Chapter 53: SI POV XIV

Early 158 AC

The day had been one of the more pleasant ones in some time. Not because the others had been bad, mind you, but the troubles associated with moving men and supplies through my lands had finally trickled away from what it had been. No more lords and their retinues needing boarding in my castle or the better manors in Lowhill, no worries about spoilage now that the chill of winter had greatly reduced the likelihood of rot, and while I'd not directly benefited from overseeing this, many, many more lords in and out of the Stormlands knew me by name and sight now.

A good thing many had not come during summer, lest they see just how productive my lands had become. Too many questions from too many people could have caused trouble, in that should they look to stay to see how everything was done, they might not have reached Dorne as fast as they had. Come springtime, though, I know I'll be getting more than a few visitors, coming to see for themselves as other Stormlords had done. Some might even pick my brain for ideas for their own lands, as investing in your own demesne was not a new concept, but one few lords tended to indulge in, and I was slowly becoming a renowned expert on such matters. In the Stormlands at any rate, no word of other kingdoms besides the North paying any attention, and that was fine by me.

I was glad to say that, after far more moons than I thought it would take, I was once again in good health. I no longer found myself winded when trying to run or even walk, the strength in my limbs had returned to close what I recalled before my experience with the supernatural, and as I had told my maester, the daily fatigue had all but disappeared. Yet despite my progress, I'd needed to greatly bundle myself for my only jaunt outside of the castle, as the afternoon winds were somewhat chillier than usual.

The planned expansion of my dairy herd and its grazing pastures was a task I had been putting off since before my departure to war. My breeding experiment has been going better than I'd hoped, but not as perfectly as I'd originally planned. My bull aurochs is still alive, thankfully enough, and he has no trouble making more cattle with whatever females I put in there. I'm starting to run low on any that aren't of his line, however, so I must be a bit careful to avoid any inbreeding issues. If he's still alive and viable by then, maybe I'll have him breed granddaughters or great-granddaughters if I run out of other options. After all, many of my cattle are technically related over countless generations beforehand, so waiting a tad longer shouldn't be much of an issue.

However, seeing to my cattle herd is not the most exciting of tasks, and judging from my new foster-son's expression, one he'd rather have read about than seen for himself.

"We have aurochs yet in the North," Jonnel said from his pony, our small group moving past one of my larger forage barns. He looked undeniably adorable in his woolen coat, even with his missing eye. "How did you capture your bull?"

"When he was young, and with a great deal of rope and strong men," I replied, gesturing to the large fellow. By now, he was used to some of his caretakers that he didn't even look their way when they brought him a large bale of hay. Still, they moved quickly and never turned their backs on him.

"So through his loins, the animals of your other herds are larger than those of other lands," he continued. "Yet that is not the only reason why, is it?"

"Indeed it is not, Jonnel. Keeping an animal well-fed is as important as ensuring it comes from good stock. Every herd in my lands has access to not only good pastures for grazing and shelter, but I also have small fields dedicated entirely to growing their winter forage during autumn. As such, should it be harsh enough that most grasses are buried or refuse to grow, there will hopefully be enough to keep them fed until warmer weather or spring itself arrives."

Jonnel said nothing, but his wandering gaze indicated he was growing bored with this lecture. Understandable, I had been his age twice now, and neither time had been easy when it came to waiting to do something while adults apparently took their sweet time with a task. Some might say 'ah, to be young again' but I can tell you right now, that young? It sucked then, and it sucked the second time around, especially since nobody truly took you seriously when so young. I was extremely lucky my father listened to me on pretty much any of the ideas I'd had, else our lands would not have progressed as far as they had these past ten years.

"The same goes for our herds of sheep and horses," I continued. "We ensure they have more than enough to eat come harsher weather, so that fewer are lost before springtime."

"So you have smallfolk who grow food for the livestock, but not their own?"

I shook my head. "I ensure that every settlement, no matter how small or large, has a large enough set of fields to meet their own demands, and then some. That way, in case of spoilage or damage upon some fields, there will be others there to pick up the slack. It pays to prepare more than necessary even if the primary fields are bountiful."

"Yet your fields produce so much as it is," Jonnel said, gesturing to a sloped field of spinach. "In the North, the smallfolk struggle enough to tend to the fields that provide food for all. To ask of them to simply sow more fields and harvest more grain is simply not possible."

"It is with what I have sent your lord father," I said, gesturing to the Wytchmill as we tread up its gentle slope. "When a body cannot accomplish the work as needed, men create something that can make up for such a shortcoming. A man whose underside chafed on a blanketed horse created a saddle instead, a farmer whose hands tired from tilling made a plow to do the work, and a hunter whose thrown spear could not reach deer created a bow to replace it."

"So these machines of yours, the ones my lord father has under lock and key within the old keep, the can truly do this?" Jonnel asked, the first inkling of interest seeping into his voice. "The plows can make one horse like ten oxen, and the drill plant as a hundred pairs of hands might?"

"Among other things, yes. It is not by lack of effort that the North struggles, Jonnel. It is by the very nature of the land which they fight against. Tell me, these summer snows of yours, how long do they usually last?"

"Perhaps a few days or more in worse years, a day or less otherwise. The heavier snows can ruin entire fields and bring about famine."

"I see. Do you, by chance, grow any crops more tolerant of longer cold periods?"

"Like turnips?"

"Yes, but I was thinking more like spinach, kale, or cabbage. A varied diet is more important than many might realize, and it helps that you don't become too dependent on one crop over another. That way, if one is destroyed by snow but the other lives on, you've not lost as much."

"We do not grow such plants in as great amounts as wheat and barley, no. A pound of cabbage cannot feed a smallfolk family as much as a pound of flour can."

"Indeed," I said as we entered the large gates. "Such is why my efforts to grow as much as possible of all crops and at all times has been so important in my time as lord."

All around us, the work of the Wytchmill continued, even in winter. The great furnaces that mirrored Gorman's meant for firing Wytchstone now used great bellows to smelt raw iron from Ironvein, the waves of heat warming the stones inlaid around them. The frozen mud of yesteryear had long been replaced by such additions, and indeed, the entire ground of my great workshop was as cobbled as the streets of Lowhill. Bundled woodworkers too continued their tasks, ranging from carts to tool handles to large wooden chests for storage. That was one was recent, as most smallfolk hadn't had enough possessions to put away, but now, with bountiful cedar imported from Galewood lands, such fine chests would soon be in the homes of every smallfolk that could afford one.

"Does this place ever stop? Every morning from my window I see smoke rising, and yet there is still rising smoke when the skies grow too dark to see."

"No, it does not. I have in my workshop a number of smallfolk, primarily the young and single, that work at all hours. Those now asleep will awaken near sundown to take over for those who work in the daylight. Their quarters are over there," I added, motioning to what could only be called a longhouse.

Jonnel looked baffled. "How can they see in the dark?"

I motioned to the several large lamps dotting the area, their glass tops refracting light here or there. "Once it grows dark enough, these lamps are lit, and with these they may see. Many of these men usually spend their nights assembling what was built during the day, ensuring no work is never done. After their shifts, they tend to go to Lowhill to visit kin, go to a tavern, or find extra work before they are to return for their sleep."

"Whale oil is worthy so much, how can you afford it?"

"I don't use whale oil."

Jonnel squinted at me, clearly unbelieving.

"Honestly, I don't," I added. "I use turpentine from distilling pine sap and pine refuse, or at least I used to. It's very intensive for labor, and not exactly cheap to make, so I had to add something to it to ensure my supplies would last longer."

"What did you add?"

"Well, that highly potent alcohol I distill? The one for cleaning wounds and ensuring medicinal tools are clean?"

"Aye…?"

"Well, since I can distill so much of it, far more than I'd ever need or am able to sell, I mix it with my turpentine to create a larger batch. Admittedly, it doesn't burn quite as bright, but they can be used in simpler lamps. Just can't use a whale oil lamp, though, it'll explode."

"Explode?" Jonnel looked a bit alarmed at that.

"Aye, burst like a ripe melon smashed under hoof. That's also why I ensured they aren't close to any buildings and the ground around the entire workshop is stone. Unless it's dragonfire or wildfire, stone won't burn very well."

"I… I see," Jonnel said, looking at the unlit lamps with a curious glint in his eye. "This oil, you said it is made from pine, yes?"

"Aye, distilled so that only oil remains."

"Well, there's many, many pines in the North. Could my father distill it as well?"

"Aye, if he manages to create a distillery," I said. I'd not given anyone anything resembling plans for distilling anything, as I had cornered the market in the Stormlands on my spirits, and other than Reach brandy or expensive Essosi brandy, I had no real competition. If the North learned to distill, I likely wouldn't have to worry about that, given the distances involved and the infrastructure needed to support creating such amounts of alcohol. "Tell you what, if your father likes the plows and seed drills enough, I'll write about helping set up a distillery in Winterfell for Stark use in exchange for something else."

"Why not just gift him the plans?"

"Well, since nobody in the North likely knows how it works, just sending them plans could cause problems. Distilling can be dangerous work if things aren't built properly."

"You would think my people couldn't follow simple directions?" Jonnel asked, any former curiosity replaced by childish indignation.

Oh great. We were getting off to a better start than at any point these past few weeks, and now this had reared its ugly head. "No, but any such work is dangerous no matter who I would tell. That, and a fair trade between lords is a sign of trust in the other's abilities. I'd not trust a lord, not even your father, with something that could kill him if it wasn't built properly. I'd never forgive myself if such actions caused an accident or worse, and I doubt the North would either."

"… no, we wouldn't," Jonnel grumbled.

Our tour finished, we returned to Stormhall as the sun began to set, the chill biting just a tad more along the way. Jonnel said nothing, and I did not push, even though I wished to. He was young, I was working on acquiring his confidence and respect, but that would take time. Besides, every small victory would be worth it in the end, to have a Stark who knew how to manage lands as I had. Supper itself was fine, Jonnel remaining silent even though the atmosphere was somewhat cheerful. I could tell he was interested in the newfangled dulcimer my sisters played for our entertainment but didn't want to say anything. Not quite a sulk, but he had no further interest in what I had to say that day, and as we ended, I gave him permission to go to his room. Sending my sisters to their last lesson for the night, a very basic understanding of trade as per my mother's instruction, I retired to my solar to find Mylenda sitting there. Somehow, even swollen with our first child, she could move quickly when she wanted to. What surprised me was that Gorman was also there, going through a rather large stack of missives.

"Gorman, is this why you barely joined us for supper?" I asked. Indeed, he'd been there just long enough to inform me of new messages awaiting me, a few platefuls of food, and then he'd excused himself back to work. Gods, the man was a credit to the better aspects of the Citadel and the Order of Maesters. If only were more like him, these lands wouldn't have been so stuck in a rut for so long.

"Among other things, yes, my lord. You will be pleased to know that as of today, the smallfolk are now entirely pasteurizing their milk, thank the Seven. From what I gather, however, the North likely has no knowledge of such measures, and I believe it would be a good lesson to show Jonnel how this can help prevent the spread of associated illnesses."

"Indeed, but that can be for a later day. Tomorrow I'm planning on touring the hospital in the sept grounds, show him some means of tending to wounds."

"A good idea, Casper," Mylenda said. "I'm sure the medics we have retained would be more than willing to show him how to clean and bandage wounds. A sound knowledge to have once he enters his majority and will likely serve by his elder brother's side in battle."

Indeed, and the returning medics would only increase our knowledge base we had so steadily accrued these past ten years. Under Gorman's insistence we had taken to adding new observations as the medics were trained, and while still in its infancy, we were beginning to see real progress in how medicine and the arts of healing were implemented. With his own contribution, we likely had a greater understanding of the healing arts than most people in Westeros, as we had cut out all superstitious methods whose results we could never replicate. No more shaved foot skin peelings in elixirs, no sir.

"It would also be a good means of showing him how you have recovered, my lord," the older man replied. "A lord who trusts the hands and tools of his own is one more likely to be believed. I would still advise avoiding the more strenuous actions for extended periods of time, however, as one cannot be too careful, especially in winter."

"I will Gorman, I will," I replied.

"So… how was Jonnel today?" Mylenda asked, filing away another harvest report. Bless her for the idea to attach a stripe along the top of parchments with different colors of ribbon, it made sorting things easier. Why I hadn't thought of that before, I'll never know.

"Better I suppose, though not by much," I sighed. He was proving to be a more difficult boy than I had thought, even if there was progress here or there. "I know his father sent him to see how our fields and pastures produce so much, it's what I would have done in his situation. But he's… prickly, even though he apparently accepts my position as his foster father."

"A rough time for the boy to be sure," Gorman replied. "I knew many a young man like him when I first arrived at the Citadel, though not so young. Unsure of their future, in an unfamiliar place, and suddenly under the authority of those they've never known. It can take some time to get used to."

"At least he hasn't given me any actual trouble. Quiet and broody I can handle, even if he thinks his occasional insults are hidden behind a veil of polite conversation."

Mylenda nodded. "Hopefully he'll behave better once the others arrive. Might be good for him to have fellows his own age."

Yes, the others. I could not recall the limits on the number of children a lord could foster, especially one in such a lower 'class' as I, but I wasn't expecting so many so soon. Turns out, once your lands churn out food and goods like mad, as well as purchasing all it can from its neighbors, other lords start to take notice. Thankfully, these were all in good ways, but still, it was a bit daunting. After all, before my 'awakening' here, I was no father, not even an uncle yet, and now I was to be the foster father for not one, not two, but five young boys come springtime. Two from the Reach, a Meadows and Ashford respectively, and a Connington and Tarth from the Stormlands. Why? Well, besides the chance to rub elbows with the second son of a Lord Paramount, hopefully in a way that wouldn't cause trouble, these boys were part of deals that their fathers and I had been hashing out over the course of my recovery for mutual gain.

Meryn Ashford was seven namedays old, and part of an agreement with his lord father to incentivize his second son to being a good steward for his elder brother. Not only was he to learn the land management I had begun a decade ago under my own father, but Lord Ashford wished his son to learn of how to build a better town. Ashford was from what I had gathered a pleasant market town, but apparently Lord Ashford wanted to expand the settlement slowly, as I had, and in an orderly fashion to boot. I thought this odd, as he didn't want a sept or anything like that, but with this deal came a massive discount on importing their fireplums to produce a new type of brandy. That, and the lord had placed a discounted order for plows and seed drills for his cash crop fields in exchange for favorable prices in his markets, especially of my Highmarsh exports.

Bryan Meadows was eight namedays old in comparison and was related to Mern through marriage I believe. Second cousins perhaps? His father already had established good ties to my house through the trade of his crops I could not produce in the quantities I needed, especially his poppies. Bryan too was to learn of stewardship duties, but also his father wanted the boy to become more versed in the lordly management and rearing of pasture beasts, especially cattle. Turns out the man wished for his own expanded cattle operations around Grassy Vale, given the larger pastures he had available, and in turn for supplying a good-sized starting herd, I would receive a fair number of good Reach draft horses to expand my own herds. That, and the rights to rebuild their sept, which was apparently showing its age and hadn't been tended to in some time.

Now, I had no real complaints with these arrangements. The more fields I constantly put under plow, the more horses I will need, even with all my more efficient tools. They were a bit more one-sided than I'd have liked, especially with the amount of knowledge those boys would return to their lands with after all, as what they will learn under my tutelage will have a far greater impact than a larger herd or better deals on poppies and a new brandy. However, this was a good of a deal as I could hope for, giving their far longer histories, greater innate prestige, and the deeper coffers they possessed. Friendly lords along the Stormlands border would also help reduce any tensions some might feel as the years go on.

The Stormlords, on the other hand, see me as one of their own, and it shows in how thorough our negotiations took to reach this point. Honestly, some part of me is worried I'll wind up being more a headmaster of a boy's school rather than a fostering lord. So far, no other talks have been serious, given the various changes brought by the war through lordly deaths or that of young men of their houses, but a drawback I did not consider with my rising popularity and attention was just how many lords would calculate how to use me to their advantage. I mean, yes, Stormlords are a bit like Northmen in their less-apparent chivalric politics and blunter attitudes towards a great many things, but that doesn't mean they don't partake in such tactics. After all, Lord Baratheon keeping the peace between men whose reactions to slights might immediately descend into punching or worse can't be easy.

Gyles Connington is nine namedays, a second son, and this would be the first real exposure I'd had to that house since Lord Baratheon's great meeting all those years ago. We've traded, but that's nothing new, I've traded with near every house in the Stormlands thus far. Instead, in exchange for teaching his son on matters of ensuring good crop yields, something the Conningtons are noted for in that portion of the Stormlands, Lord Connington wants his son to learn trade. I thought this odd, as his lands are wealthy already, but given his proximity to the sea, I wasn't surprised when he came to me with a proposal that I'm sure other lords would have scoffed at. He has a small but easily accessible fishing village in one of the more sheltered portions of Cape Wrath, one that he would see turned into a port. Now, mind you, I'm no engineer by any means, nor is this lord, but he gave me a rough map of the current depths around that area and, well… I think it could work. Big piles of boulders serving as breakwaters, along with great slabs of my concrete to serve as additional support and even the basis for his docks. Of course, with how awful the storms in Shipbreaker Bay can be, this will be an expensive investment, but he's pledged to make it worth my while, with no tariffs on any of my noncompetitive goods and a joint venture in a conglomerated trade fleet.

A fleet, by chance or godly amusement, that was part of the last child's fostering. Kyle Tarth is the eight nameday grandson of the current lord, and along with the usual deals with plows, reduced tariffs and whatnot, the man wants to form an honest-to-gods Stormland trade fleet. Now, it's not copper-counting, East India Company-levels of a trade fleet, but it is without a doubt something I'd never thought Stormlords capable of joining in on. I've been impossibly lucky with how much they respect me for all the copper counting I partake in, but that's likely due to the size of my house. With how small and new it is, they likely don't see that as an issue simply because I've not yet 'learned' to be as the good old lords are, and will come around to their way of thinking in time. Fat chance of that, but still, a joint trade fleet, currently planned to venture along the eastern coasts of Westeros and perhaps one day, ply the Narrow Sea.

It's a lot to take in, honestly, to have to prepare for four younger boys come springtime. So much so that, when Gorman hands me a pair of missives, I almost set them aside before even reading them.

"Well, that could have gone better," I mutter, setting the first aside and rubbing my eyes.

"What?" my wife replies.

"When Lord Selmy asked for my aid in ensuring his second son was safe from possible trouble from his former heir's wife, I hadn't expected much of a fuss. Our men greatly outnumber their garrison, and thankfully there was no fighting, but now I've received word from Lord Selmy that the Fossoways are bitching to King Daeron on the matter."

"What for? The laws of succession clearly state that upon death, the heir's claim passes to his younger brother, so long as he yet lives. Arenna's betrothed is now the heir, even with his nieces having a claim."

"Aye, and apparently Lord Fossoway is saying that his granddaughters should be the ones to inherit first, citing some precedent of nieces over uncles."

"The Marches are different from much of the rest of Westeros, even the Stormlands," Gorman added. "Succession laws there are far more stringent in some ways, and unusual in others. It can even vary from house to house, depending on the times."

"Aye, as my grandfather told me, a daughter may inherit in troubling times, especially if most of the men are dead, but should she have only daughters, then she must determine a suitable male relative to become her heir," my wife said. "Even then, with Lord Selmy yet living, and ruling lord, the title of heir passes from him to his surviving son, not his granddaughter. From my history lessons, the Targaryens had the same issue when the Conciliator's first heir died, and then his next heir died as well, whereupon his second heir's son was chosen by the Great Council."

"Hence why it was Lord Selmy's idea to acquire our aid," I replied, picking up the second missive, a long one at that. "Our trade deals, our time fighting in the Marches, and the betrothal had all but already tied our houses together before the death of his heir. With our men there, something untoward is far less likely to happen to my sister's betrothed before he can return and put Harvest Hall back in order. Still, hopefully our king, despite his youth, has enough sense to not try and disregard the longstanding traditions of the Marches in favor of one pompous Reach lord. It could anger an entire kingdom if he went into such decisions too quickly." Stormlords didn't like outsiders messing with their business, especially such business as the Marches.

As I looked over the next missive, my mind turned to my young king. He had managed to do what dragons had not, conquer Dorne, and with the butterflies of my own actions and Baelor's changing life, the war had been much less destructive, for the most part, and the people of Dorne surrendering a bit sooner than I'd anticipated. The king loved being king, so hopefully he might listen to some of the ideas Baelor and I had corresponded on. After all, Daeron was many things, arrogant being one of them, but not stupid, or so I hoped.

By the time I'd finished the letter, I wasn't so sure anymore. Mylenda caught the surprise I could not hold in and set aside her work, reaching to gently squeeze my hand. A good thing her arms were so comparably long, else the swell of her belly would have stopped her attempt.

"Casper? Is something the matter?"

Damn that Daeron, just when I think my butterflies have only flown so far, I suddenly find out they ingested double their body weight in Pervitin and took off at the speed of sound!

"It seems a great deal has changed from what our king told us how the end of the war would most likely be handled," I said, setting aside the missive. "Daeron has accepted the bending of the knee of more than forty Dornish lords after the Sack of Sunspear. The Submission, they're calling it. As of now, most of the lords and their forces are returning home, leaving behind garrisons in most towns and keeps ensuring compliance until reinforcements arrive to replace them." Daeron was not taking the chances he had in canon, and this was… dangerous.

"That's good, though, isn't it? Not the sack, but the submission and their return, yes? I'm sure Baelor will want to meet with you after being so long apart."

"Aye, I'd like to speak with him as well, but the hostages Daeron is taking are from every major or noteworthy house in Dorne. Over one hundred hostages, to be kept in the keeps of near as many lords across the now Seven Kingdoms. Around twenty are to stay in Kings Landing itself, but the rest? From Highgarden to Casterly Rock, Riverrun to the Eyrie, and dozens of other lords across every land but the Iron Islands. Hells, there's even hostages to be kept at Greywater Watch and White Harbor!"

"Even in the North? By the Seven, that is odd, and so very far away," Mylenda said. "Why are you upset with this? Is it because Storms End shall have no hostages?"

"No, worse. The Martells are no longer ruling Dorne, but are instead confined to their own lands and Sunspear itself. It would seem some of my ideas with Baelor have taken root with Daeron, but not as we expected. The western half of Dorne is to be overseen by Lord Tyrell for a period of ten years, to ensure its compliance. The eastern half, however… is to be overseen by Lord Baratheon for ten years until Prince Baelor reaches his majority, and then he will oversee it for the remainder of that same time." Wow, what a way to repay your brother by eventually putting him in charge of a portion of a kingdom that killed you under a banner of truce in another life. Granted, that hadn't happened here, or yet, or… fuck!

"A divided land, with no local ruling family to keep them in line," Gorman said, stroking his bearded chin. "A potentially dangerous combination, especially after a war. Hopefully the prince's reputation and the proximity of the Stormlands will keep that portion of Dorne in line until tempers cool and peace resumes."

"That's not even the half of it. Our king may have just painted a target on our backs I'd have never thought possible, put forth as an immensely honorable task bestowed by such a young conquering king," I said, slumping into my chair. Fuck me, this could be bad.

"Whatever do you mean?" my wife asked, sounding worried as she picked up the missive.

"Myriah Martell is to be a hostage of Lord Baratheon until this ten-year regency is completed, and Dorne is hopefully fully integrated into the kingdoms. In the meantime, despite what Baelor apparently advised his kingly brother on, her younger brother Maron… he is to be my hostage."