Chapter 34: Chapter 34: The Young Dragon I
Early 157 AC
Lord Baratheon's banner had been sighted not long ago, and thus his wait was almost over. Despite the warmth returning from the cold spell, the autumn seas were too rough for his brother to safely return by ship, so Daeron sat silently in his father's solar, now his own, waiting for word of their arrival in Kings Landing proper. Only then would he and their family join to receive Baelor, for though he genuinely welcomed the return of his brother, it was just another step towards the most important events in his life, the culmination of which would see his dreams, and those of his Targaryen forefathers, realized once and for all.
Yet those dreams would have to wait, sadly, for other events had taken his focus away from such endeavors. The death of his father, King Aegon, Third of His Name, had shocked the kingdoms greatly, as none had expected so young a king to pass away, for few had known of his consumption. Daeron had found out not long after his father had contracted it but kept silent on the matter, hoping the grand maester might help, but knowing fully the effects would eventually lead to his father's death. How or who he had contracted his illness from remained unknown, save for that it had worsened during the cold snap of the False Winter. As it was, a great many couriers and ravens had been sent soon after word of his death spread, all expressing condolences for the queen and Targaryen family, which he appreciated but felt little gratitude towards. Though nothing like the tales of old, of the days of the Conciliator or the Conqueror himself, the city and surrounding lands had swelled with all manner of lords and ladies from across the kingdoms, looking to bear witness to his crowning.
He had originally wished to be crowned as soon as possible, convincing his uncle and small council that he needed no regent, but with the absence of his brother still leaving a strange melancholy upon the Red keep, it had not felt right to don a crown. Begrudgingly, at his uncle's request, Daeron had allowed for the interregnum of kings to be in effect only until his coronation, whereupon he would begin his rule in earnest, and be allowed to put forth the plans he had been crafting for years.
That same interregnum been a bit of a sore topic in the Red Keep these past few weeks as they awaited Baelor's return. Even now he could not help but feel a splinter of annoyance work its way under his skin, as a king had little need of slothful men when decisive action was best. That a king should have to be ruled by regents had been the greatest folly of his father, so he believed, as so many of them had attempted to gain power for themselves, Lord Peake most of all. Even if he trusted his uncle to continue to serve as Hand, as Viserys had so capably done for Aegon, the limitations upon himself and his early years would be unacceptable should this farce continue. What did it matter if he was four and ten? His ancestor, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, had been that age when he became king, even if his mother served as regent for two years. What did it matter if a dragon like him were to begin ruling as he should at a younger age? He bore none of Maegor's cruelty, the weakness of Aenys, nor the dishonorable mindset of his great-uncles, and was no slouch as his great grandfather/great uncle had been.
He looked up to see the Dowager Queen Daenaera arrive, her solemn look that of one in mourning. She had loved his father greatly despite their early years of trouble and the age difference between them. Yet he knew his father loved her as he did few others, being closest to her other than his brother. Save for uncle Viserys, who had cried for the first time in Daeron's memory during his vigil, likely the only other person as affected by Aegon's passing was his sister Daena. She had been inconsolable for weeks, ranting and raging at the grand maester, at the gods, at the servants, at anyone and anything she had deemed fit for her wrath. She had taken to nearly riding whatever horse she fancied into the ground, an act the stablemasters were none too pleased with.
"Yes, mother?" he asked.
"I do not wish to remind you, my son, but after your coronation, there is work to be done to secure the throne, as your father once did. Though you are yet… young, you are close enough to an age to begin seeking a bride and queen to help secure your upcoming reign. Your father and I spent a great deal of time on the matter, whenever he was in the mood to do so, and I enlisted your uncle to aid us in any way he could when the king was unavailable."
"All well and good, mother, but now that I am to be king, should I not choose my own bride, on my own time? Our family is not so reduced as it was in father's time, so the urge to marry need not distract me so from my goals for now."
"Ideally you would choose as a king, yes, but therein lies the issue of your youth once more. No king, my son, not even the Conciliator, began ruling so young without a regency that lasted until their majority. It is an unprecedented thing, something we must take great care in considering."
"We will discuss my future queen later, mother." His final tone was one he'd heard his father use on occasion, and practiced in secret, so as best to be authoritative when he needed to be. Judging from his mother's bow, she relented, but would no doubt come back to the matter soon. Her persistence in such matters was undoubtedly something he had from her, rather than father. "Has Lord Baratheon entered the city?"
"A runner has just arrived; he and your brother have entered through the River Gate and are on their way. I need not remind you that it would be best to greet them together, as a family."
"Indeed, for Baelor's fostering in the Stormlands has greatly increased out influence within that kingdom, and we now have closer ties to a man whose father so dreadfully betrayed my grandparents," Daeron said, rising from his chair. "Once I am king, I must repay the loyalty he has shown our family."
His mother said nothing, but her disapproving sigh as they left the solar irked him. He knew as well as any of them that solidarity now, before a lord paramount, went without saying, but did she have to sound as if he were too focused on his plans to know such matters? Despite his age, he knew what he had to do. Did she not understand how important Lord Baratheon and his vassals would be to the coming conflict?
Passing through the great hall of the Iron Throne, its normally long shadows all but gone for this time of day, Daeron he found the rest of his family already awaiting Baelor in the Red Keep's great courtyard. To the side, Daena briefly managed to smile at him before returning to a neutral scowl, a common expression she had adapted these days. As she fingered her golden dragon pendant, its three heads shining softly in their reflected light, Rhaena and Elaena stood quietly by her side, the former in her favorite of gold and white, and the latter in black, much like Daena. Turning away, he spied his cousin Naerys tending to little Vaella, who was incessantly giggling as she tugged at her mother's free finger. With pale silver hair and bright violet eyes, she was a robust baby, thank the gods, and had shown no signs of ill aftereffects from the fever she'd suffered from. His cousin Aegon held her on the occasions he wasn't returning to his various lackeys and long nights of drinking. Judging from the slight wince the man made every time he looked around, he was still nursing one hell of a hangover from last night's drinking. Despite that and his slight leaning upon a nearby column, he had accepted a large flagon of wine from one of the manservants. How that man could drink that much and still function baffled the soon-to-be-king to this day.
Looking back to Naerys and Vaella, a thought struck Daeron. Would he have that someday? His uncle Viserys adored her as much as he was able, as he did little Daeron, and some part of him wanted that as well. Olyvar had said he would respect his king's wishes and life should he find a queen of his own, and though it ached his heart to think of it, not having a queen and heir could prove disastrous. By all accounts, Baelor had changed, and the line of succession was yet secure, but he hadn't seen Baelor in what, two years now? Or was it moving onto three at this point? In either case, he could not help but feel a bit of apprehension at the thought of his brother returning so changed. His sermons and simple lifestyle, for a prince at any rate, had been a bit of a beacon of calm in the Red Keep, even if it earned his brother ridicule and monikers that had, for the most part, departed when Lord Baratheon had begun to foster him.
With his brother currently being his heir, it would do good for Baelor to find himself a wife and heirs, in case his… plans in the south did not go well, or his future queen suffered on the birthing bed. It had claimed the life of his Arryn great grandmother, as few women were Good Alyssane come again, able to birth children without much trouble.
As they waited, he watched his oldest sister slowly walk over to Naerys, which must have been exactly what Vaella wanted, for she let out a delighted squeal and reached for Daena's necklace. Despite this intrusion upon one of her most treasured possessions, Daena uncharacteristically let the baby fondle it with her pudgy fingers, though did not allow her to try and stuff it in her mouth. Naerys chuckled softly at this, as did Aemon, amongst his family as the other Kingsguard kept watch over them. Daena certainly seemed to like her new cousin in the way many young girls did, cooing and slightly fawning over her, although Daeron knew of few girls that would promise to take their cousins riding and teach them the bow once they grew older.
Save for the trumpets that sounded as the gates opened, the area was remarkably quiet. Escorted by a single Kingsguard, with the other Baratheon guards flanking well behind, the men of the hour appeared, dismounting from their horses. Lord Baratheon stood tall and strong, in the prime of his life, yet the focus remained elsewhere, for despite his thoughts on the matter, Daeron was not prepared for the sight before him, and judging from the sudden intake of air from the rest of his kin, none of them had been either. For Baelor had always been a slight boy, bordering on sickly in his thinness, and the fact he often ate little did nothing to alleviate this. Combined with his pale skin, sermonic activities, and disinterest in all things martial, historical, or political, there had been whispers that the boy would give up his place as a prince to become a septon, hence the 'Little Septon' nickname he had earned before his fostering.
The prince before them… was cut of an entirely different cloth compared to the one who had left. His pale skin had been replaced by a softly swarthy complexion, earned from time out in the sun. The silver hair was far longer, tied back in a series of thick braids that ran past his shoulders, which looked to almost bulge even beneath his fine clothes. As far as Daeron could estimate, he had grown significantly taller, nearing his own height, and Baelor's body was not the frail, nigh-sickly thing of years past. He seemed to shine with vigor and strength, and while he was no hulking beast, as he was yet only a boy of three and ten, his posture, his form… it was that of someone who knew the effort of the training yard, of bow and axe and sword alike. A taught ballista, ready to unleash its massive bolt but not before it was needed, or a powerful shadowcat, prowling with caution yet confidence. Every step he took seemed measured as he approached them, every subtle swing of his arms never reaching further than needed, controlled and precise.
All of this might have been easily explained away by lesser men. Baelor had found a friend in the Stormlands who brought out his martial side at the expense of his excessive piety. That was why he was swarthy and strong, his steps confident and worthy of a true prince, a true Targaryen, not some meek septon masquerading as his younger brother. Yet it was not his form, nor his hair, nor his complexion that so mystified the gathered royal family. It was Baelor's gaze upon them that so stunned Daeron and the others. Prior to his departure, Baelor seemed to have a permanently judgmental look upon him, even if it had been serene. His prayers filled his thoughts and actions, affecting how he saw all others around him, his family included. None escaped his glances or glares, even if there was no heat behind them. It was part of what made it hard to connect with his brother, for even Daeron had felt his religious scrutinizing annoying at best and infuriating at its worst.
There was none of that now. No, for the prince's gaze upon entering the courtyard, whilst calm and collected, was as intense as could be, for his Valyrian eyes betrayed little, save for where they wandered. It was calculating, yet not cold; inquisitive, yet never lingering longer than necessary upon whatever subject found itself before Baelor's gaze after he dismounted. It was the look of someone in quiet, deep contemplation, taking in everything before him and learning as much as he could from a mere glance, constantly forming plans and ideas. Daeron had learned to recognize this look in the eyes of master smiths, artisans, knights, and merchants in his travels through Kings Landing, before duels, during haggling, or when securing a contract. Yet for all their experience, none such looks gave him quite the chill Baelor did when his gaze drifted over to him.
From the tales of the books of generations past, it was if the gaze of the Conciliator had come again.
Then with a silent nod from his foster father, Baelor suddenly rushed forward, throwing himself into Daeron, nearly bowling them over before he wrapped his arms around them, squeezing the soon-to-be-king into a great hug. Shocked, Daeron only just managed to return the hug, marveling at the strength in his younger brother's arms. By the gods, what had they been feeding him down in the Stormlands? An aurochs a day?
"Brother," Baelor mumbled into his chest, finally releasing him. "I've missed you."
"Baelor," Daeron replied, pulling back and getting a better look at him. Had he really grown so tall, and filled out his clothes that much? In only three years' time, his brother was almost unrecognizable from the skinny little boy who had left the Red Keep for the first time. In a way, he was almost jealous, as his heir had seen far more than he had so far.
That would change shortly after his coronation. "It has been too long since we last saw one another. I hope you can stay for some time now, before you continue your fostering with Lord Baratheon. See to our family, while I speak with Lord Baratheon."
Baelor nodded and smiled, a genuine one that filled Daeron with an urge to protect his brother against all adversity, and then the prince rushed to his mother, who gladly returned the hug he so quickly enveloped her in. She did not cry that her prince had returned, but Daeron could hear her fierce whispers, though indistinct, even from here.
"I knew he had missed you all, but I admit I underestimated how much," Lord Baratheon said, drawing Daeron's attention away as his sisters joined their mother in a hug-pile. Even Daena seemed happy to see Baelor once more, a sight almost as shocking as Baelor's new appearance. "My prince," the man added, kneeling before him.
He was glad to see the man knew how to behave before a dragon. "Rise Lord Baratheon, and welcome to Kings Landing," he said, and with a quick wave of his hand, a waiting manservant quickly stepped forward, bread and salt at the ready. Though a formality at this point, for the man had safely delivered his brother, it would not do for his reign to begin with the absconding of such hallowed traditions.
Partaking in that most sacred rite, he nodded. "My thanks, and while I should like to speak with you soon, Prince Daeron, I am tired from the journey, and do believe you have family matters to attend to," Royce replied, nodding knowingly in Baelor's direction. "I shall see you at the coronation then, with the other lords and ladies, and swear myself and the Stormlords to their future king."
"I look forward to it. There is much we will discuss in the coming days, my lord, and I hope you might find it agreeable to stay until then. We've been apart from Baelor for a great while now and are eager to see what has become of him in his time south. Words on parchment, sent by courier, do not carry the same weight as they would from Baelor himself."
As the lord paramount departed, Daeron turned to find Baelor gently tickling little Vaella, the babe squealing in delight as she tried to grab at his drooping braids. Naerys and Aemon softly chuckled at that, the former giving him a quick hug and the other giving him a firm shake of the hand.
"Uncle, it is good to see you again," Baelor replied, bowing to Viserys, who was watching this unfold with a mixture of curiosity and, bizarrely, something akin to either mirth or trepidation. It was often hard to tell with the man, given his stern nature when he wasn't holding his grandchildren.
"Baelor, I am glad you are well," his uncle replied, before glancing at his own son, who suddenly found all eyes upon him mid-swallow of his wineskin.
Baelor simply bowed to Aegon, but said nothing, turning away from the drinking man before he could say a word, returning to his mother and sisters. This shocked Daeron, but a part of him delighted in it. His cousin was an ass sometimes and had been one to his brother more than he should have allowed. It would seem Baelor had grown a shiny new spine as well as muscles in the Stormlands.
"Now that my brother has returned, it is time to prepare," he said, turning back to his mother and siblings. "Baelor, please join me in my solar, as supper will not be ready for some time yet, and there is much we must discuss."
"Of course, brother," the prince replied. "I will have the Baratheon attendants bring your gifts during dinner, then. I did not think it wise to carry them myself, as I only have two arms."
"Gifts? You brought us gifts?" Little Rhaena asked softly, her curiosity somehow overriding her subdued calm. Elaena looked up to Baelor with wide eyes, her curiosity also piqued as she tugged on his sleeve.
"Indeed, little sisters, I have three namedays' worth of gifts to give for my time away," he replied, kissing Rhaena's forehead and ruffling Elaena's hair, much to the latter's childish annoyance. "I do hope you like them."
This also surprised Daeron, for the couriers had made no mention of gifts, but he supposed he would have to wait to see what Baelor had brought. For now, there were far more important things to discuss with his brother and heir. The coming days would be the beginning of the greatest achievement of so young a king, and he would ensure that the name Daeron would be known until the fabled eternal summer came upon them, and even beyond.
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The Old Man of the North I
Whatever this land excused for an autumn was nothing like that of the North. It was far too warm, far too humid, and by the old gods, he'd seen so many fields that remained unplanted he'd wanted to scream in frustration. Did his house's words mean nothing to the likes of these southrons? When the cold winds blew and the snows covered the ground, when the wolves grew bold and moved amongst a village in the night, when all game grew scarce and the stores began to dwindle before any sign of spring emerged, what then? What would these foppish fools think to do when those days came? Flowery words and oaths of honor did no more to feed smallfolk than they did to keep old men from 'going for a hunt' in the dead of night.
Cregan Stark sighed, tugging at his cloak amidst the throng of lords. Riverlords, Westermen, Valemen and others were gathered here, some of them fellow Lord Paramounts and Wardens, others their more powerful or prestigious bannermen. He'd deigned to take as few Northern lords and their guards as needed, as both the needs of their lands and the needs of travel limited the number of men he wished to take with him. Houses Umber and Karstark had sent heirs in their stead, whilst Lord Bolton had come with him, leaving his brother and heir to keep watch over the Dreadfort. Old Jojen Reed had recently died of a fever, and his son had joined their progression, as had Desmond, a son of the former Hand Torrhen Manderly. Cregan had met with the merman lord but had been politely rebuffed in his request of accompaniment, as he had expected Torrhen would likely do, though it was not his corpulence that had kept him in White Harbor. All the North knew of the humiliating dismissal the current Lord Manderly had faced, and the man had forever held a grudge against the now-deceased king for it.
Cregan was confident his word would hold for the rest of his vassals, as he had no doubts of their loyalty to the Stark name. Even the Boltons, long since conquered by his ancestral Winter Kings, proved their loyalty in keeping the peace and tending to their lands. Bennard Bolton was near his own age, and while his sons no longer lived, his nephews numbered enough to secure the next generation for their lands, so he had volunteered. 'A good chance for them to learn of ruling' he had said, and with his own son and heir doing the same in Winterfell, Cregan could not help but agree.
The hall fell silent when Daeron appeared before them, the king dressed in a suit of black and gold plate, casting an aura of strength and power over the gathered lords. The crowning ceremony had been short and to the point, which he'd appreciated, but the swearing afterwards was to take a good deal of time, and he wasn't as young as he'd been in Aegon's day. The decision of which lords were to go first might have drawn blood that day, so fierce were the whispers, save for Daeron's declaration that the closest lords would declare their oaths, beginning with the Crownland lords sworn directly to the king.
A sensible decision, even if it ruffled the feathers of a few peacocking lords. Yet as they began, a light feast was brought out for the lords, great in luxury and taste he'd not had since his departure after the Hour of the Wolf. The mingling contingent of southron lords ate and drank plenty, whilst most seemed to avoid or simply partake in polite chatter with his Northmen. He did not mind, for staying clear of their flowery language and chivalric nonsense kept Northern men out of their petty feuds and where they belonged.
Finally, after a great deal of waiting, his turn came. He said his piece, in far fewer words than other lords had, but Cregan took his oath seriously, more than these foppish lords might understand. His bannermen followed suit, short but true oaths, ones that would last until the king's death. Daeron accepted these oaths, giving an additional praise for the continued loyalty of the North to the Targaryen banner, and with that concluded the oath ceremony. The lords were briefly dismissed from the hall, most choosing rest in their rooms and courtyard of the Red Keep. Cregan's lords mingled briefly, chiefly Desmond and a northern Vale lord about trade, but other than that, he'd once again been left alone.
They were all invited back in less than an hour later to find the great hall transformed, filled with tables sagging under the weight of food and great casks of drink brought to quench their thirst. This was a feast true and proper, and with it came a great number of strange and wondrous foods, even more than before. Among the platters were small but sturdy casks of alcohol, the smell of the closest one giving him a sudden feeling of nostalgia. Wolfswood blackberries in late summer, picked and eaten fresh with Arra Norrey, the first love of his life. The spearhead branded upon the casket was that of a house he did not recognize, but his first sip of the brandy had convinced him he must find out who they were and order a cartload for himself.
His companions seemed to mirror his thoughts, most of them sipping the strong drinks. Save for the Umber heir, of course, their house knew little of drinking etiquette that did not involve speed or quantity. His cask bore the name 'White Lightning Whiskey', a most curious name for alcohol.
"Never had 'whiskey' before," the Umber heir said, taking a swift chug from his mug, only to nearly choke. With Desmond Manderly thumping him on the back amidst a short bout of coughs, he recovered quickly enough.
"Are you all right, Arnolf?" the new Lord Reed whispered, cautiously looking into the mug before giving it a sniff. "There's no poison, as far as I can tell, only a great deal of alcohol."
"Aye, I'm fine Theon, but by the Old Gods, that's stronger than I thought," the red-faced Umber replied, taking a cautious sip. "Tastes great, though I'd rather not try to drink that much in one go again. Burned worse than me pa's cabbage grog."
"I'm surprised anyone can drink that swill," Lord Bolton replied. "It was served at my goodsister's marriage, and I nearly vomited just smelling the stuff."
"Aye, the longer it sits, the stronger it gets. Where'd these southrons find this stuff? Is it from Essos?"
"The Myrish are known for their pear brandy," Desmond said, flagging down a passing servant. "Would you know where this came from?"
"The prince brought it with him from the Stormlands, my lord," the manservant replied. "He said to have it served with the feast, and it has proven quite popular."
"Do you mean the king?"
"My apologies for not being specific, my lord, I meant Prince Baelor is who brought the casks. He has been fostering under Lord Baratheon for near three years now."
Cregan refrained from scowling at that. To think that a traitor's son could host and foster a son of the deceased king. The insult of it made his wolfsblood simmer. Better that the lad had fostered in the North, perhaps then the plights of his people would not be so readily ignored or downplayed by the king's court and these southron lords.
Desmond took a sip from his mug, smiling at the taste. "So, is this from the Stormlands then? I do not recognize the sigil upon the casks."
The manservant bowed. "I am afraid I do not recall the name of the lord, but I could pass on your inquiry to the prince, if you wished me to."
"Excellent, go do that."
The manservant scurried off as Desmond drank more of the brandy. Cregan, on the other hand, had a taste of the whiskey Arnolf had nearly choked on, taking care to only sip it. It did burn on the way down, but the heat that bloomed in his cheeks and belly was a pleasant sort, and he could immediately see himself drinking a goblet of this after a long day come winter's chill. Whoever had made this had clearly stumbled onto something, and for a moment, he considered asking if the lord in question was here at the feast.
The manservant returned soon after Cregan dismissed the thought. "The prince would like to speak with Lords Stark and Manderly after the feast is concluded, and extends the invitation to others, should they wish to attend."
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As it turned out, the other invitations had proven mostly unnecessary on the prince's part. The Karstark and Umber heirs had found themselves so deep in their cups, having taken to see who could drink more whiskey, that their guards had had to carry them back to their rooms. Bennard Bolton had politely declined, and whilst his ancestors had on occasion given the Starks trouble, Cregan trusted the man's insistence that he was simply tired. Boltons fared as well in this heat as most Northmen did, which was not very much, and he'd been ill recently, so some rest would do him some good.
Only Desmond and Theon accompanied him, trailing behind a different manservant out to a smaller courtyard. The prince amongst his younger sisters, each of them being handed something from a Kingsguard. Judging from the excited squeals and chatter, they took no exception to their presents, and seeing their joyful faces reminded Cregan of his own children in Winterfell. How he longed to return now that the crowning was over…
"Lord Stark," a Kingsguard said, a Thorne if the Northman remembered. That the Targaryens had trusted a Thorne enough to let him join their ranks after the Dance was either foolish or forgiving, both of which were poor substitutes for rewarding the loyalty of the true and faithful.
"I believe I was invited by the prince to discuss matters," he replied.
As the prince softly shooed his sisters away, the three girls delightfully giving him one last hug before scampering off, their Kingsguard right behind them, the prince rose to his feet. "Lord Stark, I thank you and your lords for accepting my invitation," he said with a bow.
"Of course, my prince," Cregan said, offering a bow of his own, which his fellows mirrored. "Lord Theon of House Reed, and Desmond of House Manderly are my companions."
"A pleasure to meet you, my lords," young Baelor replied, gesturing to several nearby chairs. "Would you care for refreshment as we begin?"
His lords politely declined, as did Cregan. Any more drinking and he'd be up all night using the chamber pot or pissing off a balcony into the sea. His body was not as youthful as it once was, after all, and while he could drink like he used to, he chose not to, lest he suffer for it. As they took their seats, the prince across from them, he gave Desmond a nod, as he was the reason they were here.
"My prince, regarding your invitation, it seems a bit strange to invite us when my query during the feast was simply about the identity of the lord whose whiskey and brandy you provided. They were most excellent, as it were. Is it a Stormland product I have not heard of?"
"Most likely few know of them outside of that kingdom, my lord, and even then, it is not yet a common drink despite its growing popularity amongst the lords," Baelor replied. "It is, in fact, a relatively recent creation of a newly arisen house in those lands. The sigil is that of Lord Casper of House Wytch, a man I count as a good friend and better mentor."
"How new is his house?" Cregan asked. The houses of Westeros were much like a great and ancient forest, where new trees did not come about when the sun was crowded by the branches of the great giants. Yet some did arise, either in the wake of a falling tree, or having somehow grown on the smallest shafts of light filtering to the forest floor. Either were rare in their own way, but as the old made way for the new, so too did these great trees sometimes become replaced by younger ones.
"His grandfather Kennon died honorably in the Dance and earned a small lordship from Lord Baratheon's mother for his son, Morden, some twenty-odd years ago now. Casper is that Morden's son, and the lord of those lands since his father's passing at the hand of bandits. Only, it was not bandits, but ruffians in the service of a jealous neighbor, but that is neither here nor there, as that man was slain by my friend in combat some years ago now."
"So, Lord Wytch, he produces this brandy and whiskey?" Desmond asked. Cregan filed away the information for later, unsure of its importance but knowing it could prove useful, should he look to build a rapport with his minor lord in the future. Clearly, with his connection to the prince, he was not a lord to be simply dismissed as too minor to notice, despite the youth of the lord and his house.
"Yes, my lord, in a number of varieties. Whatever fruits he can attain are used for the brandy, and for the whiskey he uses whatever grains he has set aside for them. I've been told his rye whiskey is particularly popular among the taverns that carry them. He also makes wines, ales, and hard cider, my personal favorite."
"Would he be liable to produce these for trade? The brandy is splendid, but I could see a great market for this whiskey in White Harbor and nearby holdfasts. Though of great quality, my father has told me of the expense of importing vintages such as Myrish pear brandy, from both the customs and distances involved."
"He has continuously grown his ability to brew the drink and told Lord Baratheon he would soon begin selling it outside of his lands in greater quantities. When we return, I could have a courier sent, to see if he is amenable to such a deal."
"It seems a tad strange that you would so readily involve yourself as such a middleman, my prince," Lord Reed said, his soft voice carrying a hint of surprise. "Is this Lord Wytch such a close friend?"
"Aye, he is, Lord Reed," Baelor replied, a touch coolly. "However, my invitation for you and your companions, Lord Stark, was not to espouse the history of my close friend, nor simply the means of attaining more of his alcohol. As a Targaryen prince, until my brother marries and has a son, I am now the heir to the Iron Throne. I intend to fulfill the duty of a proper and devoted prince to aid my brother king in his ruling, not by keeping them down as previous princes have, but by raising them up where possible. I would not have my brother's reign start with the failure of righting some wrongs, and hopefully, bringing back a great deal of prosperity lost to the Dance."
"How so?" Lord Stark asked.
"The former I must discuss with my brother, but the latter needs neither his attention nor his concern. In my time in the Stormlands, I visited many different keeps, and met with many different Stormlords, some great and ancient lineages, others old yet poorer or uninspiring. In every case, the smallfolk of their lands seemed to mirror one another, as tough but somewhat downtrodden folk, working against the weather as often as for the whims and wishes of their lords. It was their lot in life, to toil so readily against such an array of obstacles, and to this I commend their fierce spirit. It reminds me of the stories I have heard of Northmen, Lord Stark, of striving against Wildling raids and bitter cold to carve great castles and kingdoms from such a comparably hostile land."
"You flatter me, my prince," Cregan said with a small nod. Smiles did not come readily to him, ever since the death of Arra and his uncle's attempt to keep him from his birthright.
"Much of this perspective changed when I first entered Wytch lands. His wide roads are of stone, sturdy and well-built, and stretch from his lands right to those of his neighbors, some of whom have paid him to build these roads into their own lands. Fields his smallfolk tend to seem to never end, stretching far unto the horizon, and the pastures that grow his horses, cattle, and sheep number far too great for me to recall. His villages are well-maintained, and the towns under his control are orderly, clean, and brimming with activity as well as prosperity. Yet, from what he told me, none of this was how his lands were before his time. In fact, it was not until he was near ten that the first inklings of his true potential, so I've been told from his mother, came into being."
"What do you mean, my prince?"
"Casper… I don't know how to put it to words, but he seems wiser than his years, and has a clear disdain for something he finds troublesome or inefficient, especially the latter. He told me that he especially hates that smallfolk will starve in harsher years when there is so much land upon which to grow food and thus sought to help correct this. Three years before his death, his father Morden introduced the Stormhall crop rotation, which has been adopted by most of the Stormlands by now. Just as well, their lands now use a new iron plow and a better harness for horses, though rumors persist it was Casper that had a hand in their creation."
"Stormhall crop rotation? What is that?" Cregan asked.
"Instead of three fields planted and one left bare, the fourth field is planted with roughage for livestock such as clover. Over the years through means I don't fully understand, his fields have greatly increased in their harvests, something I know the North has struggled with in harsher years."
"Aye, even in the Neck, we oft feel winter's cold hand," Lord Reed said. "To say nothing of our fellow Northmen towards the Gifts and the Wall itself, where a failed crop can doom a village as surely as a Wildling raid."
"I would see this undone, if possible, my lords, hence my invitation to you and your fellows," the prince replied, gently steepling his hands, as if in prayer. "Lord Wytch has brought about a great change to his lands, which he continues to build off as the years go by. Were a stranger to visit, they might think they were in the Reach, so prosperous and efficient his lands are."
"How would your friend's changes help the North?' Cregan asked softly. "What would he seek from this endeavor?"
"The North is a pathway to many resources some in the south would find… unattainable," Baelor said. "The sheer vastness of its mountains, forests, interior, and coasts mean that were it in a more favorable climate, it would undoubtedly rival the Reach in food production and surpass most of Westeros in industry and even military might. The greatest reason it has not done so is that, to put it simply, the winters the Northmen must survive are often far, far harsher than further south. You must store food for far longer periods, in far harsher conditions, and attempt to grow just as much, if not more, than us southrons do in the same amount of time. That is not even considering your past problems with Ironborn raiders, summer snows, and the raids of Wildlings from further north, much of which we southrons experience little, if anything of."
"He seeks our mineral wealth?" Desmond asked.
"Perhaps, but he is of the mind that a more prosperous North is better for all, as he has shown his lands, upon becoming more prosperous, bring prosperity to other lands as well. The Dornish Marches he aided in battle now rebuild and feed their smallfolk easier with his shipments, the trade that flows between the Reach, Crownlands and Stormlands grows, and his neighboring lords seek his aid in building their own roads to match his own. There are indeed items for trade with the North that would make both partners happy, and very wealthy as well. Tell me, what do you know of Lord Wytch and his lands, other than what I have told you?"
"Practically nothing, my prince," the Manderly son replied. "I heard rumors at the feast, but it was the faintest of ones, nothing to base anything upon."
"In his lands, he has near twenty thousand smallfolk under his rule, likely a touch less than that, as he is fond of accuracy in his census. However, of that number, perhaps two-thirds are farmers, ranchers, herders, orchard workers and the like, so around twelve thousand smallfolk dedicated to growing crops, fruits, vegetables or raising livestock for their meat, milk or wool."
"Just under twenty thousand is not that many smallfolk, even for a rather minor house," Cregan mused. "Is he able to feed them all?"
"As of his most recent estimates, many of which I was privy to not so long ago, Wytch lands before the inventions and innovations of his father and him were just barely able to feed their population in most years. Good years allowed for a small profit, and harsh years saw smallfolk perish from hunger or some bout of disease. Now? Everything has changed, so much so that some cannot come to believe it."
"How so?"
"As of my attendance of his marriage, each harvest from his lands could feed many times his smallfolk for a year, and that number continues to increase as time goes on."
Cregan could not believe it. He would not believe it. It could not be real that so few Stormland smallfolk produced so much food as to export it so close to winter. Surely the prince was jesting, for he did not believe the boy to be so bold as to lie to his face with such sincerity. He would need to know the success of Casper's most basic crops to see if this were true or not. "What of his wheat fields?"
The prince scrunched his face, as if deep in thought. "If I remember, one acre should make between five and ten bushels of wheat in a good season, which at sixty pounds a bushel, is between three and six hundred pounds of grain, and thus the coarse flour the smallfolk eat, as each smallfolk eats around two pounds of bread a day, along with whatever else is in their diet. I went through much flour and other foods when working on a project my foster father assigned me in the Stormlands, so bear with me, my lords, if I become a touch distracted by the logistics of it. We must account for losses due to weeds, pests, disease, weather, and spoilage from harvesting, storing or otherwise, so perhaps only half of the wheat he planted is successfully grown, harvested, and then safely stored for later use. This is likely false on almost all accounts, but even if it were true, then to feed his whole lands enough bread for a year, he would need at least six and thirty square miles of wheat fields to do so."
"What is his bushel total?" A good harvest anywhere south was around ten bushels, but the North was seven if you were blessed by the gods.
"About five and twenty bushels for every acre planted, sometimes more, sometimes less."
Impossible. "How many wheat fields does he have, then?"
"Across all his lands? Nearly two and ten square miles worth, and he told me that is likely to increase to near twenty before the end of next year. After that, he told me he will be running low on smallfolk to tend to such fields, let alone those that grow other foods in vegetable fields, orchards, and pastures. These past few years he has taken to selling a great deal of additional wheat harvests to nearby lords, at a reduced rate compared to importing from the Reach or even Essos, while also retaining or even increasing his stocks of food for coming winters. I believe the Marcher Lords Selmy and Dondarrion have entered deals with him on the matter, with the Swanns likely not far behind."
"What of his oats, his rye, his barley?"
"He has nearly tripled the yields of all of those, as well as his peas, but I do not recall the exact numbers. He does have about two and ten square miles of fields for each, but I do not recall how much land he has put to plow for his other crops. Perhaps around the same amount overall, sixty square miles for cereals and thus near the same for others?"
Cregan nearly shit himself when he heard 'sixty square miles' uttered from the prince's mouth. He glanced to his sides, finding Desmond with his mouth hanging open as if dumbstruck, and Theon with a blank stare, as if he'd been struck upside the head by the kick of a mule. He was grateful he was made of sterner stuff than to appear so openly in shock, but some part of him wanted to cry. That such a minor southron could create such bounty in his lands, that he could harvest and grow food like a madman, sell it to his neighbors in bulk at favorable rates, and yet still have enough saved up for potentially years of winter…
"How many smallfolk does he need tend to these wheat fields?" Surely it was a fair few to produce this much food so efficiently.
"As each smallfolk can tend to between twenty and forty acres, Casper has made a law that unless otherwise needed, a man need only attend to thirty acres, with additional parcels being allowed for the more industrious or large-familied smallfolk to tend to on their own time and pay. Thus, since it takes one and twenty farmers to tend to a square mile of field, so with two and ten miles, that's a little more than fifty and two hundred farmers needed for the wheat fields, not including their families of course."
The urge to cry grew greater in Cregan's heart. Where had the North gone so wrong? Had it been their long isolation from the politics of the south that had allowed for this to happen? Keeping the North out of the southron's ways had kept them safe for so long, yet apparently, it had also kept them back from the potential they never knew they had. Cregan knew their fields were not as fertile as here in the south, but the people were hardy, they had to be to survive the winters. They would grow what they could, and by the Old Gods, they made it work as best they were able. With what this southron lord was capable of, how much more food would his people have to themselves come deep winter's icy grip?
"Why are you telling me this, my prince?" Cregan asked, softly, in a tone he hoped was not pleading.
"What do you mean, Lord Stark?"
"What is it you wish of us? What is it we must do to have this success with our farms as well, this bounty of food for our people? Trade deals? Marriage? Blood oaths before a Heart Tree?"
"Nothing of the sort, my lords," Baelor said. "As I said, I am a prince of the realm, and it is to the realm I must look while my brother king rules. I would not have the people of the North suffer for any longer, for I have seen the faces of the smallfolk in the Stormlands that do not prosper as Casper's do, and do not wish that upon anyone. Casper has told me that one of the greatest enemies of men was their hubris, believing themselves infallible in their actions or smarter than everyone around them. One cannot learn that which one already believes themselves to know, and as Casper has shown, this extends to that which we all believed ourselves to know the limits of."
"How has your friend accomplished this? Magic?" Lord Reed asked.
"No, my lords, Casper has succeeded in these endeavors, and more, through trial and error, applied knowledge, and the refusal to be stymied by set ways. He does not throw out the old ways, he expands upon them, looking as to how they may be applied elsewhere. The breeding of dogs for traits one finds desirable, such as those for guarding herds or homes, chasing or flushing game, or as mere companions to ladies or children? He has applied this to his cattle and has begun to see results even now."
"How?"
"He has begun the process of breeding cattle solely to be eaten, increasing their size through selecting for the largest animals amongst a herd, all descended from a captured aurochs bull. His dairy cattle are likewise chosen for their size, but also for how much milk they produce. He has told me this 'natural selection' for traits is what likely allowed for man to domesticate such beasts eons ago, by only breeding the calmer or friendlier creatures with traits that helped men survive lean times, but it would seem we took it not much further than that initial few steps. He has made a leap now, and soon, his methods will likely be applied to everything from geese to pigs and sheep to even ravens I wager."
"Then what must we do to be a part of this?" Cregan asked, a hint of both anger and fear echoing in his mind. Nothing like this could come for free, there was no means of allowing for such a massive shift in power. Even the most naïve lordling could see that allowing others access to this could threaten them or the power of their liege lords. Yet what the prince or his friend asked, he would not, could not, hesitate to accept it. For the sake of his family, for the sake of his lords, for the sake of the North and her people, he would have to honor whatever favor Baelor asked of him.
"To begin, my lords, please calm yourselves," Baelor said, suddenly seeming a child of three and ten once more, not a young man offering the North something more valuable than all the gold in Westeros and possibly beyond. "Desmond of House Manderly, your house has most of the ships that would make a fleet in the North, correct?"
"Aye, my father maintains a considerable fleet, nothing the likes of storied houses in the south, but it serves for fishing and trade as well as defense, if needed."
"It is with these ships and more that you and your fellow lords would have the creations of House Wytch brought to your lands. However, given the cumbersome nature of some of them, they would be best transported by land as little as possible, which is why need the ships. As the seas of Shipbreaker Bay have earned their name, sailing down and into the town under the rule of House Whitehead would likely be the quickest route, as it is also the primary trade port in the Stormlands."
"Why not simply send north the men who know to build them?" Lord Reed asked.
"Some of them would come as well in the future, but Lord Wytch is not favorable for simply allowing his smallfolk to be moved around like a dog on a leash. Besides, many of your lands are likely not as developed as Lord Wytch's have become, especially your roads. The goods to produce some of these creations would be needed in greater quantities than are likely at your immediate disposal."
"Aye, we've scraped roads, maybe crushed rocks here or there, but often not much more than that," Desmond agreed. "Same goes for mines and lumber mills, many are too far apart to be used together without needing to wait for carts of supplies to arrive in one place, then be processed and sent elsewhere."
"I also wish to enter a trade deal with House Manderly. Are you capable of accepting such deals in the absence of your father?"
"Aye, my word is as good as his, so long as it is within reason. He still has the final say in such matters as head of the house, so I cannot make guarantees, only discuss the matter."
"My friend Casper has created a way to preserve or even create unique foods in a cold setting during warm weather. By digging a room deep in a castle, and then cutting holes into the walls, he then has blocks of ice inserted and covered, to keep the room as cold as possible. An 'ice box' he calls it, where it remains so cold that so long as the ice remains, many foods could be stored there for later use without the need to salt, pickle or candy them."
"We do something similar in the North, but usually in a hut with thick walls that is partially in the ground," the Manderly man replied. "You wish for us to send you ice? How would it last the journey in warmer weather?"
"As the ice is not to be consumed, mix the water with a great deal of wood shavings or some other material and leave it to freeze solid. Casper told me that wrapping it with layers of furs or wool before placing it in a sealed crate also works well for ensuring safe transport."
"Aye, the North can make plenty of ice, but the cost of moving a ship with it south could be high."
"Should you learn the cost of the voyage, delivery and return, including wages and the like, I would pay half again what it is. The desserts Casper made in my time in his halls were something I would have my sisters know the wonders of, if I can help it."
Desmond seemed surprised by that. "That's possibly a hefty sum, my prince."
"As you said, I am a prince. I have rarely touched my allowance, so I have the gold to spend if needed. Should this bear fruit as I believe it will, I will gladly spread the word of the ice trade within the Red Keep's court."
"Most gracious of you, my prince, I am sure my father will be amenable to such a deal," the Manderly son said with a bow.
"Lord Reed," Baelor continued, turning to the small, slight man. Curious that they were of near the same height, despite the prince's far younger age.
"Yes?"
"I know little of the Neck, save for the fact that it has been reported as both incredibly impassable, but also famed for its inability to be penetrated by invaders. Tell me, how do your people survive?"
"Upon floating homes and villages, my prince, built from reeds, trees and what else we can manage."
"Do you, by chance, farm?"
"Not so much. Small gardens for some, but they are rare. We gather and hunt more than we grow, my prince. Fish, frogs, birds, whatever game we can bring down is what we eat and use for ourselves."
"What of fish farming? Or crops that grow in water?"
"I'm afraid I've never heard of farming for fish, my prince, though it does sound feasible. A paddock that fish or some other creature grows in, fed by things in the water or by man's hand?"
"Indeed. Lord Wytch has done that, and it is proving rather successful, as well as profitable."
"As for the crops, we do grow bogberries, a different variety from the ones known as cranberries this far south, but that's one of the few fruits we have."
"I see. Lord Wytch has asked if such a crop exists before and would likely wish to try and grow some for himself. He has also told me tales of something called 'rice' that exists in the lands of Yi-Ti, that can grow in standing water and is as staple there as wheat is here. Were a trade fleet able to procure this 'rice' from these distant lands, would you and your lords be amenable to attempting to grow it?'
"Aye, I'm sure we could in the more open areas, away from the moss and downed trees," Theon replied. "Would need to know how to grow it as well, I'd wager, but that'd be easier to know than acquiring the 'rice' itself."
"Lord Stark," Baelor said, finally turning back to him. "From you, I would need the simplest item, but possibly the most important."
"Yes, my prince?"
"As your loyalty has been shown to be great, I will speak with Lord Wytch on selling to you the means of the iron plow, the seed drill, and other such things that has allowed for his lands to produce so much food. However, in return, I would ask that you and your fellows here hold onto the knowledge of such items for the time being. You may share them with your fellow Northmen should you wish, but keep them in the North if you can."
"Why, my prince?"
"As your house words so famously ring, 'Winter is Coming', Lord Stark. These inventions of Lord Wytch will not be enough in time to make too great a difference in your kingdom, but as he has shown me that even the smallest efforts can have long lasting impacts. Ten years ago, his lands were little different from elsewhere in the Stormlands. Now, they prosper unlike any other in the area. Who is to say what they shall be like ten years from now?"
"A great deal more interesting, I would wager," Cregan replied carefully.
"Indeed, Lord Stark. The North may not know the entire benefit of these devices before the winter, but every difference they make will be felt long after we have died and gone to meet whatever lays beyond. I would have the kingdom who marched south, in winter, for my father to take the throne that was his by right, and then ensured a just peace in a most troubling time, benefit from this first and foremost. Other loyal lords and kingdoms, the Vale and Westerlands among them, will come to know of these creations, but for now, I would see the North learn of them first. They have greater need of them, I believe."
"If they can do even half of what you claim them to, the North will remember the names of Baelor and Casper until the end of men," Lord Stark replied, the three lords kneeling before the prince.
"Then rise, my lords, and return to your fellows. I must give a gift I brought from the Stormlands to my cousins, and while they are patient, I have much more to discuss with them, as I did you. Until then, my lords," Baelor said, bowing as they rose to their feet. "If come morning you wish to speak more with me on the matter, as well as see the evidence of my claims for yourself, you may find me in the training yard."
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