Chapter 32: Kingsguard V

Late 156 AC

The cold winds had come without warning the week before, heralding the arrival of an abrupt winter. With the warmer days now gone, they'd been ill-prepared for the suddenness of the cold, and many smallfolk had needed to take shelter against this unexpected change. The winds had thankfully subsided the night before, but already the distant seas seemed rougher, and reports of foul weather were filtering in from along the coast. Small storms, localized but heavy, bringing with them chilling rain or light snow, or even small hail in some cases. The smallfolk in the afflicted areas had whipped themselves into a frenzy at this, an early cold the likes of which hadn't been seen in years. Indeed, none knew how long it would last, and for all the gains to have been made with the implementation of Stormhall crop rotation, iron plows and those newfangled horse harnesses, there was that ever-present undercurrent of worry for the future.

Though he would refrain from using those exact words, nor would the boy show it to the world, Thorne could tell Baelor was pissed at the sudden change in the season. It had come without warning, and the white ravens had yet to fly from the Citadel heralding its arrival. Under the prince's direction, the workers had been well on their way to finishing the last of the fields, with the old stumps nearly removed and the plows ready for usage. Yet the suddenness of the cold snap, made worse by the shortage of suitable cold weather clothes and equipment, had ground the progress to a halt.

It had all been going so well, even with the setbacks here or there delaying progress on a field or two. Injuries from accidents, broken harnesses, a lethargy from a particularly hot day sending to bed nearly a quarter of the laborers under Baelor's direction, it'd almost seemed too much for the prince to handle, and yet he had managed to overcome it all. Thorne, meanwhile, had thanked the gods several times over for the shelters the prince had the laborers build from the trees harvested from the former fields, many of them truly large specimens. Spaced properly and with clear spaces for additions, the buildings had been originally planned to be the eventual homes of the smallfolk who would then tend to these fields. Thankfully, they had also proven to be stout in the face of the usual storms from Shipbreaker Bay and were now earning their keep from the safety they provided from chilling rain and near-frosty winds that had whipped at them for days.

So now he sat, huddled near the fire with the prince scribbling into his small book, waiting for the supply carts to return with enough furs and woolen coats for them all. As a prince, Baelor and his guards were afforded the most spacious of the shelters, and with it came the all the accoutrements of a true lordly manor. A kitchen, feasting area, separate rooms for host and guests, a stocked larder, and a great deal of similar trappings furnished the halls. Thorne knew Baelor appreciated the comfort, given the chill he'd almost developed. Nothing threatening, thank the gods, but the boy had been caught in the cold, much as they all had, and for a while he'd feared Baelor would develop a fever. Now that such danger had passed, the prince had thrown himself back into his work, much as he'd done from the beginning, only now he could only do so from within the safety of this hall, rather than out in the fields.

"Where did I go wrong, Ser Thorne?" the boy asked, looking up from his book. "I feel as though I should be done with this task, yet the end of it eludes me."

The Kingsguard shrugged. "I am not entirely certain, my prince. The process of land reclamation lies far outside of any area I might call myself educated in. I studied the sword and saddle far more than I have the spade and sickle."

"I just can't find what I might have missed in this task, good ser. I have gone over my notes several times now, and though I did find a few things here or there, I know I am missing something that led us to this. If I did not miss anything, then why do I feel so distressed about it?"

"Well, the best way to find one's path is to retrace one's steps, my prince. Let us start from there and work our way back to this day."

"Well, after my foster-father assigned me the task of reclaiming these lands from wilds to farms, we went to the library. There, with the maester's help, we found the records of the place, and what used to grow there, as well as the names of the yeomen who originally worked the area. Since Lord Orys took over, there must have been some sort of internal problems, as there was later no mention of those yeomen ever again, nor word of smallfolk tending to those fields."

"As you surmised all those moons ago, they likely died during the Last Storm. That battle depleted a great many of the men of the Stormlands due to dragonfire, and some places have yet to recover, I'd wager."

The prince nodded. "Then, after getting as much gear together as we could, along with our assigned laborers, we set off for the site. After arriving and setting up the work camp, I had the lumbermen survey the area for the biggest trees, as we would be using those for our permanent shelters later."

"A good thing too, given these damnable winds and cold rain," Ser Thorne replied.

"Then, as the men cut and sorted the logs and boards, we had our first issue, feeding all these laborers. I think we figured out it took near three pounds of food, at least half of it in bread, to feed each man each day, and three pints apiece of ale or something similar, such as cider. With two hundred men, that meant we'd be going through around six hundred pounds of food every day, not including what the guards needed to eat, and around seventy-five gallons of drink as well. Each of our supply carts were being emptied every two days, I believe."

"Aye, as we could only fill them so much, given that the roads here are not yet as good as those in Wytch lands. Wagons out there can be built larger and thus carry more since the wheels won't sink into the ground after a storm." Lord Baratheon was likely next in line for the S.E.C. to build roads in his lands, at a reduced cost of course. Until then, they would have to make do with what they could.

"Our first problem was ensuring we maintained enough flour for the camp cooks to make enough bread without it dropping too low. There is only so much we can purchase in the surrounding area, and the farther we needed to range to buy flour, the longer it would take for it to reach back to our camp. With the area being so sparsely inhabited compared to other kingdoms, this presented a major problem. Substituting some bread with more vegetables, especially greens such as spinach, was great advice from Lord Wytch. It meant we could send our wagons for flour farther out while they ate crops closer to them, of which were grown in greater abundance since the crop rotation has been in place."

"Thankfully, the bountiful numbers of mutton sheep meant there was always enough meat for the men," Thorne said. He'd grown to tolerate mutton, given that he'd had to eat so much of it these past moons.

"Our distance to the coast also allowed for fish, good ser, so at least there was variety," Baelor added. "With our food supply taken care of, we didn't hit any real troubles for a good while. The men felled and cut the trees, setting up a yard for them to dry in for later use. The smaller trees were cut and split for firewood, and for the most part, we had little difficulty digging, chopping, or pulling out the stumps."

"Save for the pines."

The boy sighed in frustration. "Save for the pines, yes. We had to burn those out, and with all the piles of brush lying about, we nearly set the remaining woods on fire. We were lucky that the winds were fair that day. Now, all brush piles are to be burned in small, separate piles, so such a potential hazard is not allowed. My foster-father would not be happy if I managed to set fire to his lands through such inattention."

Ser Thorne nodded. The smallfolk would not take it well either, as the surrounding forests that were to remain were often a source of food or goods that they could not grow themselves, one being the stormwater mushroom, a favorite of the locals. He'd thought the texture was like that of cooked chicken breast, and it was rather delicious in a thick stew. "After that was dealt with, everything proceeded with fairly uneventful efficiency, until this sudden arrival of winter, that is."

"Yet we've received no word of the Citadel sending their ravens heralding it. Either something has happened within the Citadel to delay them, or this weather has stopped riders from spreading the news."

"Or, perhaps, this is no winter, but a terrible autumn," the Kingsguard replied. "It would not be the first time the seasons have been unusual. Being unprepared for this unusual weather is not unexpected, as none of us know the future, and we have made do with what we have. 'Were we better prepared' is the line all men say when things do not go to plan, and so long as one is willing to continue their work, there is no harm in learning from such a lesson. If this change in weather is indeed a sign of winter though, then let us pray it is a mercifully short one. I cannot imagine the sudden cold would be good for the health of the king."

"Father's condition worries me, but I can only pray the grand maester can help him recover from it," Baelor replied. "As for this potential winter, it has thrown off the schedule we were so nearly done with. Should the winds let up, even if the cold does not, we should be able to clear the fields and plant them once more. Only, if winter is upon us, the only thing we could plant would be turnips."

"Aye, a last resort, but often the only one available in such times, my prince."

Baelor leaned back in his chair. "So then… I didn't miss anything?"

"Likely not, my prince. Considering the smallfolk of the area, who have lived here their entire lives, were as unprepared for this sudden cold as you were, I would dwell no more on it. Just let it be a lesson to prepare for as much as you can but know that you cannot prepare for everything the gods throw at us."

There was sound from the far side of the room, and a pair of guards, escorting a third man, entered the building, quickly shutting the door behind them. Dressed for the weather with thick wool trousers and coat, yet still tinged with what looked like frost, the man bowed before the prince. Thorne recognized him as one of the couriers.

"My prince, I bear letters."

"Borros!" the prince said, cheering up considerably. "How was your journey from King's Landing?"

"Uneventful, thank the gods, though I was nearly caught in a small squall once I passed through the Kingswood," the man said, handing a small satchel of scrolls to a guard, who looked them over. "I then barely made it to Storm's End before the rain fell again, where I met with the other couriers. The Wytch man was going to deliver these, but came down with a small fever, so I went in his stead."

"My thanks, Borros, I'll be sure to let Lord Wytch know of your kindness."

"I also passed a small caravan of men bring what looked to be wagons of tools and woolen coats not far back. I'm assuming they're yours, and unless they have trouble, they should be here by nightfall."

"Excellent, we can hand them out tomorrow morning and resume our work," the prince said, as the guard, satisfied, turned over the scrolls to the prince.

Ser Thorne, ever keen eyes on the prince, noticed a mixture of happiness and confusion contort his face. "My prince?"

"One of these is from Lord Wytch, and the other from Lord Baratheon, but the third… it bears the mark of my cousin Naerys. Why would she write to me?"

"News has reached us of the birth of her daughter Vaella," he replied, as the courier went to find something to eat. He'd stay with them for a day or two, while the prince wrote his returning letters, and then leave with them for Storm's End. It was a good system, one that seemed to lift the prince's spirits, no matter how exhausted he might be at the end of a day. "Perhaps she is writing to you on her?"

"Perhaps," Baelor replied, opening the letter from Lord Wytch first.

Thorne softly chuckled at that. Though the prince never outright said it, he'd clearly come to regard the young Stormlord as an older brother of sorts, looking up to him and his accomplishments. Considering that Daeron never wrote to Baelor these days, it was perhaps fitting he'd found someone else to serve in the role, and though some might find it troubling, the Kingsguard had come to accept such a strange circumstance in the young prince's life. Whereas some might try to influence or control the prince using such a relationship, Lord Wytch seemed to prefer helping to bring out the boy's best, while mitigating some of his earlier… eccentricities. Baelor trained with a bow every morning the weather allowed, and every night before supper would spar with him or some of the other guards, with axe, staff, or sword. Though the prince had taken so long to take up arms as to worry others, Thorne was pleased by his progress and determination to improve, hoping it would continue as such.

"Ser Thorne, I believe I have a solution to our turnip problem," the prince said, closing Lord Wytch's letter with a smile on his face.

"Oh?"

"Lord Wytch mentioned that his own crops have suffered from this sudden cold spell, having lost a decent portion of the latest harvest. He writes that in such cold times, that not only turnips would be best for growing, but also carrots, leeks, peas, and spinach. He also mentions plants called kale and radishes, the former of which I've never heard of, and though I know of smallfolk collecting and eating wild radishes, I'm not sure I've ever heard of growing them as a crop."

"We shall have to see if there is another name for this 'kale' plant, as many plants have different names for them, depending on who you ask," Thorne replied. "As for the radishes, I too have heard of wild ones, but never of a domestic variety. We shall have to ask the maester in Storm's End of this, or barring that, write a letter to the Citadel. If such a crop exists, then surely they must know of it."

"Any new crop that can grow in these areas, or anywhere in Westeros, would be a boon to everyone, smallfolk and nobles alike," Baelor muttered. "If only our merchants overseas could be encouraged to find such crops and bring enough of them back to begin planting here. After we are done, I must speak with Lord Baratheon on the idea, I doubt he would like it if I tried to purchase untested plants from across the Narrow Sea."

Many hours later, when Baelor had finally drifted off to sleep, Ser Thorne pulled a small scroll from the lining of his coat, unfurling it in the dim light of the crackling fire. His correspondence with the other Kingsguard was nothing new, but the subject matter was enough that keeping it secret from the prince, for now, was a necessity.

King Aegon was ill, more than Baelor knew. His consumption had aged him in months what it might take a healthy man years to accomplish, and he grew ever weaker as the weeks continued. Aegon had lost his appetite almost completely, and the king's weight had declined sharply, to where he appeared frail, where once he had been strong. A near-constant fever saw him confined to his rooms, and other than the grand maester, he refused to see anyone, save for the queen and his brother.

Lord Hand Viserys was worried, his brothers in white wrote, and both Daeron and Daena were nigh distraught, the latter especially. By all accounts, this cold snap had worsened his condition already, and it was likely only a matter of time before he passed away, and Daeron assumed the Iron Throne. The preparations were already being made, according to his brothers, though few outside of the Red Keep knew this.

Alliser glanced over at the prince, sleeping soundly after a long day of writing replies to the letters his friend and family had sent. What should he tell him? The other Kingsguard stressed that bringing the boy back to Kings Landing now would be good for him, but he was not so sure of that. If the king were dying alone, away from family, what did it matter if Baelor was there or not? The poor boy would be distraught enough when news of the king's illness and then death reached him, it would do no good for him to be in the Red Keep, so close to his father, yet barred from seeing him. Yet he would need to be there for the coronation of Daeron, whose regency was still undetermined, and for once his family would be there alongside him, mutually supporting each other in this time of grief.

Burning the scroll in the fireplace, he sighed. He would tell the prince come morning that his father was sicker than he knew but give no specifics on it. Baelor would be upset, surely, but it would not take long for him to refocus on his project over such dark thoughts. If Baelor wished to return to the Red Keep, then he would need to speak with Lord Baratheon on the matter.

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The Green Oak, they called him, and it was a suitable nickname, Olyvar thought, as his founding Oakheart ancestor was said to have been sired upon a giantess by Garth Greenhand himself. Strong and large, he was an imposing member of the Kingsguard, having been sworn in only a few years ago, during a short banquet the King had managed to attend. He had proven himself in the small tournament to choose the one who would replace the fallen Kingsguard Bennar, who had died from a bout of consumption in his old age. Now, alongside his sworn brothers, he defended King Aegon and his family, sworn to never bear sons, hold lands, or take a wife, and to advise and protect his king's secrets. Many of those oaths had come easy to his lips, for he had never envisioned himself presiding over Oakheart lands. That lay with his older brothers, and he would gladly leave the task to them. Sons were trouble, he knew, he'd been a hellion in his younger days, and he hadn't the patience to raise them, let alone daughters. Keeping his king's secrets was easy, as the man held them tight to his chest, and protecting him was uneventful these days, as he had not been around for the Secret Siege. Yet the last of his oaths, of no wives taken, had never been a consideration of his. Women he appreciated for the duties they bore, and even felt a touch of respect for them, but Olyvar never found to be as alluring as others claimed them to be. Not even the queen and her daughters, nor the Hand's daughter, could draw more than a glance from him. That side of him that felt this way, only one other knew, and it was here, in a secret, unused room in the lower halls of the Red Keep, where he found himself alone with the one he called his own. It was a tragic love, for more reasons than he cared to count, and one that could not last, but let no one call him Qarl Correy come again. Should his love be needed by others, Olyvar would respect his wishes.

Curled up beside the one who held his heart, he softly smiled. "When are you to marry?" he asked. They had not spoken of it before, but after such a… nice time together, basking in the glow, it would not hurt to talk of such things, right?

His younger lover shrugged. "I do not yet know, Oly. Soon, I would think. People might come to suspect if it does not occur, but no lady has yet to catch my eye, either."

"I love that you should be so blessed as to be able to love both men and women alike, a trait I am afraid I cannot share. Yet I must admit my jealousy, though it shall never come between us, does arise whenever your sister fawns over you."

"That she does," his prince replied. "Yet it will be good for Baelor to marry her instead, I think. Daena will be good for my brother, and hopefully he can temper her wilder side with his newfound ways. I know father and uncle have a small list of potential queens for me, but until then, Oly, only you shall share my bed… when possible."

"For that, Daeron, I am most grateful. As your future Kingsguard, the oath that I swore to your father will remain as it was for you. Greatest of these will be that I keep your secrets."

Daeron smiled as he arched an eyebrow. "What of keeping me safe?" he asked playfully.

"That is a foregone conclusion, my prince. Shall it become required of me, I shall gladly die for you, Daeron."

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Stormlanders XVI

Late 156 AC

The expansions to Oretown had been a long time coming, and the roaring fire in his solar kept away the chill from seeping into his bones while he looked over the reports. The hot cider helped, though he was careful not to drink too much, lest he need to use the privy too often. Damn this cold and unexpected winter, it would throw the scheduled road and similar projects into disarray, but there was little else anyone, even Lord Wytch, could do about it, save for adapting and moving on. A good lesson too, one they had so recently found applicable to another problem of theirs.

It had not taken longer for Casper's captive to break, both from his gaoler's 'persuasions' and the isolation Casper had told him the man was experiencing. Lord Windhill knew that a man's word may not be worth much when spoken under duress, but given the circumstances of his imprisonment, it was no wonder he'd so readily broken, trying to save his own skin in the process. After his confession, Ryck was then publicly hanged for his crimes of attempted murder, attempted theft, and assaulting guardsmen, the latter the first of its kind for Lowhill. Lord Windhill freely admitted he envied that idyllic nature of those lands, wishing his own to be like that, and slowly but surely, they were becoming as such. Hunger amongst the smallfolk was almost a thing of the past by now, the sheep flocks were haler than ever, and the wealth flowing between their lands was something he'd not imagined possible for such small holdings. Were they major lords, like Swanns or Bucklers, then who knows what they'd have been able to do?

After Ryck's demise, and shortly after he had departed for Windhall with his granddaughter, the one called Emily was questioned by Lord Wytch, as to her origins and purpose in all this. According to Casper's letter on the matter, she was merely the help, looking for some coin to aid her family back in Kings Landing. In exchange for her cooperation, her family would be retrieved from the poorer streets of the city and given a chance to earn their keep in Lowhill. As punishment for her crime, though, she was to join the motherhouse as a septa for the remainder of her life, never to leave Lowhill unless allowed to do so by Lord Wytch himself, under penalty of death no less. Jon had thought it a bit too charitable, but the thought of executing the woman was also a bit too harsh for his tastes. Taking a hand would have been simpler.

Still, Ryck's confession, recorded by a pair of scribes for evidence, had sent the young lord into a short rage, one Jon had never seen Casper display before. In a later letter, Casper's earlier assumptions during the faire had put the master of Ryck as the Tyrell bastard that his maester had offended all those years ago. To the maester's clear satisfaction, it turned out that man was dead from an accident no less than three years before, meaning he had no connection whatsoever to this plot. Thus, unless there was some convolution none of them could decipher, the Tyrells remained unconnected as well.

As luck had it, due to a habit of eavesdropping, Ryck had found out his employer was himself employed by two quite different, yet rather coincidentally linked houses. Houses Fossoway and Darklyn currently shared blood, with Lady Fossoway being the sister of the current Lord Darklyn. That two houses had married across kingdom lines was nothing new, but that they had joined to attempt to steal from Lord Wytch was rather unexpected. House Fossoway had come up with the idea, paying in gold they had, and Lord Darklyn had in turn hired the man who hired Ryck. It was an odd alliance, to be sure, but one now that they were sure of.

In a return letter, Jon theorized House Fossoway must want roads of Casper's quality without having to pay another lord for them, as they had walked away from negotiations with his granddaughter once Casper's family origins came to light. According to Ryck's testimony, he had overheard the Darklyns mention they also wanted the material for their own roads and other projects, looking to add, among other things, crushed charcoal and then call it 'Darklynstone', so that they could pass it off as their own creation. That apparently was the part that had made Casper break a bench over his knee, from both the rage of the attempted theft, and from the fact they would fiddle with the recipe for mere aesthetics.

Houses Fossoway and Darklyn were now both on Jon's 'watch' list, and if he caught any of their ilk snooping around his own lands for similar reasons, they'd face a much harsher penalty than Lord Wytch could inflict on them. He had the accrued prestige from a lifetime of service to call in a great many other Stormland houses, and even a few outsiders he had befriended in his time during the Dance. Most of his generation were infirm by now though, so it'd a limited call of support, but still a strong one at that.

Sighing in his rocking chair, he barely stilled his hands as he reached for a piece of parchment, the shakes coming in worse these days. Maester Gorman and his own maester had told him he likely did not have much time left, but he was secure in the knowledge that his heir would marry a good man. With luck, their second son would carry the Windhill name, and the two houses would remain as close allies through family ties for generations to come.

Yet despite his impending demise, Jon carried on as a lord should, reading the latest report of the road leading to the area around the dam project. Which, by the way, was now finished. The great wall of Wytchstone was finally complete, and all that remained was for rain, snowmelt, and the stream that passed into the area to fill its great depths. Mylenda had thought of using some of the great urns that had transported the powdered Wytchstone for Oretown's main road to transport whatever small fish they could net from the nearby streams for the first batch of stocking. She'd written to her betrothed on the matter, and he'd thought it quite ingenious. The name for the lake was yet to be determined, but with luck, it would be a name to be remembered for generations to come. As for the dam itself, something unexpected had occurred. The smallfolk of lands often trailed behind friendly armies, usually residing in tent cities that moved with the men. With the dam project having taken so long to build, a village had sprouted along one of its slopes, these camp followers building permanent homes from the timbers no longer needed to prop up portions of the dam. While rough and rather ill-planned, the natural progression of the village's growth had seen smallfolk from both lands fill it, primarily farmers and a few craftsmen here or there. This would likely be only the first of several villages to sprout up along the lake's borders, once the fish stocks were large enough to support them.

Come to think of it, with the size of this future lake being truly spectacular, they would be needing fishing boats like those used along the coasts to harvest larger quantities. Making a note of this on a piece of parchment, Jon returned to the report. The roads from Stormhall to Windhall were finally completed, and once winter was finished, the roads to the Reach and eastern Stormlands could continue in earnest. To think that he had a part in building the best roads the Stormlands would ever know was as humbling as it was satisfying. Now, if only he could say the same for the progress out into the Marches. It was slow and tedious in comparison, given the sheer distance between settlements. The materials, from what he understood, needed water in their construction, and digging wells every few miles was as difficult as it was risky. Transporting the water needed with unused wine barrels seemed to do the trick, but that slowed down construction considerably, and thanks to this sudden cold snap, those barrels would likely freeze and burst, further setting back their progress. At least the portion of the road coming out of the Marches was facing fewer issues. Being closer to Dorne and its hot climate, even in winter, was helpful sometimes.

Setting the report aside, Jon rose from his rocking chair, albeit somewhat unwillingly. He was no longer as limber as he'd once been, even a few short years ago, and holding the edge of the table, he willed the shakes to cease. Gingerly moving along, he moved towards the door, only for the world to suddenly spin, and then everything went dark.

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When he awoke, he was no longer in his study, but in his bed, with the maester by his side and his granddaughter pacing at the foot.

"My lord," the maester said, noticing his open eyes.

Jon tried to speak but found his throat awfully dry. Why was it so dry? Why was he so thirsty?

"Grandfather, the maester said you fell in your solar," Mylenda said, coming to his side and taking his hand in hers. Why did he barely feel the touch of his heir?

"Indeed, you did, my lord," the maester said, looking rather sorrowful. "You appear to have suffered a lapse in your constitution, one I am afraid you are unlikely to recover from. Your palsy, I fear it has spread faster than we thought. The guards who came upon you said you were unresponsive after hearing your fall, and from what I have been able to determine, your body is failing you my lord. You may last days yet, or mere hours, but I fear there is little I can do."

"Water," Jon muttered, the act of speaking as taxing as riding down the Dornish bandits. Mylenda offered him a small cup, which he drank as best he could, given that his neck did not want to move as easily as it had before.

"Grandfather, what are we to do?"

"Fetch the papers, maester," he groaned, wondering why he felt so little. He could barely move enough to grab his granddaughter's hand. "It is time." As the maester rushed from the room, Mylenda moved closer, gently stroking his large, scarred hands. To think, he had once been able to carry her, cradled in the crook of his arm. Now, she was near a woman grown, and he was not going to see her again, for hopefully many years. She had earned the right to a long life, he hoped she would enjoy it.

"Grandfather," she muttered, tears forming in the corners of her bright eyes. "I… I do not know if I am ready."

"I wasn't," he muttered. "You'll be a better lady of Windhall than I was ever a lord, if you're even half the woman I know you've become. Though you will be the last Windhill, let that not discourage you. Casper will see to your health and happiness in ways I could not, and with the blessings of the gods, you shan't be the only Windhill for long. Bear strong sons, and stronger daughters, to carry our name into this next generation, and remember me fondly, if you can."

"Always, grandfather," Mylenda whispered, as the maester returned to the room.

As the maester wrote the words he spoke, detailing his declaration of Mylenda as his lawful and true heir, Jon felt miles away, wracked with guilt. He should have had a few more years yet, he would have seen the outcome of so many great things to come to their family. Was this penance for his crimes, those accrued in his long life? Of the men he had slain in battle, of the smallfolk whose protection he had neglected during the harsher times? Of the secrets he bore, some that had been passed down by his father before him, and his, so on and so forth? Some he knew Mylenda had discovered for herself, she was a smart girl like that, but the most important only he yet remembered.

He counted himself lucky that Mylenda bore no cousins that might try to usurp her. His children had died too early to give her such relatives, and the descendants of his long-dead siblings bore less of a claim than Mylenda ever could, their names long since something other than Windhill. He knew this gamble was great, but Mylenda would endure this time of loneliness, as their family had for generations. He only wished he could stay a little longer, to see and hold a great-grandchild in his arms. Yet he also looked forward to this end, this lasting peace in the arms of his ancestors and departed loved ones.

This clarity of his demise convinced him of the necessity of his next, and likely final, actions. Dismissing the maester, and feeling his already-depleted strength leaving him, he motioned to Mylenda, who leaned in close. There, with the last of his strength, he spoke of ancient secrets of their house, of mysteries she would find the answers to deep in their catacombs, and how to access the hidden room in his solar. He also spoke of his greatest regret, asking her for forgiveness even as his eyes began to grow heavy.

The silence before she spoke was the longest, and deepest, he had ever known.

"I forgive you, grandfather. Be at peace and know that I will always love you, no matter what the future holds."

With a content smile on his lips, and the last of his burdens released from his mind, Jon Windhill, the last lord of House Windhill, breathed his last, and passed from this world.