Chapter 75: SI POV XIX
Late 162 AC
Warning: contains (what we consider) war crimes consistent with medieval torture, imprisonment and Westerosi culture
You know, it's really a wonder that Westeros hasn't made more discoveries in the fields of science and medicine, what with all the resources they have lying all around. Of course, having wars every generation or two doesn't help move things forward, not even in the advent of warfare, and the really devastating ones take longer to recover from than I'd have ever expected. Add to that the meathead martial culture across the kingdoms, the sapping of talent by houses literally killing smarter or capable servants to deny an enemy house an advantage, and the plagues that devastate entire populations, and it's honestly a wonder that society has advanced as far as it has in all fields that do not involve magic.
So, far be it from me to call these people lesser than what I can still remember of my old life. Tidbits from then occasionally flit through my mind, and alongside the journals I've sequestered from my childhood hidey-holes into secure and as-weatherproofed-as-possible locked chests in our vaults, I've come to realize that taking credit for everything I've 'invented' is becoming an absolute chore. These days, I instead put ideas out to inquisitive and learned men and women, either as a task I want them to complete, or as a mere thought experiment. I'm guessing such conversations were how my mother managed to create a method eerily like double bookkeeping, but that might be giving myself too much credit. Westerosi are not drooling idiots after all, or at least, most of them are not.
"I'd have never thought to use this for such delicate and precise work," one of my lead medics said, studying the blades I'd managed to procure for them and those working with me in the bowels of Castle Wyl. Honestly, we need to come up with a better name for it, since the Wyls are all dead after all.
"It is extremely sharp, much more than any steel I've seen a blacksmith make," one of the maesters said, sent to replace the old Wyl maester after he'd died of a fever five months prior to my arrival. "Yet it is far too brittle to be used for anything substantially larger than a knife of sorts."
"I'd imagine the smallfolk of Dragonstone and other lands bearing this same material found uses for it quite some time ago, such as the cleaning of fish or the skinning of seals," I said, gingerly picking up one of the blades in question. "Yet for all the potential that dragonglass scalpels and knives may have for us in our experiments, let us not linger. Even if their death would not be missed, our subject's usefulness is currently the only reason we've kept him alive."
Not that any of the attended would care, seeing as what we were doing would move forward a whole host of realms of knowledge. As the de facto overseer of these lands, I'd long ago sorted the slow but steady flow of prisoners sent to Castle Wyl since the start of the conflict. Those whose crimes were 'merely' attacking us, aiding and abetting rebels or committing acts such as arson were imprisoned as per proper Westerosi protocol, though perhaps a touch better than some of them deserved. All were kept chained in small cells, but with enough food that they would not starve or die of malnutrition, rats were kept out to, and while they were not allowed outside for any reason, they were still allowed visitations by septons for the faithful among them for prayer and religious teachings. I'd even allowed for them to be washed every two weeks by several men with buckets of water tossed upon them, as well as a bar of rough soap that they had to return after every wash. Couldn't risk some enterprising Dornish to fashion a working key out of soap and attempt an escape or worse.
For those whose crimes were of the worst of the worst? Well, being branded outlaws by both Dornish and Iron Throne alike had removed any rights they once possessed, even for condemned men. This in turn opened up... opportunities, shall we say, for me to put them to better use. Sure, I could just kill them and be done with it, but with live outlaws on hand, there were some things that needed testing for Westeros, and indeed the world, to move forward. A serial killer kills people for the jollies of it. A 19th century doctor tries not to kill their patient, even without access to anaesthetic and antiseptic materials. I had the later in abundance, and up until recently, the latter had been in short supply.
No longer.
While not the first to have found himself at my tender mercies, our first subject today was courtesy of the army under Prince Baelor steadily marching south. He was of the sort that the other prisoners would have likely killed themselves, liking 'young meat' apparently and given the written testaments by too many witnesses for it to be mere hearsay or an attempt at framing, this man's own words had damned him the moment he'd entered the castle. Someone should have mentioned to him that 'they deserved it' for 'tempting him' were not only not valid excuses, but these words also indicated he felt no remorse for his actions.
Well, he soon would.
Yet we were not here just for him. Across from him lay another man, a local named Walter who had unfortunately taken a nail in his foot after falling through the rafters of an old barn. Even with trying to clean the wound with my distilled alcohol, evidently a piece of nail had been left lodged inside, and now the man's foot was beginning to turn septic. He was well respected in the community, having overseen many of the local orchards under the Wyls, and by sheer luck had offered his services to us to aid in keeping the peace. Why? Walter's daughter Wylla had received justice from Prince Baelor himself years before, in a trial against a man who savaged her, and as such this man's first (legitimate) grandchild from Wylla was named Baelor. Turns out that in this part of Dorne, that had become a somewhat popular name for boys in the past few years.
Entering the 'clean' room, whose entirety had been scrubbed as clean as possible with harsh soaps and then fitted with clean sheets, it was as close to a sterile room as I could get. On all sides, with their journals for notes at the ready, I surveyed the cadre of men and women under my protection within the old castle. Most, but not all, came from my lands, and those that did not had been working with me since I assumed my duties.
Pyromancers.
Maesters.
Medics.
Academics.
All here to witness potential history in the making for Westeros and the wider world, and all because some pyromancers decided to set up shop near Lowhill thanks to my maester. Turns out they not only knew how to functionally make wildfire and various other dangerous creations, they also knew how to make a wide variety of more 'base' substances that could then mixed and utilized for different reasons.
Case in point?
Pyromancers knew how to distill ether.
Gods damned, honest to Seven, actual ether. I'd only found out when they informed me that mishandling the stuff often left acolytes unconscious but usually unharmed. A few tests on some animals and voila, I was able to confirm ether was is in Westeros. As for the pyromancers, they mixed it into some of their 'recipes' for some strange reason, though apparently not wildfire, and I can't help but wonder what else they've cooked up over the years that they just haven't found another use for. Considering these guys made something like fireworks for Tywin's death in the original timeline, what with making a 'giant flaming green hand' in the sky, I fear they might have a gunpowder analogue stashed somewhere. However, the reason for their ether was with the two men before us. One, whose death would inevitably occur, especially if we got the dosage wrong again, and another whose life we were trying to save to gain goodwill and support from the locals.
The animals had been tested first, and we'd lost a few of the worst prisoners along the way, but eggs and omelettes and all that.
The head maester of this gathering looked to me, receiving a nod in return. "Administer the approximate dosage," he stated, nodding towards a pyromancer and medic alike. Working well in tandem, as many had learned to do under my supervision, the restrained condemned man was dosed with ether from the rather unique containers the alchemists kept them stored in. How they did not leak I did not know, as they simply looked like clay jars to me, but I was grateful they knew how to store the stuff. It took longer than I expected, especially since the prisoner was starting to hallucinate, but eventually the condemned was fully sedated, the only sign of life from his slowed breathing. It helped that the two men, despite being so different, were of an approximately similar height and build. Hopefully this would make things easier.
We monitored him for around half an hour, ensuring he did not suddenly choke on his own tongue or spit. His breathing remained steady at the dosage we had given him, all the while the attending staff prodded and poked at his extremities to gauge his responsiveness. Considering one of the staff purposefully dislocated three of the man's fingers, only for him to not wake up, showed immense progress and put to rest some of the maesterly fears of this 'Pyromancer brew' they had often called ether. Still, after fixing the man's fingers, we only had to wait a little while longer before he began to rouse himself.
"Ensure he remains under constant supervision and restraint, as it is entirely possible that he may suffer side effects if our dosage was not entirely accurate. Onto our other patient then, if you will," I said. Walter's life was far more important, and as such, he was sedated with just enough to ensure he would not feel a thing.
"My lord, it appears his injury has spread further than we expected," one of the medics said as they did one last examination.
"How far?"
"We were going to amputate just above the foot, but it appears the lower leg has suffered from the corruption until the midpoint, perhaps a handspan or two below the knee. If it is not removed as well, then the infection may persist after removal and spread beyond our ability to counter."
"Then remove the lower leg as well, but at the knee," I said. "Be sure to cut longer folds of skin as needed for stitching a better stump, as we did with the others." Those injuries had not been quite as severe as an amputated leg, usually fingers, hands or just a foot, but every precaution helped.
They continued their work, the stinking lower leg eventually separating as Walter, unresponsive save for his breathing, was made a cripple in a world where cripples tended to not live long or well. Yet he would live, and as his family had the means to support him, so too would I. Already, as the flaps of skin were sutured back over his knee stump, a team of carpenters and blacksmiths were working on a pet project of mine. This world's prosthetics were often beyond crude, but with a little insight gleaned from our dissections of dead prisoners, I would see to it that old Walter here would be able to walk with, at most, a cane as he lived out the rest of his life.
I left the room as Walter began to awaken to a new life, satisfied with the progress that would be imparted upon the medical practitioners of Westeros, only to find a messenger awaiting me with a pair of guards. Banners had been sighted approaching the castle, numbering that of only one house, but with a retinue near twice the size it would normally be in 'pacified' eastern Dorne. With outriders dispatched in similar number to escort them, I was determined to find out why House Jordayne of all Dornish had come to Castle Wyl.
I was not expecting whom I received into my care with bread and salt. I'd expected Lord Jordayne to arrive in such force, perhaps with some of his vassals in tow for business in the region. I'd even expected Stormlords to be among them if something had happened back at home or on the front lines that would see them passing through former Wyl lands. I was not expecting Lord Jordayne's daughter Allyria to be the one heading this party, nor the guest she brought with her.
"Lady Martell," I spoke, refreshments brought in by the servants after we had retreated to the cooler veranda overlooking the River Wyl. "I cannot stress how surprised I am to have you in my company. What brings you and Lady Jordayne to Castle Wyl?"
"This civil war, Lord Wytch," Lady Martell replied, acerbic yet subdued. Clearly not one of the Dornish to see the greater positives of joining the other kingdoms, yet wise enough to know outright insults would not go over well regardless of her station. "While my goodbrother never spoke of why he planned to venture to Skyreach in disguise, the fact remains that his death and those of others at that accursed meeting have driven Dorne into frenzy that has not seen since the time of Nymeria herself."
"Yet why are you here, Lady Martell, so far from Sunspear? And with Lady Jordayne no less?"
"My father and my lady are cousins, whose mothers were born to House Allyrion before marrying into Houses Jordayne and Fowler, Lord Wytch. It is part of why my name is such, being an homage to my grandmother's line," Lady Jordayne said. "My father will not leave his troops to the field any more than he would entrust Lady Martell's wellbeing to Dornish who have not proven themselves loyal to both House Martell and the Iron Throne."
"So it fell to you to deliver Lady Martell here because…?"
"I volunteered, rather than send my younger brother. He only just survived the massacre at Skyreach and is still recovering."
I frowned at the deflections. "Yet why are you here, Lady Martell, and not still in Sunspear? Has Prince Baelor lifted the siege of the city and news has not yet reached this far?"
"If only," Iris Martell said, her unsubtle glare no different than that of any other Dornish whose feelings I'd managed to hurt by being a part of the kingdoms who had conquered Dorne. I was used to it by now. "I fled in the dead of night, Lord Wytch, at the urging of my husband. Sunspear is as safe as it can be, given our circumstances, but Lord Martell thought it best for us to be apart for now. I did not wish for it, but I have my own reasons for not remaining in Sunspear despite that."
I said nothing for a few moments as she gingerly partook in some refreshments. She was a complete mystery to me, as we'd never met before today, and I was not a master of detecting falsehoods or reading body language. "I take it that now you are no longer hindered by the revolt, you will wish to see your children, especially Maron," I guessed.
She schooled her features as best she could, yet I could still see a touch of anger and sadness. "Yes, it has been near five years since I saw my son. He has been gone longer than I had him as my babe, and I cannot help but worry for him."
Yeah, that would suck. I couldn't imagine having to send any of my daughters to Dorne to be practically raised by strangers for the next five years. "Well, you should be pleased to know he is doing well in his studies. Despite his status in my keep, he remains a cheerful, innocent boy of nine, and has grown like a weed since we took him into our care."
"That is good to hear, but I… I worry he will be forgetting me after all this time."
"I doubt he would forget his mother," I assured her, conveniently neglecting to inform her the boy saw me as his father rather frequently. Unlike the (potential) future Ned Stark, I'd taken the boy close and not simply kept him at a distance in which resentment would breed. Then again, I acquired Maron at a far younger age than Theon had been…
"What of Dorne? Would he forget his place of birth?"
I paused, refraining from tapping my chin in thought. "We had endeavored to ensure his education is befitting of not only a scion of a house as old and great as Martell, but also for his potential future should the laws of Dornish succession be changed. We are not grooming him to assume the throne of Sunspear, mind you, merely giving him as many skills as he may need for when he becomes a man."
"I can't imagine many Dornish would stand for the loss of our succession practices," Lady Jordayne said.
"My lady, Dorne cannot quite make a case for attempting to retain such a practice. Had Dorne remained compliant and not thrown itself into both open revolt and a civil war that is claiming more and more of its own people every day, then perhaps she may have retained more of her heritage that the other kingdoms would no doubt wish to see subdued it not outright abolished."
"Such as you, no doubt, as it would neatly allow for my son to be as your puppet, and therefore Lord Baratheon's," Lady Martell huffed.
"Actually, my lady, I would prefer it if Dorne retained her succession practices." Judging from their disbelieving looks, I'd not convinced them in the slightest. "My own house will be undergoing a similar issue should my wife and I fail to produce a son, though judging from the letter I received yesterday, I shan't have to wait much longer."
"Why?" Lady Jordayne asked.
"My wife is with child, several moons along as of now, and the maester's writing indicates the pregnancy should be a healthy one." I'd been ecstatic when I'd read the note yesterday, so much so that I'd put off vivisecting that reprobate prisoner until today. Instead, all the other prisoners got an extra ration with their meals.
"I… suppose congratulations are in order then," Lady Martell ground out, clearly not happy for my good news.
Bitch.
"Yes, as the sooner that the fighting ends and peace be restored, the sooner I can return home to await the birth and be with my family. I've been there for the births of my three daughters, I would hate to miss this one if it were a son."
"That you can so freely spend time with your children is not to be taken for granted," Iris said, envy clear in her tone. "Were it so easy for me to venture out of Sunspear to visit my son and daughter, I would have in a heartbeat."
"What's stopping you now?" I asked. "You are no longer captive in Sunspear, and from Lady Jordayne's forces, there's not an enemy lord this far into Dorne that could threaten to waylay you."
"So you would think, Lord Wytch, but it only shows how little you know of Dorne," she replied haughtily. "My daughter and son are both wards of the Stormlands, leagues apart and years removed from my bosom. Letters were few and far between before the revolt, and thus I've not heard from them in months. Is it truly so difficult to conceive that I wish to be with them as a mother, and not as some mummer's farce to leave Dorne for nefarious means?"
Maybe, but there's a lot to be gained from being polite, lady, and frankly if it weren't for the little scroll you'd shown me upon arrival, I'd have had you find lodgings in the nearest town for you and your escort. Yet the prince's words, no doubt influenced by Allyria's lordly father, were not to be ignored, and as much as I hated to admit it, I knew Maron missed his mother at times. I missed my father at times too, and he's been gone for well over a decade, not to mention the faces of my first family; names coming only in the whispers of dreams amongst all else I've come to know in this second life.
Yet before I could answer, she nodded to one of her guards. From his small satchel, he retrieved a scroll and offered it to one of my guards. Unsure of what to make of this, especially since Lady Martell remained silent, I accepted the offered scroll. The seal bore the personal sigil… of Lord Baratheon. I opened it carefully, wondering just what he had for me that he would entrust to Lady Martell.
By the time I finished it, my mood had… drastically worsened. She'd kept this from me upon her arrival, and waited until now to present it? Duplicity, malicious compliance, or was she merely trying to throw me off while scoring some petty 'victory' over a former foe? "We shall speak of this during dinner," I ground out, wondering just why the world kept trying to fuck with me even as I tried to help it. It was safer for Lady Martell to be in the Stormlands as opposed to Dorne, even the occupied portions of it, but why was I the one who had to deal with this?
The light of day steadily faded as night drew closer, the twinkling stars beginning to take their place as I stood upon the battlements, surveying the lands before me. Yes, even as someone who lived in a land far greener, I could appreciate the austere beauty of a land like this. As much as I could find peace in its grand vistas, I longed to return home once the conflict ceased. It had not occurred as I had planned for, as I had tried to predict, and a great many changes had come barreling down upon me, taking me by surprise in what felt like the first time in years. I had planned for some things to be altered, but not this much, for I could not have anticipated just what my arrival had done to Westeros. Nadresy and Aeon were not in canon, Baelor was leading the effort to put down the Dornish revolt turned civil war, Daeron was still alive and pacifying Vale tribes, the future Lord Jonnel Stark was learning of my ways in the south, and untold other wrinkles were adding themselves to the fabric of reality. For all that much had stayed the same after my arrival, far more had changed than I had anticipated.
I could no longer rely on my scattered memories of what the world would have been like, especially not after these past few months. Now I was to venture into uncharted waters, with potential danger around every corner and no telling what the future held for me, my family, or Westeros. "Yet," I muttered, looking down as my fist unclenched, "is that so bad?"
"Pardon me, my lord," a voice said, and I turned to find Lady Jordayne, dressed for the evening in a gown that highlighted her beauty without showing a great deal of skin. It was very modest for Dornish dress, come to think of it, perhaps to deal with cooler nights nearer the coast. "Were you speaking with someone?"
"Nay, just myself," I said, turning back to the landscape that twilight was slowly swallowing. "Thinking aloud helps with my decisions sometimes, especially the more difficult ones. What brings you out here, my lady? I did not take you for a stargazer."
"I must admit I do love the stars, but rather I found my feet as restless as my mind and decided to go for a walk. Your guards have been most helpful in directing myself and my bodyguards throughout the castle."
I glanced over at the door, where her two guards stood beside my own. Must have asked them to remain as she came to speak with me. "I see. Have you spoken with Lady Martell?"
She frowned. "Since supper? Some, though not as much as we've in the past, perhaps because of how… awkward supper was. I thought it best to leave her alone, to think things over without my immediate input."
I restrained an errant chuckle. "I guess I wasn't the only one to notice it either?"
She shook her head, her braided hair cascading down past her shoulders. "I believe the offer is more than fair, even going so far as to be overly generous given the history of our kingdoms, and yet I cannot for the life of me understand why she would be so hesitant to accept it. Surely, if my father believes there to be a plot against House Martell, then would she not be safer outside of Dorne, in lands out of the way enough to be considered safe?"
"Even if that is true, her behavior is likely from the stipulations I was allowed to make by Lord Baratheon," I said, idly connecting the stars in what constellations I had come to learn were unique to Westeros. Or to spite and insult me, she'd done a fair bit of that before through somewhat flowery words, but I'd brushed most of it off, having heard far worse. "She knows she cannot control every Dornish that may go with her, and for her to be held accountable for any suspicious injury or death that would occur does not sit right with her. Admittedly, it is overzealous, but I am as zealous for the safety of my family as I am for the completion of the tasks assigned to me by the king himself, make no mistake."
"Some would think it foolish, to invite Lady Martell to the home of a Stormlord, especially one with such a… unique history with Dorne," Allyria said. "Yet from what I know of the letter, or what Lady Martell has told me, he is offering your house the chance to host the Lady of Sunspear as a guest for the foreseeable future, or until the revolt has ended and peace returns."
"I already host the second son of Lord Stark, the sons of two Reach and Stormland houses apiece, Lady Martell's own son Maron, and now we're to be expected to offer sanctuary to the lady whose goodbrother was murdered by unknown assassins in Skyreach. That is not even beginning to consider my sisters and mother, mine own daughters, my wife and the unborn child still within my wife's womb. Who else am I to foster and host in my walls?" I asked, unable to bite back the temper seeping into my voice. "Vale clan refugees? Essosi diplomats? Perhaps giants from beyond the wall, whom I shall teach farming in our warmer lands and provide great pastures for their mammoths?"
Lady Jordayne looked at me strangely. "I was under the impression that giants did not exist."
I shook my head. "I trust Jonnel's word, and in the past, he has spoken with men in Winterfell of such mannish creatures roaming north of the Wall. Given what I and Baelor have experienced, is it so strange to think of giants when we have battled far worse?"
"Then why not simply write to Lord Baratheon to politely decline this offer? Even if she is… disagreeable, she could at least stay in this castle for the time being."
"Were my house older and more established, I'd have done so in a heartbeat, my lady. Yet my house is young, too young to simply pass things by, for I am merely the second generation of its existence. Lords have been gravely insulted for far lesser slights than denying the likes of Lady Martell into their homes. If Lord Baratheon 'suggests' that Lady Martell be hosted in my castle, then I shall have to accept such a 'generous' offer from my liege lord." I paused, considering how this might backfire on me, and the possibilities were… substantial. Lady Martell had very, very few with her that would remain by her side, if only because of how hard it had apparently been to sneak her out of Sunspear. With so few attendants, she would be forced to heavily rely on whomever she was a guest of, which likely galled a lady whose position in society was much, much higher than my own.
"At the very least," Allyria said, taking advantage of my silence, "then young Maron will be able to spend time with his mother again. I cannot imagine what it would be like to have been separated from my own mother at such a young age."
"Were it not for Maron's uncle at the time, then he may never have had to leave Sunspear in the first place. Arthur Martell was offered generous terms of capitulation for Dorne to end the war before the sacking and reduce the toll on both sides of the conflict. Had he accepted, then perhaps both of her children might have remained in Sunspear and the number of hostages taken as wards would not have been so numerous. Yet his pride made him refuse, and this has led to where are now, for better or for worse."
"To host a lady of such standing is indeed an honor many others would greatly wish for," the Dornishwoman said. "Yet your reluctance seems entirely at odds with what I have heard of you, my lord. I can understand much of your hatred for our ways, as my father has explained, but surely not all Dornish can be considered to be cut from the same cloth as Alfrid Sand, the Wyls or Arthur Martell?"
I was not surprised she was perplexed. Many tales had come from my first interactions with the Dornish, and had only grown more and more outlandish with time. "No, Lady Jordayne, I do not blame or treat all Dornish as I did raiders and the like. To do so would be shortsighted and ignorant, as I have Dornish in my own lands that have served faithfully for well over a decade now, with no trouble to show for it. As for my reluctance... it stems not from a position of arrogance or fear, my lady, but from the fact that I already have so many such 'honors' foisted upon me. I did not ask to be made a lordly quartermaster for the Conquest of Dorne, nor did I seek to have young Maron as my hostage and ward. I did not seek to be the lordly quartermaster again during this conflict. All these decisions were not my own, but those decided by others of greater rank and title. Now I am being 'offered' such an honor again, and there are sayings about chances and things coming in thirds."
She seemed surprised by this confession. "Do you believe ill will come of this? Of Lady Martell fleeing Sunspear and retreating to another kingdom? I cannot recall the last time when someone of such a high standing had to flee their own kingdom, save for perhaps Viserys of House Targaryen attempting to flee during the Dance."
"Whether or not I believe so will change little of what will occur, save for me attempting to be more prepared than not," I said. Why was I telling her this? Why was I bothering to tell this former enemy anything like this, things that could surely be used against me? Certainly, all it would take was a little word twisting and I'd be known as an ungrateful young lord, unwilling to accept a few more responsibilities given to me by Lord Baratheon. Whether the words came from Dornish lips or not would matter little to my enemies, and through the likes of the Fossoways and the Darklyns, I now knew I had some enemies that would delight in seeing me brought low. The boot had dropped for Dorne with the revolt turning into a civil war. Where was the boot dropping for my own life? Had I lucked out in my youth, and that dropping boot had been the untimely death of my father, or had it yet to fall and ruin so much of what I had managed to build in this life?
Or was I just growing increasingly paranoid? The two houses with whom I had terrible relations were in other kingdoms, far from my own lands, and I was under the protection of both House Baratheon as his direct vassal and as a house with close ties to House Targaryen. Nadresy was dead, their essence gone from my life and the world at large. Sure, the future was no longer as certain as it had been, but since when was the future certain for anyone? The Jordaynes had proven themselves as capable and loyal to the new order, to House Targaryen in particular, and while I knew nothing of their schemes, if Baelor wrote that they were trustworthy, then trust them I would. Yet as the saying goes, I would also verify.
Come to think of it, in regards to... all of this, my wife and mother had the right of it, for years now in fact. I needed to let go of some of this… obsession was not the right word, but perhaps compulsion fit better. Yes, the compulsion to control everything, it was strong but pulling me in twenty different directions at once. The stress of always needing to be in control was going to kill me quicker than old age, the battlefield or sickness would.
I noticed Lady Jordayne looking at me with a puzzling expression, as if she were trying to interpret a rather abstract painting. "Yes?" I asked.
"Merely trying to see how so much I've heard about you was right, and yet how much was so wrong," she replied. "Yet despite that, you show a great generosity in even contemplating Lady Martell staying within your keep as a guest, and not as a prisoner."
"For being such a 'generous' host, I'm going to have to ensure that she understands the position she will be in, regardless of how my liege lord has phrased his 'offer' in that scroll," I said. "As I doubt she will be willing to listen tomorrow after how… heated supper became, would you relay my terms to her?"
"Indeed, Lord Wytch, as I will be part of her escort into the Stormlands."
"Then I will be sending riders and ravens ahead of your departure, to ensure my wife and lady mother know what to prepare for," I said. For as shitty of a spot I was put in, there was plenty I could do to eliminate dangers to my family, and perhaps even put a stop to any early thoughts of turning Maron against me. I did not love him like he was my own son, but I did feel protective of him enough to perhaps be his surrogate father.
"A reasonable decision, my lord."
"Any slights against my family or wards will result in a loss of freedoms within the castle, and the greater the insult the longer such restrictions will remain in place. She is to be my guest, but she can very quickly become my prisoner if she decides to insult freely where she was not welcome to begin with. The few men and women with her shall be thoroughly searched for anything that may be used as a weapon or poison, and Lady Martell's own people will serve as tasters for both her and my family." When Allyria said nothing to this, I continued. "As for her people, they shall always be escorted, save to sleep and eat their own meals. Should anyone in my castle come down with an unexplained illness, I will blame Lady Martell unless my maester proves otherwise. If anyone should become suddenly sickened by something else, I will blame her. If anyone dies from such unknown causes, and my maester and medics can determine the cause was poison, she shall be held responsible."
"I… I see," Lady Jordayne said.
"Lastly, should anything happen to my family, anything at all," I growled, unwilling to reign in my anger, "then not only shall I hold her responsible, then the agreement through Lord Baratheon will be rendered null and void, and I will eject Lady Martell from my lands." I paused for a moment, watching the Dornishwoman digest what I had said. "As for you, Lady Jordayne…"
"Yes?"
"If it so pleases you, while escorting the Lady Martell, you are welcome to stay in Stormhall until the time arises you must return home to Dorne, though your retinue will have to stay in Lowhill, as I've not the room for so many. Lord Jordayne has been of great help to Lord Baratheon and Prince Baelor, and it would be remiss of me to simply cast out his daughter after she delivered my guest to safety." I had no reason to mistrust this woman, and for all that I'd had troubles with Dornish in the past, a part of me wanted to make some amends. The Jordaynes could be my first major steps for some reconciliation with Dorne as a whole, though I'd likely be a boogeyman for generations to come.
That, and let's be real here, being kind to her cost me nothing, but could gain me a great deal of potential sand from Dorne. Why sand? Well, with Gorman's hotter furnaces I used for making my Wytchstone, I was in the mood to start looking into making glass. Nothing extravagant or extreme mind you, I wasn't looking to make glass gardens or stained glass like from Essos. No, I was merely looking into eventually making bottles for my alcohol and other substances, though I was not yet sure on canning jars themselves. Some parts of Dorne had sand that was from the wind-eroded portions of mountains, many made of quartz. Sure, I had mountains to my south, but very little sand of comparable quality to work with.
Hopefully the Myrish wouldn't find out. Maybe if I don't sell it then they won't be troubled by it.
"I… will give it some thought, Lord Wytch, and relay your words to Lady Martell," Allyria said, bowing politely. "I bid thee goodnight, my lord."
"Goodnight, Lady Jordayne," I replied, watching her go before turning back to the now-dark landscape.
My bed cried out to me not long after Lady Jordayne's departure, and it was with heavy steps that I managed to find it before collapsing into it, exhaustion plaguing my body and fatigue battering my mind. I looked forward to sleep, but once more found myself not in some quiet, dark slumber, but in another world. Dreamscapes and I had had a… complicated relationship, since I'd awoken in this world many years ago. Sometimes I'd get visions of my previous life, often moments I regretted or random memories of simpler times, when I was not a lord but a simple man, trying to make my way in the world and make my family proud. At other times I would see faraway places, ones I had not visited or had only heard of from bards or in books. Some I still saw when I slept, intermixed with whatever oddness would infect the landscape in my dream, and every so often, I could see another dreamscape in the distance, like one from my own mind but not of my creation. I dare not intrude, fearing what might occur should I be… uninvited, and so I stayed within my own mind.
What had once been such a clear place in my dreams was… reduced, lesser, as if a great haze of oily smog had descended upon what had once been clean and defined. I was no longer at the beck and call of the gods of these lands, to appear before them in a method of their choosing, or in a place of their design or influence. Now I was the one who controlled not only when I dreamed, but their contents as well. The calls of the gods have become mere whispers compared to before, like a curtain of light rain passing by in the night rather than the crash of thunder that rattled a castle.
Yet rather than atop a great boat upon an ocean, or in the middle of some field, or high in the skies above the lands I had grown to love, I sat upon a simple throne, that not of a king but a mere lord, in a hall whose expanse disappeared unto the horizon in all directions, save for the doors that lay behind me. The gods were not here, not this time, barred upon entering my domain unless the matter was most urgent, or I had questions for them. Even when they did appear, they were mere shades and indistinct forms, the likes of which I'd seen displayed with puppets and shadow mummers during festivals. It was honestly rather sad, as if I'd known someone charismatic and powerful earlier in my life, but I'd come back to them whilst they were in the throes of deep dementia or cancer, much of what they had once been now degraded or outright lost. It made me feel just a touch bad for these gods to be this reduced, but after what I've lived through in this world, I now know better than to feel anything more than that. Pity can lead to dangerous ideas when it comes to weakened beings like these, and I was not about to make a sort of deal with them that could see everything I'd done brought to ruin.
Yet for how little I cared for these gods, I still sought their advice when answers eluded me for too long. Nadresy was dead, yes, but the essence of such powerful beings tended to linger in the wind. I had seen no evidence of the monster's continued survival, yet the last words of the beast before Baelor and I had killed it had haunted me far too often for my liking. A curse, meant to inflict harm upon my family, was not something I could just ignore.
So I had asked the gods, and breathed a sigh of relief upon receiving their answer.
The magic that leeched out of Nadresy's body had been immediately scooped up by the gods witnessing the showdown and channeled into the world itself, lest some vestige of the monster might remain and try to reform under a cult or continue to poison the world. This was apparently a problem many thousands of years ago, where a slain godling creature could linger on as a malevolent shade, or even return through dark rituals. This also revealed to me that a portion of Dorne's oddly nationalistic unity was due to his malign influence. Why? His creators had bid him as a protector, but a protector also needed protection, and sacrifices could not be made if the people were constantly at war with one another. Now, with Nadresy gone, this semi-forced unity was just as susceptible to fracturing as it had been before Nymeria's arrival. As for what they gods had done with that lingering essence?
Well, there was a reason why the winter after Nadresy's demise had been only a year, much to the relief of everyone. People across Westeros had been proclaiming it as a sign of the favor of the gods upon House Targaryen for uniting Dorne and for the expedition of Prince Baelor. Turns out the gods had done so to try and avert the changed course in destiny brought on by my arrival, just so the seasons would more align with what the future dictated in the original timeline. Sucks to suck though, seeing as even then it'll still be a bit off, and the bastards don't even try and tell me how long the seasons will be.
Honestly, it's a good thing I don't know that sort of thing. I can't even imagine the kind of power over others I would have if I knew to the day when summer would start, or when winter would end. Then again, perhaps it's best I don't know that sort of thing, seeing as it might drive me nuts trying to run everything on a timetable that nobody else can see or understand.
My dream court was empty this night, with only the shades of past visitors moving about, as gentle fog within a valley in summer, indistinct and unbothered by myself or one another. Rising from my throne, I walked past the great tapestries my mind had constructed, the likes of which showcased important memories of mine.
The first time I had flown a kite with my sisters.
Kneeling by my dying father's bedside, promising vengeance in his name and for our house.
Slaying Lord Craggner in combat all those years ago.
The day Prince Baelor became as a little brother to me, and the friendship that followed.
The day I married Mylenda, and the nights that followed, a tapestry that was thankfully private to the rest of the world.
The births of my daughters, of their first words, their first steps, of looking upon them and knowing I would fight the gods themselves to keep them safe.
The night I had saved Baelor's mind from the malign influence of Nadresy, showcasing how far man could come if they began to realize their own potential.
The slaying of that false godling alongside the prince, the freeing of the people of Brightwater, and the spreading prosperity and change I was bringing to Westeros.
Yet my hall was seemingly endless, blank spaces upon clean stone where more tapestries would be, showcasing memories important to me. All around, the quiet was peaceful as I walked, my footsteps barely above that of a whisper, yet softly echoing across the hall. I wondered how else I might make use of this headspace. Could I create replicas of this things I had had built here, as a means of safely storing them to observe when I slept? Could I-,
"Casper," a voice said, clear and strong and filled with emotions that tore at my heart. I turned to one of the greater tapestries of my mind, one showing much of my time as Baelor's friend. This tapestry, however, was unlike the others, for the events and figures upon it moved, showing deeds and memories in equal clarity. Yet upon this tapestry was a woven door, whose size never altered, position never changed, but whose state had changed for me only once before.
When I had entered the mind of Baelor in his sleep, to save him from going mad with knowledge he should not have been exposed to, to stop him from falling into soul crushing despair brought on by visions of a timeline that no longer existed. I had sworn to never again enter that day, fearing what might happen if the prince thought me as godly, or worse, a fraud.
"Casper," I heard again, and it hurt to hear him in such a state. The prince's voice was one of pain, of despair, not unlike what I had heard in the voices of those who had lost loved ones, or those dealing with a situation that was tearing them apart. I had ignored his calls for me in the past after the last time, my worries of exposure overriding the concern I felt for him. I'd not told a single other soul in this world after my father where I was from, or what I could know. Yet his cries came from that tapestry door, begging for relief from a malady I knew nothing of.
Just what was happening to the prince, that he cried out for me in his dreams once again?