Chapter 44: Chapter 45: The Old Man of the North III/ Mylenda Wytch II
Mid 157 AC
The crackling fire warmed his bones, as did the glass of brandy at his solar desk. He was not yet an old man, but he was not the spry wolf he had once been, when he had imprisoned his uncle and claimed his rightful inheritance. Still, at the desk of his forefathers, of innumerable Rickons, Torrhens, Cregans and especially Brandons before him, he sat in silence, his gaze frosty as he read the raven's message.
His heir Rickon had crossed with his contingent into the Riverlands near a moon past and was now making good haste towards the hot lands of Dorne. He sent a silent prayer to the Old Gods that his son would not melt in the terrible heat that southron land bore. Save for a crew of Manderly sailors, he knew no Northmen who had been to that distant land, and he had no intention of departing Winterfell in wintertime unless the situation was most dire. Few Northern lords would follow a man prone to flights of such fancy.
Turning from his missive, he gazed out at the wintry snows blanketing the fields surrounding Winterfell. What a sight they had been, with the coming of autumn's end, and the last, desperate harvest to ensure the newfound bounty they had gained would not go to waste. Rows of green and gold, of brilliant hues of wheat, beans, onions and corn, the likes of which the smallfolk in Wintertown still spoke of to this day, stretching to the horizon in every direction. The horse saddles and iron plows had worked wonders on fields that had not been tilled in years, and the seed drills that followed had vastly quickened the time in which those same fields were planted. Now, with winter's icy grip upon them, the thought of those same fields filled with sleeping turnips were an assurance, and not a grim predictor of the future as they tended to be.
Cregan grunted. That southron boy lord had given them a greater gift than even he knew of, a greater degree of grain security than ever before, and it would do well for the Starks to honor such a change in the fates of their people. There was no telling how long this winter would last, but come spring, more plows and drills would be needed, along with those harnesses the horses used. As the snows fell, more could be made and stored, and with luck, they would have enough come spring to sow more fields than ever before. But he was getting ahead of himself, for another, near-as important development had arisen from House Manderly, and the trinket upon his desk was evidence enough of that.
Near every lord of the North had mines in their lands. Some bore silver, others tin, and many more iron, copper, and the rare gemstone. A byproduct of many of these mines were odd ores that either found a use or were discarded. Yet somehow, the Manderlys had found a use for a stone long thought to be a mere curiosity, courtesy of a scroll Lord Wytch had gifted Desmond upon their departure. Picking up the small disk, slightly wider than a flattened bread roll, the lettering upon it was thankfully clear to his older eyes. As he gently twisted it left and right, the large central needle pointed north honest and true, just as it had upon being presented as a gift during his nameday feast. A "northern needle" his son Jonnel had called it, but the Manderlys called it a "wayfinder", a fitting name given how it would come to serve their ships. Although not a seafaring man, nor had his house been one since the days of the Burner, Cregan still knew this little device would change how vessels fared on the Narrow Sea. Be it by shore or over deep water, having complete confidence you were going the right way would ease the difficulties of navigation. Removing guesswork from sailing at night, or in dense fog, when the sun and stars were hidden, could be the difference between life and death for men on the water.
To think, some southron lordling had found a use for lodestones other than as a mere curiosity, and it was yet another gift the North would feel obligated to repay the young man. Some might call it simply being generous, but gifts such as these were not ones given lightly, nor without expected recompense, regardless of what young Casper had told them. Hence, the knock at his solar door.
"Come in."
His second son, little more than eight namedays by now, entered, fidgeting with his cloak as he often did when he was unsure. As they had no need for southron knightly traditions, Jonnel was no page. His lessons of the North were centered around whatever the maester could teach him, and what he saw for himself whenever he shadowed Cregan in Winterfell or in Wintertown. Despite missing an eye, the result of an infection as a babe, the boy was quick on his feet, and more than able to learn from those willing to teach him.
It was the latter skill that would come in most use for the future of House Stark.
"Yes, father?" he asked. "What do you wish of me?"
"All Starks have a part to play in our house, little wolf," Cregan said slowly. "Rickon leads our men in the wars of the young king in the south. A few of your distant cousins serve in the Company of the Rose, or serve as men of the Night's Watch. I rule Winterfell, and the lands and vassals beholden to our house and the North in the name of Daeron our king. Your sisters have and will continue to secure alliances through marriage, and your younger brothers shall ensure our line remains strong, even should tragedy strike. Yet you, little Jonnel, will be a part of something that will change our house forever."
It was unfair to place such a burden on one so young, but life often was unfair, and harsh as a winter wind. Let none say a Stark shirks their duties when raised as a wolf, and his Jonnel was no different. With a stiffening of his spine, his second son nodded.
"What am I to do?"
"You will be fostering, my son. House Stark fosters its sons with those it wishes to have a closer connection to, just as I did at your age, and my father as well. It is a long tradition, one shared between Northmen and southrons, even if we tend not to foster with one another."
"Who shall I foster with? Our kin the Karstarks? The Manderlys? Or the Umbers?"
Cregan sighed. "You will not foster with our vassals, my little wolf. Instead, to the South, you will go, to learn from them that which we cannot teach you. Mine eyes have seen the wisdom in learning from those we do not associate with, perhaps long later than I should have."
"The south? Why should a Northman, let alone a Stark, dwell amongst southrons?" Jonnel said, lips curling into a wolfish grimace of disgust. "We've no use for their ways when the cold winds blow and the snow drifts so deep, father."
"Indeed, that was what I thought, before and after the Dance," the Lord of Winterfell replied, rising from his desk. "I remained unimpressed by the flowery words and unending compromises that lords made with their friends and foes alike. none carried in them the steel of our kind, but perhaps I was looking to the wrong men, to the wrong kind of lord. Come my son, when you look out this window, what do your eyes see?"
Moving to join his father, Jonnel looked out over the vast fields buried by snow and ice. "I see the fields of Winterfell, under whose icy grip turnips slowly grow, to provide food should winter prove long and stores begin to dwindle." Smart for his age, indeed, and far better at speaking than Rickon had been at the time. Not being the eldest made some sons grow faster than others, it seemed.
"Aye, but what else do you see? What is different from this winter, as it was from winters past?"
The boy was silent for longer than he would have liked, but he was yet eight. There would be plenty of time to sharpen his mind yet. "We've… more fields planted than before?"
"Exactly," the older wolf replied with a soft nod. "Many southron ways are strange to us, but if one looks far and long, a kindred spirit may be found in those who still bear the blood of the First Men. One such lordling, unassuming given the youth of his house, is why these fields are bearing turnips out of vigilance, and not quiet desperation."
"Would that be the 'Wytch' I have heard of father?"
"Aye, that it would be," Cregan said.
"Why him? I heard he was a petty lordling, whose smallfolk number less than twenty thousand. How could he have come to your attention at all?"
"Through the words of a prince of the realm, my son, whose friendship this lordling has earned. I have seen the ledgers in his solar, Jonnel, and met with the lord several times. Young Casper grows food like a Reachman with none of the pomp, in lands that mirror our own, if only warmer come wintertime. For such a small parcel of land, and with so fewer smallfolk, he produces more than he should, and while I saw much, I should like to learn more of how he does so."
"I don't understand, father. Am I to foster under this man?"
"Aye, Jonnel. Yet you'll not just foster with him, my little wolf, you'll learn everything you can from him. I suspect he has more to teach you than even I do." It was hard for a father to admit as much, that he did not know everything he could teach his son, but it was a fact of life. Much as the winds of winter always came, no matter how long the summer seemed to last, so too did others learn through means unavailable to every lord. Were this a lifetime ago, Cregan's own father might have sent him to learn as well, if he had seen the new fields of Winterfell in their full glory.
His son cocked his head to the side, his single eye glancing up at him. "Why, father? He is of a young house, unworthy of a son of a Stark, even the spare. None of the other lords of the North would think well of such a decision, and while I don't care for their opinions, neither would southron lords."
"No lord wishes to send his son to a house that will only disgrace their family name in one way or another, but let others scoff at this fostering. Lord Wytch is no wolf, aye, but he is not some soft southron flower. For his inexperience in politicking, he has steel underneath, and a mind we can only hope to take advantage of. With a simple harness, a plow, and a drill, he has seen his lands produce more food than needed. He prepares harvests to last for years, planning for more than I thought a lord could. I would have this advantage for the North, and for our people, Jonnel, along with whatever else you can learn from him. For learn is what you will do, both of his southron wars and of his crafty mind."
"Why me, though? I am a second son, why not Barthogan?"
"He is yet too young, and as young as you are, you carry the cunning of our banner's beast. I would not send you unless I needed to, son, but this is what I have decided," Cregan replied with august finality. "As such, it is to the south you shall go, and from Lord Wytch, you will learn everything you can."
"Sending two sons south…" Jonnel said, not finishing his line of thought, yet leaving the implication clear. He was growing better at speaking without saying much, a trait that had served Cregan well during the Hour of the Wolf, and while annoying at times, it also filled him with paternal pride.
Still, the Lord of Winterfell held back a sigh of frustration. Jonnel would do well, but he needed to see this was not just for himself, but for their house. Long had the Starks held the North, not just by being equally magnanimous and ruthless when needed, but by virtue of being the most adaptable to change. No wolf will hunt the same stretch of forest if the game is all but gone, and no Stark should emulate such thinking. Best to learn from friend and foe alike and use that to your advantage, rather than refuse to learn something just because it is unknown.
"How long have you exchanged words with him on the matter?" Jonnel finally asked.
"Since the day I read his ledgers, and saw for myself a future for our people that would no allow for whitebeards to go for a hunt. Other lords will no doubt look to take advantage of him, however they will, and we must secure our place first and foremost. As luck would have it," Cregan added, motioning to his desk, "he has returned from the war, alive but unable to continue fighting for the time being. With luck, you will arrive in Stormhall before he is fit to return to battle, and begin your lessons by his side."
"A glorified spy," Jonnel muttered, just loud enough for his father to hear.
"All fosterages are done with secondary intentions, little wolf," Cregan said with a slight scowl. "Yours will be no different than whatever other sons are sent to the young lord, and make no mistake, others will come to live alongside you, I am sure of it. I also need not remind you of how to behave yourself. Learn from this man, learn of his lands and his ways and how they might best aid House Stark and the North. But be careful, Jonnel," he added, glancing at a map of the Seven Kingdoms. "Others who send their sons will no doubt have little issue with trying to gain Lord Wytch's favor over your own in any way they can. You will have to be a wolf, and learn what that means for yourself, all in good time."
Jonnel was silent, but the boy tended to be whenever he was deep in thought. It would serve him well in the south, to be silent and unnoticed. Let others catch the attention of lords and their sons, Jonnel would learn all he needed to and slip by without them being any the wiser.
That was Cregan's hope. Once he returned from the war in the south, Rickon would do well to have Jonnel by his side as a wise and learned man once he became Lord of Winterfell.
"When do I leave?" Jonnel asked. He gave no indication, but he would likely take time to warm to the idea. He had during Cregan's marriage to his current stepmother, and this would likely be no different.
"At week's end, my son," Cregan said, pulling him for a brief but genuine hug. It was harder to show affection nowadays, given how he had lost his Arra in the birthing bed years before, but he tried for all his children when the situation called for it. "Now go tell your sisters, I have work to do before I can join you for supper."
Mylenda Wytch II
Mid 157 AC
Mylenda winced as she pricked her thumb once again, though not quite enough to draw blood. For this she was grateful, as she did not wish to stain her newest project with her blood, a small shawl fit for a babe. Though if even half the rumors were true of what he had been through, a prick of a sewing needle was minute in comparison to what her Casper had been through.
It still stung, though.
Her goodmother must have noticed, eyes drawing away from Arenna and Shyra as they worked on their own tasks, overseen by a pair of matronly septas from Lowhill.
"Mylenda?" she softly asked.
"Yes, goodmother?"
"Again?"
"Yes, again. I'm usually not so flustered in my needlework, but…"
"You worry for my son," Lady Janyce replied, with a knowing nod. "That he returns to us alive brings great relief to my heart, but knowing what he has gone through, defending the Stormlands in the midst of a war…"
She could only nod in agreement, her throat suddenly too tight to answer. She could not speak aloud of Casper too often, lest her frayed mind render her a sobbing mess. He had no inclination she was with child when he had set off for war. The maester had offered to tell him, but she had forbidden it, knowing that he needed fewer distractions on the battlefield. That, and given the losses her goodmother's kin had suffered birthing their own babes, she did not wish to give him a false hope. More than one lady she knew had suffered a miscarriage in their life. Often soon into the pregnancy, and there was no babe to be found, but the threat of a loss terrified her. She was the last Windhill, and should she prove unable to carry a babe to birth, then what good was she in Casper's life? Ladies needed to birth heirs to continue a family, and yet there were no sons for either-,
No, no, she must not think like that. Deep breaths, deep, calming breaths, through the nose, just as her grandfather had shown her when she practiced with her first bow…
"You have my thanks, goodmother, for the aid you have provided," she replied after some time. "It is one thing to look after peaceful lands, but another to account for war and the changes it brings."
Janyce had been indispensable in her aid, as ruling alone was tiresome, but not impossible. Mylenda had learned through her newfound family that delegation was key to a secure household and prosperous lands, though not without drawbacks. Before, much of such minutia was left to her husband or her grandfather, but in Casper's time away, she had come to learn that every person to be employed within Stormhall needed careful consideration and scrutiny, be they guards, scribes, or even chamber maids. The same went for the mayors, sheriffs, and other men who spoke in their name and wielded their authority in their stead. The latter she had always known, having a hand in it since before her marriage, but the former? There were just so many people to go through as their household grew!
The blast of a bugle interrupted her thoughts and brought a smile to her face. Casper was finally home!
Indeed, her husband was home. Barely able to dismount his horse unaided, to say he had seen better days was laughable. Pallid skin, a wild and untamed beard, and a flaccidity to his skin that he'd never had before. Yet it was her Casper, her husband, and despite his infirmity, his mind was yet sharp, and he smiled upon seeing them, a smile that fluttered her stomach and drove away the dread in her heart. With the aid of Maester Gorman, she brought him to their room, his mother and siblings giving their well-wishes and hugs as he was settled into bed. Settled in the marriage bed, and with a promise of returning later, to ensure he was well before evening came, Gorman left Mylenda with a knowing smile.
"Casper," she said, draping herself alongside him in a tender embrace, having dismissed the servants to bring them something to eat. Oh, how she had missed him, and everything that came with him. His smile, his eyes, his sharp mind, the playful side she only saw when they were alone…
"Yes?" he replied, gingerly stroking her back with a free hand. She was yet clothed, as there was work to be done, but it still felt a private, tender moment.
"There is something I need to tell you."
His silence was all the encouragement she needed.
"I am with child."
The shock on his now-shaved face was all the reward she could have hoped for, for it was followed by a great, genuine smile, and dare she say, were there tears in his eyes? No, of course not, men did not blubber over such things, it was to be expected…
He quickly, but almost reverently, pulled her to him, an encompassing embrace that gave her a sense of safety she'd not known she'd missed since his departure. Here, in his arms, there was no war, there were no duties to be accomplished, no odd cravings to suffer or no lords to deal with. Here, it was her, and her husband, and now their child growing in her belly.
It gave her comfort in the face of all the world was throwing at her.
No, not her, them. They were married. He was hers, and she was his, after all. Now, with the grace of the Seven, there would be another one of them soon.
"How long have you known?" Casper finally asked, after an eon of gentle silence.
"Since our time away from here, in the high hills of Windhall."
"A few months then?"
"At the least, for Maester Yohn thought I was perhaps a month along at the time. I am not showing very much yet," she said, pressing his hand to the slight bump upon her belly.
With a surprised chuckle, he kissed her forehead. "Well, given time, I'm sure we'll soon feel his or her kicks in there."
"Would you not wish for a son first?"
"A healthy child is all I would ask," her husband said softly. "Mother told me of the troubles of her sisters and my cousins. I'd rather that were not an issue with our own family, but one can never know until the time comes."
That he did not wish for a son and heir first was rather… unusual, but Mylenda ignored that. They would have more than one child in time, and with luck, a second son would inherit the Windhill name, and keep the house of her forbears alive and well.
Withdrawing from their embrace, Casper sighed. "A child, a son or daughter. Hard to believe."
"They are not yet born, Cas," Mylenda said with a playful pat on his shoulder.
"Well, they'll be here sooner than we think, Myllie," was his response, playfully flicking an earlobe. "Until then, there will be plenty of work to be done. My men are garrisoning the border without me, but there's no telling how long the war will last. Until I can rejoin them, I must rest and recuperate, as ordered by the king."
"Ordered?" Mylenda asked with an arched eyebrow.
Casper waved a hand. "Not in so many words, but it was implied enough, more for the prince's sake than my own. Baelor made me a promise to write when possible, and I intend to return the favor. Other than that, King Daeron made it clear that I'm to aid in ensuring supplies and men move through our lands and into the Marches, and thus Dorne, with as few problems as possible."
"How did the men handle this news?"
Casper shrugged. "As well as could be expected. I'm not there to lead them, but I've competent captains to ensure they remain well-trained and able to assist as needed. Besides, some time away from the war while remaining ready should help disseminate their quality onto the men around them. Hopefully, the rest of their fellows will pick up on their better habits."
"What of the other lords?"
Her husband frowned at that. "Not as well as I'd hoped. The lords who have served alongside me, or whom I have had good dealings previously, seemed… upset by the news I was being 'encouraged' to remain away from the war. Granted, a lordly quartermaster ensuring their supplies and reinforcements would move quickly and efficiently mollified most, but more than few seemed upset at one of their own being so quietly set aside. Lord Baratheon made no direct mention of it, but I could tell he knew the others were upset."
"Which is something our king cannot encourage," Mylenda replied, rising and slowly pacing around his bed. "They might feel they are being sidelined. Grandfather told me of how lords who are normally indifferent can become fast allies should they perceive a slight upon one lingering upon the other. In ensuring you are away from the war, even if your task is an important one…"
"The king is keeping my influence away from the other lords, and perhaps the prince as well," Casper said. "We'll have to wait and see, but when I can rejoin the war remains uncertain. Now," he added, cracking his knuckles for added effect, "what work is there to do while I'm resting up?"
"You can't be serious," she said, incredulity blending with exasperation. Leave to her bedridden husband to look for work to do, rather than rest as he should. By the Seven, sometimes, she just wanted to chain him to their bed.
Well, not like that…
"Myllie, when we married, I promised to be as one with you, and that includes shouldering whatever burdens fell upon you the day I left to stop the Dornish from razing our lands to the ground," Casper said. "I need not leave my bed to work, but work I must, as idle hands make for a poor lord."
"Well, there isn't too much these days, given winter's hold," she began, turning to the bedroom table, upon which rested several petitions. She had meant to start them come midday, but her husband's return had robbed her of such time. Besides, he would want to know of these, as they would determine the progress and coming years for Lowhill and the surrounding countryside, and both the Wytch and Windhill names for years to come. "I guess we can give a few a try."
As the servants returned with light fare, some created by her cravings, including pickle and peach dumplings, she retrieved a small stack of missives and returned to bed. As her husband quietly perused the first few, she sat in silence, enjoying his warmth. Even with the lit braziers, roaring fire, and comfortable woolen socks, Mylenda had felt the season's chill near every day before Casper's return. The additional blankets helped when in bed, but she was elated her husband was beside her once more. His cuddlesome nature was better than all the warming pans she could hope to stuff under her covers, and far less likely to start a fire if improperly handled. One less danger to worry about when the babe finally came.
Still, the thought of their babe in her womb did little to settle the unease in her belly. It had been no less than two months since the first news of the Ravaging of the Marches and the Storm over Flavor Hollow. Were it not for the trustworthiness of her sources and the skills of 'Lady' Floris, she'd not have believed such outlandish tales. Savage destruction, godly whirlwinds, and unnerving poison? It was something out of the Age of Heroes, a tale almost too fantastical to be true, and yet it was. In the few times she'd ventured down into Lowhill to pray at the sept for a healthy pregnancy and her husband's safe return, she had overheard more than her fair share of gossip among the populace.
Outside of septs and prayers, there were a great many tasks to accomplish, and often so little time in the day to do them. It had fallen to her and Janyce to oversee the relocation of smallfolk refugees, hailing primarily from the direction of 'Stormhollow' and the surrounding countryside. Finding a place for these good folk to dwell until they had managed to establish themselves was by no means a simple feat. The chill of winter was deep enough, even this far south, that only the coldest of crops would persist. Whichever fields not under the plow were filled with whatever forage could grow for livestock. Now, with so little help needed in the fields, many farmhands and their sons were back in Lowhill itself, swelling the usual numbers in the town well past what they were in summer.
"Mylenda?"
"Yes?" she replied.
"What's this about the petitions sent from other towns flying the Wytch banner?"
"More petitions?" she asked, a touch exasperated. "I responded so several of those a mere fortnight ago. What is it this time? I already gave Timberstone the right to expand the armory, as replacement spears of good wood are harder to come by than they think, and Highmarsh can now dig a new pond for expanding their fish farming."
"Septs, my lady wife. Highmarsh and Timberstone alike have enough smallfolk to entertain the idea of their own sept, so they've sent word asking for permission. Now, neither seem to wish them to be as great or grand as Lowhill's own, which is good…"
"But a sept is a sept, and building more is a sure sign to the smallfolk that we honor the Seven, and the blessings they have bestowed upon us in return for these years of plenty must be repaid. Are there any specifics entailed in these petitions?"
"Timberstone is looking to build one primarily of wood, which makes sense, given how plentiful it is in the area. However, constructing the lower walls and foundation of the sept with Wytchstone would certainly aid in ensuring most of the structure lasts a long time. As for the statues of the Seven within…"
"We've marble to spare from our stocks, courtesy of House Greycairn," Mylenda said. "What of also decorating the sept with amber? They've the craftsmen for it, and in these lands only Timberstone has it in the amounts for it to be feasible."
Casper smiled. "I like that, a room of amber, likely rare this side of the Narrow Sea, as most is sold in Essos for men of other faiths. As for the construction, they would wish to wait until middling spring to begin building it. Their more generous estimate says it would take perhaps a year to build, and near another to fully furnish. If my engineers had more men at their disposal, it'd take even less."
"Why so long?"
"They are a poorer town than Lowhill, and merchants do not pass by as often, even if they have seen far more these days. As such, while they have many craftsmen who specialize in timber, they have few sculptors or stonemasons. Men of certain skills tend to gravitate to places where their skills are not only in demand, but the materials they know how to work are in greater supply. No blacksmith would wish to move to a town full of them unless he could work iron for something none of the others did."
"If that is the case, we will finish training the current acolytes from the S.E.C. and send a few to Highmarsh and Timberstone to aid in the construction. With the number of projects we've been adding, it wouldn't hurt to put out an incentive for the third or fourth sons of smallfolk to join and learn the trade. Did the towns not ask for such assistance?"
"They did not, I would imagine they did not wish to sound needy. Wouldn't hurt to remind them that loyal and productive smallfolk can ask for help if they truly need it."
Mylenda gently rubbed her temples. Her husband's generosity could be troublesome at times, but the smallfolk loved them for it, and it made things progress easier these days. If times were tougher, she'd advise against it, but he usually kept such generosity on a leash, so for now, she would say little of it. "I'll see to it they will have the help they cannot provide for themselves once they begin designing and building the septs. Best it is done right with help than possibly not without it. As for Highmarsh?"
"A simpler sept yet, though thankfully there is no longer the issue of water. Sending Wytchstone has always been an unavoidable expense, though the great lake and marshes provided more than enough water to reduce the need for wellwater in its mixing phase. With this is mind, they wish to build atop a small hill the town is naturally growing towards. However…"
"Yes?"
"The landscape is as open as these lands, but with far less hills to block wind in that area. The building would need to be greatly strengthened to withstand the winds that will surely lash against it."
"Then the sept will be smaller, with thicker walls and a better roof to prevent this. Windbreaks are already becoming more common, so planting more to help shelter the sept should be simple enough. As for the style of construction? What does the town have to offer?" she asked.
"Ser Luthor has the freshwater pearls, and the clay of the region makes bricks of rich color."
"Then both shall have their septs come springtime. Now," she added, grabbing another piece of parchment, "for Lowhill itself, we must do something about the housing for the legions of lords and their levies, the bards, errant hedge knights, and a surplus of merchants that have been moving through our lands. That's not even counting the camp followers trailing after the richer lords…"
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