The kitchens of Storm's End were warm even when the wind battered the outer walls. Heat clung beneath the rafters, gathering around iron hooks and copper kettles, and the scent of boiled barley and salted pork settled thick in the air. Servants moved with practiced rhythm, boots scraping stone as they hauled sacks from storage to hearth.
Orys paused at the threshold.
He had come for bread, but something in the tone of the cook's muttering drew his attention instead.
A pair of stablehands staggered beneath a grain sack that sagged badly along one seam. As they shifted it onto the table, the stitching gave way with a soft tearing sound, and pale kernels spilled in a scatter across the flagstones. One of the men cursed under his breath and dropped to his knees to gather what he could.
"Careless stacking," the cook grumbled. "We'll have rot before winter at this rate."
Orys stepped forward, the hem of his tunic brushing the stone. "Why are they splitting?"
The cook started at the sound of his voice and bowed quickly. "My lord Orys."
"They're stacked too high," Orys said, ignoring the bow. He pressed his palm against the torn fabric. The weave felt damp along one edge. "The weight presses the lower sacks thin."
"It's how it's always been done," the cook replied, uneasy now.
Orys crouched, lifting a handful of fallen grain and letting it sift through his fingers. "It's resting against the outer wall," he said. "The stone draws in the damp. The sacks weaken."
He rose and glanced toward the storeroom beyond the kitchen archway. Shadows lay heavy there, broken only by thin shafts of light slipping through high slits in the stone.
"How much was ordered this autumn?" he asked.
"Four shipments," came a dry voice from behind him.
Stannis stood just inside the doorway, a narrow ledger tucked beneath his arm. He did not bow.
Orys held out his hand. Stannis gave him the book without ceremony.
The ink was neat, the columns straight. Orys skimmed the figures quickly, lips tightening.
"The fourth shipment is light," he said.
"Six percent," Stannis answered.
"From where?"
"Harvest Hall."
Orys closed the ledger and returned it. "Either their measure was poor," he said, "or someone took coin before it reached us."
The cook shifted again, as if wishing himself invisible.
"If they were stealing from here," Orys added quietly, "they would not split the sacks."
Stannis inclined his head slightly.
Orys stepped into the storeroom. The air was cooler, tinged faintly with salt. He ran his hand along the outer wall and felt the chill lingering in the stone.
"This wall faces the sea," he said. "Move the stacks two feet inward. Leave space for air. Rotate the bottom row forward every fortnight."
The cook hesitated. "It will take time, my lord Orys."
"Then begin now."
Behind him, Robert's laughter burst through the kitchen doors like a thrown spear. He strode in damp from the yard, seized a heel of bread without asking, and bit into it as though famine were a distant myth.
"You counting sacks now?" Robert asked through a mouthful.
"Counting what feeds us," Orys replied.
Robert shrugged. "There's always more grain."
"Until there isn't."
Robert grinned. "You sound like a maester."
Orys did not answer. He watched as the servants began shifting the sacks under his direction, pulling them away from the damp stone and lowering the stacks to more manageable heights. The work was slow but steady.
Robert lingered only long enough to snatch another piece of bread before returning to the yard.
Stannis remained.
"You intend to write to Harvest Hall?" he asked.
"Yes."
"They won't like being questioned by a boy."
"Then they should send full measures."
Stannis regarded him for a moment, weighing something unspoken. At last, he gave a short nod and followed Robert out.
Orys stood a while longer in the warmth of the kitchen, watching the reordering of the room. The torn sack had been tied shut again. The spilled grain gathered and salvaged.
It was a small thing.
Six percent.
A split seam.
A damp wall.
But winter did not come all at once. It crept in small losses and unnoticed cracks.
Outside, the sky had begun to clear. Sunlight touched the battlements in pale streaks, and the sea below resumed its steady assault against the cliffs.
Storm's End endured because someone had once thought to build it thick enough to withstand the tide.
Orys meant to do the same.