Chapter 71: Mylenda Wytch IV
Mid 162 AC
"Momma! Momma! Look at me go!"
"Yes, dear, you are doing wonderfully," Mylenda said, smiling as Argella swung happily on the 'swing'. Such a curious creation her husband had commissioned for their flower garden, made so small as for children to seat themselves comfortably, yet sturdy enough to handle their constant movement as they moved to and fro, like vines swaying with a stiff breeze. He had already spoken of making a fine one for ladies, large enough to seat them comfortably but meant for gently rocking in, rather than for mere play. "Remember to swing with your legs, as your papa taught you."
Sipping her afternoon tea, Mylenda glanced over to see Janyce speaking with the maids, likely ensuring no need was left unmet. Her daughters adored the small finger foods, simple enough to not fear spoiling their appetites, yet scrumptious enough that they would not be fussy enough to reject them. According to her goodmother, Casper had never been fussy in his youth, nor had she by any stretch, but with her daughters it was anyone's guess if they too would behave as such. Already little Argella was a darling, so smart and precious of a little lady, with the others no doubt to follow in her footsteps.
"Seven above, to be a grandmother already," Janyce spoke softly after sipping her tea. "I never thought it would be so soon, yet I am glad for it."
"To have your health and the ability to lift your grandchildren onto her hip is no small feat," the lady of House Wytch said. "Far too many miss out on such chances I have been told."
"Indeed, one day they shall be too large for me to carry, or even you my dear. Yet I am at peace with this knowledge, as all come to experience these should they live long enough." There was a pause as she sipped her tea, before looking over to a distant shrine, within whose small frame was a stout door that led to the new crypts beneath the castle. "If only Morden were here to see what we've become," she said softly, yet without sadness.
Mylenda nodded, not having known the man but having an inkling of how proud he would be of his son, of what he had done for their house, and how far they had come from the humble origins his father before him had brought them. Speaking of which…
"Good day, mother," Casper said, kissing Janyce's brow before taking his place by his wife's side on their picnic blanket. He had shaved again, reducing his short beard to naught but stubble, something she happily rubbed a hand against in a ticklish manner. Mirroring his wife's simple summer dress, his own jerkin and trousers were more befitting a merchant than a rich young lord, yet they served their purpose this fine day as he leaned back, slightly out of reach. "Good day to you too, Myllie."
She withdrew her hand, little Brienne tugging at her sleeve to make her pay attention to… whatever it was she was doing. "Indeed, now that the rains are finished," she replied. "Were it not for our fine roads, the latest delivery of cheese from the monger in Lowhill might have been delayed by muddied tracks, and Argella might have never known a 'grilled cheese' as you called it. Are you finished already with your kin? I was informed your meeting would take 'til the midday luncheon."
Her husband nodded as he reached over and gently grabbed at Argella's swinging feet, earning her a fit of giggles as he missed, likely on purpose. "Yes, as there was thankfully not as much to speak of as of late. That is, save for a few more… important details concerning my cousins and kin."
"Oh? I know many have given great thanks for your continued support of their interests in nearby markets, but what has happened?"
"Though strong at first, business in Kings Landing has grown rather unsuitable of late, with a good deal of hostility for those bearing the Wytch sigil," Casper replied, absently taking little Brienne into his arms, before tickling her chubby chin, much to his daughter's apparent enjoyment, judging by her happy squeals. Gods she was a big babe for her age, perhaps likely to inherit her father's height at this rate. "We agreed it was best to sell off there what we could to recoup losses, which were not insignificant, and move our focus and efforts elsewhere."
"Are your kin expelled from the city?" Well, they were her kin too by marriage, but she'd rarely met them and spoken with them even less.
"Nay, more they are being driven from it. It is by no means lawful, but even with the Goldcloaks cracking down on crime and no longer turning a blind eye as often to the more affluent merchants and their dealings, there was little I could do whilst I was there without drawing eyes whose gaze I wished to avoid. Best leave things be for now and let tempers cool before rash decisions bring about worse outcomes. Instead, we shall focus on our own base expanding where best received and profitable, rather than trying to grow too large and fast as some of our kin did earlier."
"So Kings Landing is or will be closed to us for now, save for through other trading partners," Janyce said, reaching to Mylenda, who handed over little Ravella, her chubby hands grabbing for her grandmother's necklace, likely the one given by Morden as a wedding gift. "I would not be surprised if the lords Fossoway or even Darklyn had a hand in this, as you mentioned their impudence during the king's tourney. Yet it very well could just be local merchants unhappy with stiff competition."
"Hardly surprising that you would think that particular Reach house has its fingers in this, given the rumors of what Lord Fossoway has done before," Mylenda added, frowning as she plucked a fresh apple from a serving platter, before shining it upon the blanket and taking a bite. "They have been unkind to us ever since our marriage and have only grown more so these past years. Certainly, their belief in our meddling with House Selmy does us no favors, despite none of us ever dreaming of trying something with a house as storied and powerful."
"Let them be unkind, it will grant them few allies in the Stormlands and those with whom we have good trade relations," Casper said as he set little Brienne down, supporting her by the arms as she tried to walk in small circles before him. "Yet I will not accuse a house, no matter their prestige or lack of honor, of such actions unless I had undeniable proof. Our merchants, both kith and kin alike, have instead taken to selling more in the Stormlands. Whilst our neighbors have seen greater success in growing their own food, we will continue to sell that which either only we produce or produce in the quantities worth the prices we set."
"How were your cousins driven from the capital? You mentioned it was not lawful…"
"Other than a rash of break-ins that saw goods soiled or spoiled, more than one stall was destroyed by a small yet sudden mob, eventually leading to where my kin feared for their lives," her husband replied with a frown, before letting their second daughter flop down between his legs, her attempts at walking finally getting the best of her. At least she did not seem upset at this, instead clapping her hands as she now watched her elder sister continue swinging. "None died, thank the Seven, but more than one of my cousins will bear a scar or limp for the rest of his life from trying to stop a mob. Yet I cannot fault them for withdrawing to save themselves after losing trade they had, given that the city might have welcomed them originally, but the other merchants did not. Next time it will need to be different."
"Next time?" Janyce asked, playing with the kicking feet of little Ravella, whose smile showed the first of her teeth finally coming in as she continued trying to chew on her necklace. The inlaid amber was thankfully far, far too large to risk her swallowing or even damaging it, or else Mylenda would have been worried.
"I will not simply give up the lucrative trade in the capital just because the merchants didn't like me selling better goods at lower prices, mother," he said. "Besides, upon our return to the city's markets, we shall simply have to sell that which no one else has access to so that we won't tread on anyone's toes. Mother, your side of the family has yet to find any merchants that sell our brandy, whiskey, and the like for prices that most could afford."
"Not for lack of trying, mind you," Janyce said. "It seems whoever buys it tends to keep it to themselves, gives it away as a prestigious gift, or tries to sell it for far, far more than they should for their area. Once the trade fleet is afloat, in both senses of the term, your spirits will be some of the most-sought items to whatever houses and richer merchants that seek good drink, provided we are able to brew more of it as demand increases."
"Which was why I wanted to seek your opinions on the matter of our finer drink. The Wytchmill and our keep remain the largest producers of whiskey and brandy in our lands, but there is only so much more we can do before we shall need another distillery, the means of producing the barrels meant to age and transport it, and the crops needed to be grown to increase our production."
"I am against expanding the Wytchmill, my son, simply because it is already turning into a small town of its own. In time, it will no doubt be a part of Lowhill proper, seeing as the vast majority of those who work there are from the town and the immediate countryside."
"I agree with your mother, Casper," Mylenda added. "The risk of fire has always been of great concern, as you have said in the past, and I fear simply adding more means by which it could start or spread risks the entire venture of distilling our fine drinks."
"Aye, ensuring one fire does not destroy our means of producing good drink and the alcohol meant for cleansing tools and wounds is important. I have thought to expand the distilling into several of our more notable villages that have grown since the last census. Mother, Myllie, do either of you recall the results?"
"I believe so, though not any exact sums, Casper. With the war delaying things by two years, the last census was finished right as you left for Kings Landing. Not including the censuses of the former Galewood and Greycairn lands Lord Baratheon has given you to oversee as steward, we roughly number near five and twenty thousand smallfolk in your domain, with perhaps a third of that within the Windhill lands now."
"Which is quite the increase from what I recall of my youth, perhaps double what it once was," Mylenda added.
"Aye, for our own lands as well, perhaps double from when I was born, if the older parchments are true," Casper said, rubbing his shaven chin. "As our villages grow into small towns, it occurs to me that ensuring each settlement produces one or several key items above and beyond just what they need to sustain themselves will ensure we need not fear competition from those within our own lands. For example, Ironvein is a town built and meant for mining, cobalt dyes and as of recently, the production of licorice and chestnuts. Highmarsh is for freshwater pearls, livestock, and corresponding animal products, whilst Timberstone is for pork, amber and timber, among other derived things. Yet outside of the Wytchmill itself and Stormhall, we've nowhere else producing distilled drink or other such products."
Mylenda bit back a sigh of both pride and frustration. Her husband, for all the good he'd done for them all, was ever the working lord, seeking to expand and produce more and more, rather than resting upon his laurels even for a short time. Yes, his father would undoubtedly be so proud to see the man he'd become, but there was a time and a place for the work he constantly threw himself into. There were other duties that needed attending to, ones far more important than the distilling of whiskey and brandy. The glance she shared with her goodmother only confirmed that now was a good time to broach the subject with a segue of sorts.
"Well then my son, given the likelihood others will learn to distill in time either from inebriated brewmasters at a tavern or from their own attempts as your earlier 'grog' was, might I suggested looking to whichever villages produce the most of what you will need to distill? Corn for your whiskey, and fruit for your brandies?"
"Aye, and even then, I would not wish for one town to distill everything, if only due to the same reasoning behind the risk of fire. I would rather have three such villages distilling, to be certain that if one suffers then not all shall as well."
"Well, then we must select those after lunch, as I must see to your sisters, my son," Janyce said, handing the increasingly sleepy Ravella back to her mother and rising to her feet. "Their lessons alongside Jonnel and little Maron are sure to be near done for the morning, but I best ensure they have not slacked off again. I can only hope the practice with Jonnel and little Maron will give me the experience needed for when I look after my first grandson."
Mylenda inwardly cringed at the wording yet could do nothing to take back those words as the elder Wytch moved back to the castle proper. In the silence of their private garden, with only their daughters for company, the former Windhill suddenly felt at a loss for words despite the practice she'd employed during her husband's time away. This subject was an important one, far more than she could put to simple words, and yet…
"That wasn't very subtle, was it?" her husband asked, his tone still that of good humor, but with a weariness tinging his voice. He motioned to a maid, who helped Argella from the swing. "Go and see that you are washed for lunch, Argie, your mother and I have some boring grownup things to discuss."
"Nay, it was not subtle at all," Mylenda replied softly, kissing the head of Ravella, who was already drifting off to sleep amidst annoyed baby grumbles. Motioning to one of the maids, she reluctantly let her babe be taken away for a nap, for as much as she wished to put her down for sleep herself, this conversation could not be avoided again. Brienne too was taken from their presence, and with Argella being led away by the eldest maid, it was not long before they were alone under a beautiful summer sky.
"Myllie-,"
"Cas-,"
They both halted, before Mylenda took a deep breath to bolster her nerves. "Yes, husband?"
"I know this is important to you, as it is the future of our houses, but we need to talk about your… obsession is the wrong term for it, but your focus on bearing a son is-,"
"Important to not just the two of us, Casper," Mylenda said, somewhat shocked that she'd cut him off, but the situation demanded it. "It is not just for the future of my family's house, nor yours, that we must have a son. You have seen battle and been to war more often than we have conceived children, not for lack of trying, and it is grating to know that the campaign trail has seen my husband for longer stretches than our marriage bed has. Our houses are at risk enough as it is."
"I don't like leaving you and the girls anymore than you do seeing me ride off to fight. Yet I cannot shirk my duties when called by House Baratheon or House Targaryen, as it would not do for me to send someone else in my stead. I don't have the kin or those I trust enough to carry out such important duties."
"Be that as it may, Casper, our houses face similar predicaments with the lack of a male heir. Yours is yet young and mine, whilst older, has just myself as its remaining member. I need a son who can pass on the name of Windhill just as much as you need a son to carry the Wytch name into the next generation. Your sisters will not have Wytch children, and our daughters will not have Windhall children, even if their husbands took their names."
"This is an issue I have discussed with the prince before, but my ideas have fallen on deaf ears. To try and achieve a change in the laws of succession, even if only going forward, would absolutely destroy all the goodwill I have accrued since I became lord. I wish our daughters could inherit both names, but the laws of these lands say they cannot."
"I know that as much as you do, as I wish for this too," Mylenda replied. "Yet we cannot simply accept that failing to have the laws changed as our only course of option. We must have a son, dear, it is the simplest and securest way."
"Simplest, yes, but not the safest," Casper replied, gently grasping one of her slender hands in his larger, warmer hand. "Our daughters nearly lost you after Ravella's birth, Myllie, I… I nearly lost you. I don't know how to be a widower anymore than you know how to be a widow, but the thought of our children growing up without you… it terrifies me more than any sword or axe could."
Her husband could be so sweet at times, and it pained her that others would look down on him for loving her as he did. "Yet our daughters would be lost without their father there to guide and teach them his odd ways, the ways that have brought a new house to great heights," she replied, her free hand gently caressing his face, holding his gaze as she did so. "Casper, these are what the gods have determined for us to experience with our lives as they are. It is a man's duty to protect his home and provide for a means by which his family may survive, and if lucky, thrive. A woman's duty to is ensure a legacy is left behind so that all her family, be they of her birth or the one she marries into, is not all for naught. There are, of course, exceptions, but I know that my burden to bear is to have children, and this is not even mentioning the duties of lords and ladies. A son would carry both our families into the next generation, and gods willing his sons after him, so that our lines need not be extinguished."
"Myllie, I… I want a son too, but I don't know if the chance of losing you would be worth gaining a son." Her husband seemed almost lost, an indecisiveness in his words that told her he had given this far, far more thought than most others would in his situation. "Seeing you lying in bed, sick and unable to even speak with our daughters…"
"That is a fear all who grace the birthing bed must overcome," she said, pulling him close so that his thick curls brushed against her cheek, his face hidden in her neck. "I too was afraid, husband, but I couldn't let that fear overcome me, else it would have killed me as surely as the birthing fever would have." She could never tell him of the nights when he was off to war, when she had cried herself to sleep countless times, worried for his safe return and for the health of their unborn child at the time. She had always known there would be risks, but the biggest risk she had not anticipated was falling so in love with her husband. The pang of grief that had thankfully never arrived still echoed whenever she thought of him riding off again, all whilst she stayed at their home and reassured their daughters their father would return, as he always did.
"I'm just worried that despite all I have done for our health, for all the measures I have put in place, that something will go wrong," her husband said.
"What more could you do, husband, that the gods themselves do not? You have forbidden the examination of birthing mothers by those who have examined wounds or corpses and not washed themselves. You have ensured that all those who attend births must be healthy, wear only the cleanest of clothes, cover their faces with good linen, and use tools that must be cleansed by the strongest solutions available between uses. All official birthing beds must be properly angled to ease a babe's birth, and the mother must be kept under close watch for several days afterwards to ensure she does not come down with a fever before she can return home to her family. You have done all of this, and yet wish for more?"
Her husband pulled himself further into her embrace, softly, as if she were made of glass. "I know there is so much more I could do; I just don't know how to do it."
"Then the gods have given you a gift beyond the likes of most, a gift that has seen the deaths of young mothers and their babes become so low in our lands that midwives from other lordships have come to learn from the Academy of these methods. Your medics are as sought for their abilities as your engineers are for roads. There have even been maesters from our neighbors that have come to witness how so many women and babes are not lost to birthing beds. Yet why flagellate yourself that you cannot do more? You've already done so much, Casper, surely you can realize that you cannot control everything that occurs in this world?"
"I know, I know that I cannot control everything, especially since you and mother managed to assemble a good number of men and women for me to ease my ruling burdens upon," Casper said, rising from the embrace and kissing her cheek. "I just worry about you, about our daughters, about our smallfolk, about our lands…"
"Yet you continue on despite that worry, in all that you do," she replied, kissing him back. "Why let yourself be crippled by such a worry over this? Compared to what else you have done, this is but child's play, surely?" They were silent for some time, Mylenda knowing the look in her husband's eyes that he was deep in thought. She had seen it before, Seven above she had been the reason behind it more times than she could recall, but their need for a son far, far outstripped her worry for her health during another pregnancy, as it should his own worry. Maester Gorman had told her that she was healthy enough to try again, but Casper had declined time and time again, much to her annoyance. Duty indeed was the death of love, and love the death of duty, and whilst she loved him dearly, this was a duty that could not be denied for much longer. She would be capable of bearing children from years to come, and yet despite having three children in nearly five years, she was nearly as fit as she had been before Argella's conception. She could accept being unable to bear more children only once she grew old enough where conception would prove nigh impossible. Yet she would rather reach such an age having tried for a son time and time again, rather than be crippled by worry and never risk it, living only to regret her lost chances.
"Tonight," her husband whispered, pulling her down and kissing her forehead with all the gentleness she had always experienced with him. This was the side of her husband she delighted in seeing, the tender, compassionate side that the world was better off being unaware of, as she could instead have it all to herself. "Tonight, we'll start trying again for a son and heir, to the Wytch and Windhill lines."
"Promise," she asked, looking out from their embrace to see a captain approaching, a pit of annoyed unease growing at his expression. "Promise me we'll start trying for a son."
"Myllie, on my honor as a father, lord and husband, I swear it," he replied, before following her gaze to their captain.
"Pardon the intrusion, my lord, my lady, but a message by raven has been received by Maester Gorman," the man said as they rose to their feet.
"From whom?" Mylenda asked as her unease blossomed into foreboding.
"I do not know, my lady. He did say it was an urgent message, but other than that, would not say."
"I'll see what the fuss is about, Myllie," her husband said with a huff of annoyance. "Probably another lord looking to foster some second cousin or the like, I already have my hands full with the others as it is."
"Then I will see you at lunch, and barring that, supper?" she asked quietly as the captain left them alone.
He bent down and kissed her, his lips tingling with a promise of that night, and the nights to come. "As soon as I can."
"Lady Wytch, how old is the Windhill house?"
Mylenda glanced over to the young Ashford boy seated at the table. Rather than as if it were a feast, the dining hall had been rearranged to seat them as a family, with each of her husband's fostered boys given enough space to avoid trouble. This was especially the case where Maron was concerned, as the others had a habit of teasing him since they had arrived a few weeks before. It was still a rather startling thing, to be suddenly entrusted with four young boys, but if anyone could wrangle them, and had done so thus far with some success, it was her husband.
"At least a thousand years old, from what our remaining records indicate, and we are also an offshoot of the old Durrandon line," she said with a polite smile. "Windhall is not so nearly as open to the land and winds as Stormhall is, being higher in the hills near the lower slopes of the Red Mountains. As I have business there on occasion, perhaps you may accompany me on a visit."
His blush was adorable, as Meryn Ashford was among the youngest of the four fosters, being not yet two and ten, and perhaps just now noticing girls. That or her smile was earnest enough to make him feel shy, being so far from home, and her still being a stranger to him. "So… a cadet house of sorts?" he asked after a short pause to munch on some bread.
"In some other kingdoms we may have been, but since becoming the Windhills we are of distinct lineage, having long ago given up the Durrandon name and any claims therein."
"I didn't know there were old Stormland houses that came from the Durrandons," the Meadows boy, Bryan if she recalled, commented as he buttered a garlic and rosemary biscuit. "Not like with the Gardeners in the Reach having such close ties with the greater houses."
"Well, any kingdom is likely to have a history of such," Jonnel said, quite politely compared to his gruff mannerisms when he'd first come to Stormhall. "We Starks have had more than one such cadet branch, such as the Karstarks further north. Yet it is good that the house of Windhill was so far removed from the line of succession. Many centuries ago, the Starks had a cadet branch known as the Greystarks, who sided in a rebellion against us and died for it, root and stem."
"Given how far our ancestors founded their house, it is no wonder they never made a play for old Storm's End, let alone the vast difference in men to call to arms," Mylenda said, glancing at her husband, who was concentrating on something as he ate in mostly silence. Whatever the contents of the raven's message had been that had kept him busy for hours had stricken him with a bout of melancholy and… fear, perhaps? Or was it dull anger? She hardly ever saw him genuinely angry…
"We Conningtons in the past had a second line from our main branch, but I think they died out during the Conquest," the one called Gyles said, the eldest of the four and as she had noticed before, the one least interested in the training yard. He still committed to his training, of course, but he preferred to paint in his free time. Perhaps his father had sent him away to try and knock such 'flights of fancy' from him, as well as secure deals with her husband? Even for a second son, taking up painting could be seen as a 'womanly' hobby by the wrong circles.
"My grandfather wishes for me to become a knight, but I'm not old enough to be a squire yet," the Tarth boy said with a slight pout.
"Now Kyle, fear not for your spurs. You'll earn them one way or another, as such dedication matters more than the title itself to the realm," her husband said.
"But I heard you were knighted by Lord Baratheon in Dorne," Kyle replied. "Along with Prince Baelor, and he was only four and ten when he was knighted, the youngest ever!"
"You don't need to compare yourself to the prince," Maron said, sounding rather wise despite being the youngest boy at the table. "He's a prince, and he killed a big monster with Lord Wytch. That's why he was knighted."
"Indeed it was, boys," Casper said, his dulled anger seemingly driven away by their expressions, replaced by a fond amusement. She knew they'd already asked him many times of the stories that had been sung or spoken of his adventures, and of those of the prince to whom we he was close. "So then if you are good with your studies, I might be inclined to tell you some of the… darker details that most of the bards don't know about the tales told of Lord Wytch. Nothing too terrible, of course," he added with a chuckle. "I wouldn't want to give any of you nightmares."
The four boys looked at one another with wide eyes and wider smiles, excited at the prospect. Even Jonnel, his air of mild aloofness one of the few traits they had been unable to fully break through, seemed interested at the prospect. Maron, however, looked comically horrified at the thought of there being more to a story that was, as she had overheard, already scary enough for him.
"Daddy has the best stories," Argella interjected, her spoonful of freshly cooked peas spilling all over her plate as she gestured wildly. "Auntie Arenna and Shyra got ta hear them all the time growin' up."
"Indeed we did, Argie," Arenna said, the perfect example of a young lady with her mannerisms, reminding Mylenda quite a bit of how she recalled being at that age. At least Arenna was nowhere near as pimply as she had been herself, and her goodsister's legs did not seem to be growing as quickly or ungainly as hers had. No, she was not jealous of her goodsister's seeming ease into womanhood, not at all. "That was why I had a hand in making the book that Casper gave the royal household for their own bedtime stories."
"Why give the royal house such a gift?" Jonnel asked. "Fine books should be dedicated to greater things than stories, no?"
"When dedicated to learning and keeping records, you are correct, Jonnel," her husband replied as the last round of their meal was brought out, small plates of freshly baked fruit pies and the 'whipped' cream her husband had deigned to be made in the ice box deep within the castle's depths. "Yet what is history, but a grand series of interlocking stories? Some true, some false, and some that lie somewhere in-between. Your own history, that of House Stark, is perhaps one of the oldest of all the houses in Westeros, with only a few being comparable for sheer longevity. Yet are all the tales remembered as they truly were? Or has context, hidden motives, and the names of those that stood beside great figures lost, twisted, or misremembered? Who is to say, after all, if the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Nights Watch was a Stark, or a Bolton, or any other ancient house of the North, or even a Northman at all? Or what of the name of the pale lady he took as he his queen from beyond the Wall?"
Jonnel paused for a moment, before nodding. "Indeed, even with long memories, much is lost to time. Yet books are so easily rotten by mold or devoured by small creatures, or even just damaged from usage. How much has been lost in Oldtown, for example, from books forgotten and left within verminous rooms?"
"Countless, no doubt," Mylenda said. "Yet the stories of my husband have proven popular enough that, should they bear remembering, they will in time be told elsewhere, wherever and whenever that may be."
"As it is, Jonnel, were there to be the means of making books faster than they can be destroyed, then maybe history would not be so easily lost. Yet we've no means of producing enough ink to allow for such a fanciful idea, even if we were able to make the books themselves quickly."
Mylenda had seen her husband's ideas for a press that 'printed' sheets of paper, but to create good enough paper was far beyond their capabilities, and even the cheapest of papers imported from Essos and beyond would be prohibitively expensive to make books simply for children's stories. Mevermind the costs to produce enough ink to supply these 'printing presses' if the paper issue were to be resolved. Biting into her slice of pie, she remained silent as her husband informed the boys of their mandatory attendance whilst he went on a short tour of his lands, with a certain emphasis for some on paying attention to his lessons on managing the land and ensuring good crops and good livestock.
Yet… he did not come to their bedroom until well after the others had gone to bed themselves, even with the stories he no doubt told the younger boys. He had given her a quick kiss before changing into his nightclothes, a ritual that seemed unusual given their earlier discussion of trying for a son. Yet when he sat upon their bed, and his shoulders sagged, she knew something was wrong.
"The courier?" she guessed, taking one of his calloused hands into hers as she sat down.
"Aye," he muttered, sounding as if he had just set down a great weight, yet his back had not yet recovered from carrying it. "Dorne has risen into revolt against the Iron Throne."
Mylenda could not hold back her gasp. She had heard rumors of trouble in the west and south once more, but had attributed it to bandits and tales of battles being told years later than they occurred. "Truly?"
"Aye, and it gets worse," her husband said. "Half of Dorne has risen in revolt, whilst the other half has stayed true to their oaths. Yet… both sides of the revolt have seemingly descended into civil war, though the 'loyalist' side has yet to come to blows for now. For or against Martells, for or against Targaryens, and some combination of the two… Myllie, it's a terrible mess, likely to be worse than the conquest itself. There have been clashes, lords have already died in the fighting, apparently there was some great council gathered by Lord Tyrell and an ambush interrupted it, or perhaps ambushes, the message did not say much more than that."
"That is terrible, the lands were only recently recovering from the war according to the Prince, even in the East where the damage under Lord Baratheon was limited. What of Maron? What of his family, the Martells?"
"Arthur Martell is dead, Myllie. He was killed at Tyrell's council, along with a whole host of Dornishmen."
She gasped again. "Maron's lordly uncle is dead? Then that means the seat of Sunspear, and the potential Lord Paramountship… it falls to his father Nymor, and after that Maron's elder sister Myriah, and she's currently under the care of House Baratheon." There was no harm in letting the siblings write, and Maron's sister often wrote of her experiences hawking with falcons along the coast. Maron wanted to get her a gyrfalcon for her next nameday…
"If it were to be followed by the customs of Dorne, yes she would be, but as Dorne is in revolt and yet partially under the Iron Throne, it is likely their normal laws of succession do not apply," her husband said. "By the rights of the ruling powers over Dorne, and not Dornish custom, Myriah is not the next in line to Dorne after Nymor… Maron is."
"We were hosting the second in line to the throne of Sunspear, and now he has become the first in line." This was not a good thing, as wonderful as this might have been for the prestige of their houses, as it was for Jonnel's fosterage. "There will be targets painted upon us and our house for this, by former friend and foe alike. Should Nymor somehow die, even by entirely natural cause, then Maron would become the head of House Martell, and the rightful lord of Sunspear, yet would still require a regent…"
"There are Dornish that wish for the Martells to no longer rule Dorne, but outside of the Martells themselves forswearing their claim, I fear these Dornish shall turn to more… bloody methods to make sure the Martells never rise again."
"They would kill Maron? He is but a boy who would never harm anyone. He even dislikes being in the training yard with the other boys!"
Casper turned to her. "He is still a boy, yes, but he is a boy that will one day become a man, Myllie. He will learn in the training yard to wield weapons of war, no matter how much he may dislike it now, and in my halls he will learn governance to rule those lands and vassals. So long as he breathes, he is a threat to them and their plans for Dorne's future, whoever 'they' may be. We must ensure our keep and lands are safe from intruders, and that Maron must always be guarded, even more before. He is no longer our hostage. We are now his protectors, until the revolt is quashed, and the civil war comes to an end."
"With the revolt and the war… you've been summoned again, haven't you?"
His silence was all she needed to know, and with it, the last of her patience snapped. Anger, despair, envy, it all welled in her throat as she threw herself upon him, sobbing into his neck as she clung to him, as a storm-tossed sailor adrift in a sea with only flotsam to cling to. Her husband wrapped her in his arms, those same safe arms that she had sought comfort in after the death of her grandfather, after the trials she had faced when her pregnancies had brought about foul moods and wild thoughts. Yet what could his arms do against summons to war once more?
It was not fair! Her husband had more than done his duty, as many times as he had had children! A child for every war was no legacy she wished for their houses, and now he was to be called away again? Why could they not be left in peace to grow their family and lands? Their daughters were old enough now that they would remember his absence. How long would he be gone from them, driving her sick with worry? Six moons? A year? Two years? She had never experienced a revolt, let alone a civil war, neither of them had. Would he be safe, directing the supplies and reinforcements from behind the safety of a castle wall, or would he be marching through dry, dusty lands, always at risk for the sting of a scorpion whilst he slept or the blade of some Dornish bandit or traitor?
Mylenda was not sure how long she cried there, her husband saying nothing, yet holding her close, his smell as comforting as his warmth. "It's not fair," she muttered, drying her tears upon his shirt as she tried to regain her composure. "Why must you be called to war again? Why? Can the king not see to this himself, with whomever he can muster? Why call the banners?" A dark part of her heart wanted to ask why not simply let the Dornish slaughter themselves until they were too weak to resist even a small force, but she bit back such an ill retort, vowing to seek forgiveness from a septon for such a wicked thought.
"The king is dead set upon marching into the Vale and subjugating the tribes in the hills and mountains, finally bringing peace to the Vale, having said so himself during his great tourney celebrations. Lord Baratheon will be leading the Stormlands into Dorne to put down the civil war and revolt, with Lord Tyrell coming from the north once he has established an area of calm. Prince Baelor is to be leading alongside Lord Baratheon in this."
"Did he summon you personally?" Well, if her husband marched alongside the prince, that'd likely be the next safest place other than in a castle.
"Nay, it was by Lord Baratheon's hand that I have been called. It will take them at least three moons to gather the supplies and men for the campaign to our east before they reach here. In that time…"
"We must try for a son," Mylenda whispered, hating how often her husband was pulled from her for the sake of Dorne. Bandits, war, false gods, what else would pull him there is she could not give him a son? Or was that fear of hers just an aftereffect of her crying? Surely her husband would not seek to replace her, or fall for the form of some voluptuous Dornishwoman…
"We will, Myllie, we will," her husband said, stroking her cheek as he laid them upon the bed, staring at one another in the pale light of the evening candles. "Have you been tracking your moonblood?"
"Yes, I have, ever since I bore Argella into this world. If I am not ready tonight, I will be very soon, but one can never be too certain," she said, steeling her nerves and trying to cast off the dark thoughts and fears that had plagued her. "I know it is not the most romantic way of doing this, it's almost a burden more than an act of love, but Casper…"
His kiss silenced her, a heat on his lips she had known and missed since the last time they had shared their bed, the feeling driving her breath from her as readily it did her worries. "Let me drive out those sad thoughts, Myllie. Tonight is the first night for us to try, and for three moons, we will try until I must leave. Yet until then, just as with our wedding vows, I am yours, and you are mine."
Despite her previous thoughts, and her emotions remaining messy, Mylenda giggled. Seven above, she loved her husband.