Indeed, but you may call me Casper in private, if you wish."

"Only so long as you call me Mylenda, my lord. It would be ill of me to have the privilege of such a personal title without returning the favor."

Casper gave a nod. "I apologize for my somewhat disheveled appearance, I did not expect you for a few more hours yet. Supper will not be ready for some time."

"Do you have a bath?" She smelt of horse, wrinkling her nose slightly as the scent wafted from her.

"Indeed, we have a shower specifically for you, my lady," he said, motioning to one of the guards. "We began heating the water after sighting your banners in the distance, so it should still yet be hot. Edric here will show you and your guards to your tent, everything has been prepared."

She gave a nod and followed the man, through a corridor of tents to what must have been a separate one, yet felt as part of the first as if it were all sewn together. With thick cloth walls separating one area from the rest, she bid the maids to assist her as her guards left the room to unpack the saddlebags.

Despite having been raised with maids that tended to her needs, Mylenda preferred bathing alone, especially when she was to prepare herself for a meal. The maids had only needed telling once, and they'd let her be, as she entered what could only be the 'shower' her betrothed spoke of. Her grandfather had regaled her of how to operate one, and after ensuring the falling water was not too hot, cleansed herself with the offered bar of soap. It smelled pleasantly of some flowers she could not identify.

Redressing with the aid of the maids, who had thankfully unpacked the clothes she had brought in the meantime, she followed Edric the guard back to the common area, as the sunlight to the west grew dimmer and the dark of night began to creep upon them. The large round table remained, but had been cleared and cleaned of its earlier contents, instead replaced by a great deal of food. Much of it she had never seen before, but her grandfather had told her of some of the things Lord Wytch had instructed his cooks to make, and was curious to try a great deal.

Lord Wytch appeared, cleaned and dressed for the occasion, along with a well-dressed younger boy of startling beauty and bright silvery gold hair. Behind the boy stood a man with silvery white armor and a great white cloak upon his shoulders. There was something about the two that, based upon their appearances, struck a chord with her, something familiar…

"My lady, would you care to join us for supper?" Casper asked.

"Of course, my lord," she said. It was a formality at this point, but if she so wished she could have taken her supper in her own tent. Yet why do so, when she was supposed to learn of her betrothed and he was offering to sit with her?

"The prince will be joining us as well."

Before she could respond to that, the smaller boy stepped forward. "Pleased to meet you, my lady," he said, giving a respectful bow.

"Prince?" she repeated, giving as graceful of a curtsey as she could with her wobbly knees.

"Prince Baelor has been fostering with Lord Baratheon for some moons now," the man in armor, undoubtedly a Kingsguard, said politely. "As the Lord Paramount has been dealing with Dornish bandits out amidst the Marches, the prince has been spending time with Lord Wytch for safety, as such a dangerous situation is no place for a young prince of the realm."

"I… I see," she said, suddenly flustered. She'd never have thought Lord Wytch would know a prince!

After a moment of silence, too long in her opinion and awkward as all hells, they seated themselves at the table. Baelor led them in a short prayer, thanking the Seven for the bounty of food upon their plates and the protection they gave them every day.

As they began to eat, she decided to fill the silence with trying these foods before her. She witnessed the prince spoon a small amount of shredded meat onto a sliced bun and top it with some sort of thick reddish liquid. Doing the same, she added a slice of cheese she recognized and spread a delicious-smelling cream onto the other part of the bun, much as her betrothed did. With that set aside, one of the maids offered her a 'log roll' her grandfather had told her about. When asked what was in it, she was surprised to find it filled with vegetables, shredded roast chicken, and offered with a small sauce on the side that, upon smelling, reminded her of a dish she'd tried a few years before.

Other dishes she tried as the meal went on, the three of them eating in polite silence. The prince seemed to eat daintier than even she did, yet had eaten a full plate of food and was moving onto a second before she'd managed to finish her first. In a more formal setting, perhaps in Kings Landing, this might have been a bit perplexing, but out here, in a work camp amidst the beginnings of such a great project, the rules were perhaps a little less stringent on etiquette. It wasn't as if the boy was shoveling his meal down his throat, after all. Lord Wytch ate with much the same appetite, though seemed a bit more inclined to eating a bit of everything, rather than focusing on one item.

As the selection wound down, and she found herself fuller than she'd been since leaving home, Lord Wytch motioned to a pair of maids waiting in the wings, who began to clear the table. Quite a bit of food was left, mostly meats and vegetables, and upon noticing her curious glance, Lord Wytch smiled.

"We've a great deal of soups over cooking fires now, and seeing as much of this food is still fresh, will be added to the broths to help fill the bellies of the workers and guards for the evening work."

"The smallfolk work in the night?"

"A select few do, usually those who are used to such tasks in their lives. Most of their work will be on the far edge of the camp, unloading one of the newer arrivals of supplies for the others to use come morning. The night guards will certainly appreciate the warmth the soups give once the night cools enough. As for the more specialty items, ones that would not go well in a soup or stew, the maids take for themselves and the other staff. It is imperative that we waste as little as possible, my lady, especially with all of this being funded by yours truly."

"Indeed," Mylenda replied as a trio of cooks arrived. Curious, she watched as they served each of them a small pie, the top almost looking oily. Yet upon closer inspection, it was not oil, but a glaze, a mere trick of the light.

"Dessert," her betrothed said. "Something light to finish our meal. I hope you like peaches."

Indeed she did.

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The next day, atop one of the two great bulwark hills, she sighed as she laid upon the large blanket, the eastern breeze carrying with it the scent of whatever wildflowers happened to be in bloom. The occasional fluffy white cloud lazily drifted overhead, the shadows cast looking like great dark schools of fish across the green sea before her. The warmth of the day pleasantly seeped into her skin, refreshing compared to the coolness of the morning, and brought with it a rare feeling of relaxation that just seemed divine.

With both their guards off a short ways, Casper lay beside her on his own blanket, far enough for propriety's sake, of course, while off in the distance the prince was reading a book with his Kingsguard by his side. It wasn't one she'd ever heard of before, something about stoicism, and when asked, Casper had replied that he'd written it over the past few years, from a collection of sayings he'd heard or observations he'd made thus far. It was a work in progress, but the prince seemed to be enjoying it.

"I think it'll be good for the prince, there's so much more expectations of him than us," he replied. "Learning the means of moderation and discipline early is never a bad thing, especially when he yet has a chance to adapt them to his life without losing the carefree life a child deserves. All too often it is forgotten that when young, we should enjoy being young, before we must grow up."

"I can see why grandfather likes you, wisdom combined with a youthful enthusiasm, as he might call it," Mylenda said with a smile. "Especially since you sent him that rocking chair."

"Oh? Does he like it? I was unsure of his measurements when I first sent it, and we didn't have much time to discuss it during the… issue with Lord Craggner."

"Indeed, it is his preferred chair for in his solar. He'll often sleep in it if his work takes him well into the night."

They lapsed into a silence after that, watching the clouds drift lazily past. It was rather idyllic, this part of the Stormlands. It reminded her of the stories her grandfather told of the Reach, of green grass and wildflowers as far the eye could see in places, with others being dominated by farms and orchards of astounding variety and bounty. Further east from their lands it would transition to mossy rocks and trees, with the skies likely filled with rain clouds funneled from Shipbreaker Bay, but out here… it was nice.

"Casper," she said, watching one cloud in the shape of perhaps a pillow float by.

"Yes, Mylenda?"

"As your betrothed, and future wife, would it not be good for us to begin to get to know one another better?"

"Aye, it would, especially with our circumstances. Being so far from the rest of the Stormlands, even the Marcher Lords, and in a place so devoid of people, we'll likely be seeing much more of each other than some lords and ladies might. It would do well for us to know things now, rather than find them out later, at inconvenient times. Although, I must admit, I do not know much of how our courtship should proceed."

"What do you mean?"

"My father was, after all, a smallfolk for his early years, and was never brought up in the same fashion as you or your grandfather. My maester has filled me in on some details, but seeing as he too never married, and my mother's side was not noble either, I find myself at an impasse."

"Well, from what grandfather tells me, it's not terribly difficult, so long as we remain pure and chaste in our dealings."

Her betrothed chuckled at that. "I think I can follow that rule without issue, my lady."

"Then how should we proceed?" She'd never done this before, none of the smallfolk boys tended to look her way, and even if they did, her grandfather was still scary enough to drive them off. Not that she minded, she'd sworn she'd keep her virtue until her wedding night, and not a day sooner than that.

"Well, one of us could ask a question, perhaps something simple, and then after the other answers, they could answer it for themselves. Then we would change, with the other asking the question, and so on, until we've run out of ideas for the time being, or we find something we wish to discuss on a different matter."

"I like that. May I go first, Casper?"

"Of course, Mylenda."

"What is your favorite color?"

"Oh, blue I would say. A more specific shade of blue would be the light blue of a clear summer sky, often like that of certain birds that roost in Stormhall's towers. What of you?"

"Red, a scarlet red, there was a dress my mother wore when I was young, it is one of the few things I remember of her."

"Perhaps someday you too will wear that dress."

That was a nice thought, hopefully she would fill out enough to wear it well enough. She would hate to have to alter it in order to fit her frame. "Your turn," she said.

"Do you have any hobbies?"

"Well, for my tenth nameday, grandfather gifted me a young falcon, as our keep is high enough that our falconer often raises them for sale elsewhere. I've taken him with me on hunts on occasion, though we've never strayed far from Windhill when we did so. I named him Tumbles."

"A fitting name for a swift bird," Casper chuckled. "Mine own hobby is tinkering. I love to work with tools on projects of mine, either to make something or improve upon it. It doesn't always work, mind you, but I love to do it when I have the time for it."

"Another hobby of mine is fishing, though I haven't been able to do that much these past few years. Grandfather used to take me out to nearby streams for whatever would bite."

"Aye, once this lake is done, we'll stock it with plenty of fish for use to catch. I also enjoy cooking, mostly for the thrill of making some delicious. I know many lords might find that odd, having never touched it themselves, but with how often I am in the kitchen with my cooks, going over new or altered recipes, I cannot help but feel I contribute when I assist in making something."

She smiled at that. Most lords her grandfather still knew had never cooked anything unless it was over an open fire on a march, and even then, had usually had someone else do it for them. "Any natural talents?"

"Well, I'm going through a phase now where I my voice keeps breaking, but I enjoy singing, and mother has told me I do so well enough," Casper replied, turning to face her. "With enough practice, mayhaps I'll be a good one."

"Many ladies love a man who can sing, as my maids have told me. I… I am a very quick reader, according to our maester. Where most might take a good deal of time to read and remember something, I usually can do so much sooner. Grandfather says my father was much like that, was said to have read every book in our castle at least twice before he married. Not that our library is large, mind you."

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Kingsguard III

The pair spoke for hours, their occasional laughter interrupting the otherwise silent vigil he kept over the prince. The small book, simply titled 'Meditations', seemed to fascinate the young prince, who rarely looked up from it thus far. What could be in it that was so interesting?

Alliser Thorne sighed, looking out over the assembled work camp. Lord Wytch had, during his time before the arrival of Lady Windhill, taken the prince and he on a merry trip around what would eventually become the borders of the lake. Suffice to say, this would be no small pond, but a proper reservoir, with bays, shallows, natural ephemeral streams flowing into it, and even a few small islands in its middle. These, already, were being planted with whatever grasses and shrubs grew the closest to these lands, the soil upon them being just a bit too shallow for trees. Perhaps one day, hundreds of years from now, copses of trees would form there naturally, from seed carried by wind or water.

The rest of the lake, the name of which was yet undetermined, would be something extraordinary to Thorne. Never had he heard of so simple a dam being used to create such a vast body of water so far inland, especially with so little time being needed for it. Even more startling, and clever now that he thought of it, was that should farms extend this way, during droughts the water of the reservoir could be used to irrigate the crops.

That there was enough land to support a body of water of this size meant a great deal would change this far towards the Dornish Marches. Water for herds of horses, sheep or cattle, a source for the water needed for tanning hides, a waterwheel or three upon its outlet to serve as a means of grinding grain, it could change the very makeup of the sort of smallfolk that lived out here. To say nothing of what else could be developed along its shores. Trees planted to form a ring of forests for both wood products and animals that would come to dwell within their shade, fish stocked to serve as a source of food for untold smallfolk nearby, a place where sailors for the merchant fleets could practice upon similar ships before hitting the open ocean, even a gathering site for the great flocks of geese and ducks that flew north from the Sea of Dorne during the later vestiges of spring, or upon their return during the autumn months…

Lord Wytch was not just building a dam, he was building an investment into the power and prestige of his house and that of his betrothed, all the while creating something that would hopefully last a great while. Some lords built statues, others commissioned armors or paintings, but this minor lord built infrastructure whose usefulness would long outlast him.

Alliser was rather impressed at that. Such forward thinking towards goals one might never see the full benefit of was something he was certain most lords never thought of. In fact, were he not a member of the Kingsguard, and instead a sworn shield or something less prestigious, he'd write to his brother of such ideas and perhaps place an order from Stormhall's engineers to create such a landmark for their own lands. Yet to do so as he was now was a conflict of interest, one he had little wish to partake in, given how unfavorable it could be cast back upon his family. Simply speaking with his brother on the matter, next time he saw him, would be looked upon more favorably instead.

"Ser Thorne?" Baelor asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Yes, my prince?"

"Do you think father listens to me?"

"The king listens to all of his children, including you, young Baelor."

"But does he actually listen to us, or are we merely speaking at him, and not to him?"

Given King Aegon's history and the persona he shared with all but his closest family… that was a tricky question. "I suppose on some days the former, my prince, but clearly he does listen to you, otherwise you'd have never been sent to foster with Lord Baratheon, and thus never met Lord Wytch or seen Lowhill's sept. Whilst your uncle may have been the ultimate choice in aiding his decision, it was your idea in the first place, if I recall."

"I suppose, though some days it feels as if father is not there at all, but the shell of him continues on in his absence. I do hope Daeron, upon becoming king, does not become like that."

"Given your brother's charisma and predilection for enjoying the company of others, unless something drastic were to happen, I doubt that would be the case. Why do you ask?"

"Visery is father's brother and Lord Hand. My uncle will likely live for a great many more years, as hopefully will my father, but if father were to pass, and Daeron were to assume the throne, uncle would likely remain as Hand. Yet, when he does pass, it would not be unreasonable to assume Daeron might look to me to be his Hand."

"Yet he might also look to close friends or confidants," Thorne replied. "It would not be the first time a king has done so, but it would be foolish to ignore the capacity of close kin. Your brother loves you, my prince, so it is unlikely he would simply bring in another to serve as his Hand unless it were deemed necessary to do so."

"Such as if his wife, whoever she may be, is from an influential vassal whose close relative, perhaps a father or brother, would be suited for the position," Baelor said. "Yet the history with the Hightowers and grandmother's stepmother showed that such occurrences would, not could, cause division within the family. I would hope my brother would chose me for Hand over Aegon, yet… would I be ready for it?"

"If we were to only spend time preparing for any challenge that life would throw our way, we would never be able to meet that same challenge when it arrived, as we would not be living our lives at all. None of us ever know what we are capable of until we find ourselves in such a situation. Look at Lord Wytch, for example. His father was raised from a lord for the sacrifice of his grandfather, despite said sacrifice having been on the side of your great uncle during the Dance, and managed to make himself somewhat prosperous. Lord Wytch, not even two years ago, lost his father to a jealous neighbor, but look what became of him after assuming lordship? His enemies destroyed, his lands secured, praises sung for the Wytch name amongst the populace, favor from his liege, and now, a friendship with you, a crown prince?"

"Truly, a blessing from the gods. Yet how would I do, if put into such a similar situation? Father is king, and were he to pass, Daeron sits upon the Iron Throne. Would he ask me to be his Hand after uncle's passing?"

"Would you wish to be your brother's Hand?"

"I… I don't know, Ser Thorne. Even if uncle were to live a great many more years, unless Daeron's queen were to bear a son, then I would be his heir. Even if I weren't to be Hand, there is still the chance I would be in line to be king. What am I to do if that comes to pass? I know not of what it means to be a king, or a follower of the Seven, or even a man." Baelor sounded as if he were holding back tears. "I'm still just a boy."

"None of us know what it means to wield power, until we must, my prince. Do you believe Lord Wytch would leave you to fend for yourself, without giving you the tools to succeed?" Alliser asked.

"Well, no, he has been very good to me, but I cannot just bring him with me to court once I return home from fostering. He has his own lands, his betrothal, and his own family to care for. I too would have my own duties, even as just a prince, which would overtake our time together."

"That might not be for a good few years yet, my prince. Most fosterages end upon reaching one's majority. That would give you near eight years to still reside in the Stormlands if you so wish, and as you grow older, you'll have greater freedom to do as your status allows. I'm sure visiting Lord Wytch and the Lowhill sept every few months would not be looked down upon for being too remiss. Lord Baratheon is all the more likely to grant you such a boon as a token of your friendship with one of his rising vassals."

"Perhaps," Baelor said, wiping away an unshed tear. "Lord Wytch did mention that Lord Baratheon would likely spend some time at Stormhall to recover from his time amongst the Marches. If that were to be the case, I should like to begin training with the Lord Paramount more. I know I didn't train in my time in his home, but now, perhaps he too could endeavor to teach me? Casper said he was not the greatest swordsman, but Lord Baratheon's master at arms or the lord himself may know someone capable enough."

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Stormlanders X

Amidst the dry savannahs of the far west, further than most Stormlanders would ever venture, sat the Dornish Marches, mixtures of green grasslands, windswept savannahs and fetid marshes stretching as far the eye could see. Long fought over between Dorne, the Reach and the Stormlands, it was a brutal place to live, if only because of how often it changed hands over thousands of years. As a result, it had a long, bloody history, and a fierce pride of martial ability and tradition, inherited equally from its three disparate rulers at different periods. Now, with the Reach technically as an ally under the Targaryens, the independent Dornish and their raider ways were the only true threat to the region.

Lord Royce Baratheon hated Dornish bandits.

No, scratch that, he fucking despised the fuckers. They were relentless in their attacks and just as relentless in their retreats, never straying too far from the Dornish border and the mountainous passages in which they took refuge. They always seemed to strike when it most suited them, meaning they were spying on them to a degree yet could never be seen doing so. Only the most rigorous preparations seemed to keep them at bay, and then the fuckers would just go and attack somewhere that wasn't fortified to the Seven Hells and back!

He'd thought he'd be done with the matter in a mere two moons, but as the third moon since his arrival ended, and the fourth began, he'd had just enough of this bullshit. Now, resting his men in Harvest Hall, courtesy of House Selmy, he looked over his options.

He could call all of the banners, as a show of strength, but the Dornish lords nearby had not yet made themselves a part of this conflict, or at least had not done so openly. If their banners flew during these raids, then he'd have no choice but to call his own, but others might call that breaking the Kings Peace. Calling his banners without enough provocation by the Dornish, who hadn't tried to invade since the Fourth Dornish War, might see these bandits swell in ranks with Dornishmen, perhaps even triggering a fifth Dornish War. Even the eldest of the whitebeards hadn't been babes when Jaehaerys had burned the invasion fleet, but the people of the Stormlands knew well what war with Dorne might mean. Forays into distant mountains and desolate deserts, where the sun and lack of water would kill thousands as easily as sudden arrows or poisoned spears would.

Yet while it would still take months, calling only the mounted portion of the Stormland's strength, along with a great deal of bowmen, would certainly be a challenge for these Dornish to deal with. While not as fast or prone to endurance as Dornish sand steeds, it would certainly give his men the ability to encircle and trap an enemy that had, to his fury, been far too able to slip between his fingers. The addition of bowmen would make it far harder for the bastards to raid, as the Dornish were not known for their archery on horseback to counteract such a strategy, and then the fuckers would need to close the distance to strike as they did…

He looked to Harvest Hall's maester, who had just finished feeding the ravens. "Maester, I have need of your assistance."

The old man gave him a bow. "How might I serve, my lord?"

"Missives, to be sent out to the western houses of the Stormlands. I'm in need of more men, and more supplies, and they are to arrive with all due haste. Be sure to send one to Storm's End for my wife, she should know I am well and that sending a raven to Kings Landing should be done with all due haste. The king should know that this escalation has occurred, but that there is no true war yet to be had."

"Shall I send for the eastern lords as well?"

He sighed. "No, not yet, just additional aid is needed in putting these bandits in the hangman's noose, not a whole host of men. Send for the lords nearest the Marches, though, we'll have need of them first, and we'll work our way from there. If the problem persists or grows greater, then I'll reexamine my options."