Chapter 56: Kingsguard VI
Early 158 AC
Heavy wood met its brethren in a sharp crack, the impact sending a jolt down Thorne's arm. Yet the pain or discomfort he might have felt as a youth was greatly dulled, near nonexistent at this point, for his training had never ceased after joining the vaunted Kingsguard. His mind on the here and now, he again met his training sword with another, the blow carrying more of its own force than what Alliser need put behind it. To swing too hard was to leave oneself potentially unbalanced, and should a foe prove quicker or able to expect this, there could be a deadly result to follow.
The prince parried as he had shown him, moving at the same time to remove himself should the blow be greater than anticipated. A follow-up was countered, and back and forth they went, trading blows or steps as needed. The prince had improved from years before, but even now, Thorne was holding back just enough to challenge his charge, but not overwhelm him. The boy was growing better with a sword, aye, but his true passion lay in other weapons, those that many in Westeros might not find as suitable for someone of royal blood.
One more clash, and they drew apart, before Thorne signaled the end of their bout. Their training yard, impromptu given the weather and the lands, did not yet have a master at arms, but that would hopefully change by next week. Lord Baratheon had deigned they would stay in Castle Wyl for two moons, and no more, before returning to Storm's End to see to his lands and his family. While there were no Baratheon cousins alive to administer in Royce's name, there were plenty who could maintain the peace while the Lord Paramount oversaw his own house. Wordlessly, Baelor set aside the training sword and removed his padding, the young man's muscled form greater than it had been at the start of the war, the constant moving in an army leaving little time to accrue fat. Indeed, Ser Thorne knew that more than one maid would make as if busy while the training yard was in use, if only to catch glimpses of the young man. None were so bold as to approach the prince, thankfully, for it was just around the age when the boy would begin to feel urges, those Thorne believed to have purged from his own mind years before with his oath.
"A quick bath, then to the study?" Baelor said.
"Indeed, my prince," Thorne replied, following close behind after retrieving his sword. He was glad to be indoors, for while the heat of the Dornish sun always beat down on his armor, this day things were much different. Dorne's hot, dry summers gave way to slightly cooler, but far wetter winters, and as the storm raged outside and rain fell for the first time in ages, Ser Thorne was grateful they were no longer on a march. Castle Wyl was by now well-stocked and manned with plenty of good soldiers, many from the Stormlands, and save for a few places where the damage from the siege had not yet been fully repaired, they were dry from the torrents falling around them.
However, even with the respite from the heat and the knowledge that the lands around them would bloom within a matter of days, there was still work to be done within the great fortress, namely ensuring the safety of its newest occupants. The number of smallfolk from the Stormlands serving among the castle staff was yet low, for they trusted none of the Dornish that remained in the castle. Most had fled after the death of the last Wyl, but some had nowhere else to go and had elected to surrender themselves to their new overlords. Suffice to say, each and every one was escorted by at least one guard at all times, no matter their duties. Nothing yet had occurred to warrant interrogation, but in Thorne's opinion, it was only a matter of time.
Hence, the number of tasters ensuring no food or drink was poisoned, and unless they ensconced in their small quarters, none of the castle staff were ever truly alone. Lord Baratheon was not taking any risks, citing the precautions as hard lessons learned from the mistakes of previous conquerors, no matter the kingdom or era. Besides, with the prince and heir to the Iron Throne also locked inside the castle due to the weather, the chances of something ill or unfortunate occurring could not be discounted.
With the bath taken care of, and dressed in the finer clothes in his size, Thorne watched as Baelor began his personal studies. For even if his charge was spending the day on scholarly matters, with dusty tomes and books laid out neatly before him, he yet guarded Baelor, even in this old solar. Time spent in this study seemed to drag, yet as it rained outside, there was little else to occupy Baelor's time, and it showed with how fervently he compared old scrolls and withered books. Indeed, some of these were likely relegated only to the collection the Wyls had had, given their… immoral history.
"The years are proving to be hard to corroborate before the Conquest, Ser Thorne," Baelor said after some time, slumping into his seat and rubbing his youthful face. "Some of these sources originate in Essos, before and after the Doom, and others are yet from the Stormlands or the Reach. I must be missing something that properly connects these together in a coherent manner, but for the life of me, I cannot deduce what that might be."
"From my understanding, my prince, most kingdoms used their own calendars independent of others to determine their years, usually through denoting the unification of their kingdom. Dorne's history of unification before the Martells was always unclear, given that while they elected High Kings, none of those kings had the sort of power your family does, or likewise the Starks, Arryns and Lannisters did of old."
"To say nothing of the Durrandons or Gardeners, or how the lands of Essos manage," Baelor added, peering rapidly between two older texts. "I believe the Dornish use a calendar denoting the time of both Nymeria's arrival, and that of the final unification of these lands, but matching that up with others is proving highly difficult, as there were many years between those two events depending on which lords surrendered or fought on against the Rhoynish princess. At least towards the later years they all begin to match, but even then, they then do not easily match with books outside of Dorne."
"Best to assume any mention of dragons is from the first conflict between the Conqueror and Meria Martell's rule then, my prince."
"Indeed, but the accumulation of Wyl power that so sharply rises with Blackadder is noted in several Dornish sources, but none outside these lands. It's as if the people from then, if their works survive, did not want him to be remembered, which is understandable given his lengthy list of feats and crimes. Despite that, I doubt that old Blackadder would let the treasures he accrued simply be spent away by his descendants without leaving behind some sort of legacy, but we were already in the vaults. For all the treasures the Wyls did possess before their extinction, none match what the books say."
"The vaults were not so thoroughly searched as one might think, for we left for the war soon after taking the castle. It is possible they are yet within the deeper caverns, somewhere."
Baelor retrieved another book, one far smaller than the others, more of a tiny bound ledger than anything. "Perhaps," he began, perusing the contents. "I just find it so odd that such treasure would be gone. It is not as if…"
"Yes, my prince?" Thorne asked, noting the immediate change in the boy's gaze. Excitement, curiosity, perhaps even a bit of… disgust?
"The Wyls indeed had their treasure," Baelor replied, turning another page. "There is mention in here from one Doran Wyl, dated…" he paused, holding up the tome he had brought with him and comparing the two. "It mentions the coming of the dragons, but it does not say specifically which time, as there were two wars between House Targaryen and Dorne before Meria Martell died, and several more afterwards until the Conciliator himself, discounting any Vulture hunts."
"Likely the first, my prince, for while the Dornish threw out the armies of the Iron Throne during the initial Wars of Conquest, there was no mention as far as I know of the great Wyl hoard when this castle was first taken. Surely someone would have said something upon finding such a great hoard, as even the dragonfire of your ancestors could not reach into the deeper vaults."
"Indeed. By this journal, the treasure was 'spirited away' to somewhere, but it's rather cryptic. It mentions a brother of Doran bringing it away for safekeeping, but no mention of his return. The way it is written, it's almost as if they somehow sacrificed this treasure, but surely that cannot be it, it just sounds so… barbaric."
"So either the brother died en route to the hiding place, losing the treasure somewhere in the wilds of Dorne, hence the appearance of sacrificing treasure, which I agree is ridiculous," Thorne surmised, tapping his chin in thought. "Or he managed to deliver it wherever he did but did not return for whatever reason."
"I find the first less likely than the latter," the prince said. "None of the vaults we saw anywhere in Dorne as my brother's war concluded bore any sign of such a hoard of wealth either. Many did not even possess the space for such a massive collection, not even Sunspear's own, and if they had had the wealth of old Blackadder, then Nymor Martell would have no doubt honored his threat of hiring the Faceless Men to assassinate my ancestor Aenys."
"Indeed, any lord who could accomplish that to see your house suffer would have been lauded all over Dorne. Yet no such wealth was available to do so… so where did it go?"
Baelor set the latter book down, further perusing the smaller one. "Doran here mentions an old safeguard, in case Valyria came to Dorne's shores looking to expand the Freehold."
"A weapon, perhaps? Something that the Rhoynish carried with them, either in case of dragon attack or to defend against dragons upon finding a new home?"
"Perhaps, but a safeguard such as this, that appears to not be mentioned anywhere else? I would say it does not exist, save for the fact that even when burned by dragonfire, the majority of Castle Wyl's interior, carved far and deep into and under the mountains and hills, remained untouched. In fact, I would wager that this journal," Baelor added, pointing at a specific passage, "is likely the only survivor of what must have been a great deal more common source of information. Near every castle in Dorne was burned by my ancestors, at least once if I recall, and to say nothing of the ravages of time destroying forgotten or misplaced sources of knowledge…"
"So the Wyl library survived what many others were destroyed from, and thus, we find this reference, with nothing else to support or deny it," Ser Thorne replied. Vexing, to be sure, especially for someone as equally bookish and dutiful as Baelor, but to the Kingsguard, it was a mystery upon yet another mystery. "For all we know, it may have been some esoteric knowledge of Rhoynish water magic, but that was long gone by the time your ancestors landed upon the continent. We must then assume that the Wyls in the time of this 'Doran' secreted away this vast hoard of wealth without involving other houses. Where could they have taken it without it being found by the armies of the Conqueror, taken by fellow Dornishmen, or simply lost to the wastes?"
Baelor slowly paced over to a large map upon the wall, rather faded and fraying around the edges, but still viable enough to remain a useful tool. With his free hand, he placed it upon the marker signifying House Wyl's seat of power, and slowly drew out a line, stopping a certain distance away and roughly encircling the entire area.
"They did not take it by sea, for Dorne has been blockaded in nearly every war against my house, save for when the Conciliator annihilated their invasion fleet," Baelor said, moving his hand away from the coast as Thorne stood by him. "They also lacked the ships to do so, I've seen what survives of the ledgers from that time, and even with their trade fleet larger then than it was these days, it was nowhere near enough to haul in so few ships as to try and remain undetected, nor was any wreckage found of any that tried to escape but were caught in a storm."
"How much was there, by estimation?"
"Tons and tons, yet by total coin it was not as much as most might expect, as the value in this hoard lay not in just piles of gold and silver, but in everything else that came with it. I found a partial tally of it, with much ruined by pests or water, and even what remained in those pages was astounding. Carved ivory from both the Isle of Elephants and mammoths north of the Wall, from when Hardhome yet thrived as the wildling center of trade with the outside world. Great carvings and figurines of jade from Yi Ti, intricate jewelry of tourmaline, Tiger's eye, emerald and countless others from lands and people across Essos, and old statues carved from the same oily stone of Asshai and other ancient lands. Woodcarvings from trees native only to Sothoryos, necklaces of polished claws from the walking lizards of that same dark continent, silken shawls and fine crafts from the isle of Naath, and great coral sculptures from around the coasts of the Summer Isles. So much more was among this great haul, including unknowable treasures from when the Freehold was at its greatest height," Baelor finished, looking a touch sad as his hand traced the map. "To think of all that has been lost, never to be had again, with the fall of my ancestral homeland. Of the collapse of Naathi silk-making from the slavers multiplying during the Century of Blood, or the isles Elissa Farman discovered, only never to return with even more discoveries. Of Hardhome and its mysterious destruction, or of the great trade routes to the East that few Westerosi may ever venture through, given the distances and pirates, slavers and worse awaiting them 'round every island."
"It is not all terrible, my prince, for as a land Westeros stands more united than any Essosi land could claim to," Thorne replied. "Under the rule of ancient houses tied together by the Iron Throne, and now with Dorne coming into the fold, perhaps a new age will dawn for these lands, as the Dance fades from memory and the peoples grow closer in prosperous times. Perhaps one day Westeros may mirror the splendor lost to the ages during the Doom."
"A beautiful dream," Baelor said with a sad smile, his hand moving away from Yronwood, and towards the north and west.
"A dream worthy of a Targaryen prince," Ser Thorne said. "With your brother as king, there is no doubt much you could speak with about. Your plan for roads is only a start, my prince, but where it shall proceed from there is entirely your wish. Should you wish to do more, then by all means do so, but if not, then know that what you have done already is more than most Targaryens have ever dreamed of at your age, save perhaps for your brother the king himself." It was not necessarily his place to give advice, but in Baelor he saw a promise of a better future under the Targaryen dynasty. If not a good king, should the worst come to pass, then a good Hand for Daeron's vision of the future.
"There," Baelor said after several moments of silence, his finger resting on a point. "There is where they most likely took the treasure."
Thorne's eyes traced the winding valley from Castle Wyl, following the likewise river until it reached its source. "The Vulture's Roost? That old castle has been, by all accounts, abandoned since well before the Century of Blood." No records Thorne had read, not of his own volition mind you, mentioned what house had ruled that ancient mountain castle, nor when it had fallen into ruin, or even why. Curious, that none had seemed to try and reclaim since…
"What better place to hide a treasure none remember, save for a select few, and yet still within Wyl lands?" the prince replied. "The roads are well enough to allow for wagon transport, and the Wyls of the time, according to the journal, would lay large blankets dyed to look like rock or sand piles over their wagons to conceal them from the dragons flying overhead. Many Dornish would do this too, I suspect, given how readily they seemed to appear from the landscape despite my ancestors never seeing their forces on the move. The lands around the Vulture's Roost would never support a large army, hence why the forces of the earlier wars never found them, and that far up into the mountains, one could easily find a multitude of caves or caverns, carved by the springs and snowmelt that feed the river Wyl, in which to hide any amount of treasure."
"Or this 'safeguard' this 'Doran' made mention of," Thorne added. "Whatever that may be, Rhoynish water magic or not. So then, what are we to do, if this is indeed where the Wyls took this treasure, and thusly forgot about it?"
"We must find it, for the wealth within would fund not only the projects I wish to accomplish, but to aid in rebuilding lands torn apart by war. The only question remains then, if the brother of this old Wyl had brought the treasure up there, why had he not returned?"
Thorne shrugged. "Perhaps we shall find out. I take it you have a solution to the new problem of searching these lands? They are rather expansive for the area, given how narrow and winding some portions may be. The potential hiding places could be quite numerous."
"I must speak with Lord Baratheon on the matter, but make no mention of this to anyone, Ser Thorne," Baelor said, the pair leaving the old dusty study behind. "It is important that should we find this, none seek to claim a portion of it for themselves, or worse, bring about 'bandits' seeking their share of what we find."
Thorne had long ago learned that impatience only made one's situation worse. In his childhood, learning to wait without appearing anything but calm was something his father had enforced during his training, especially when it was almost his turn at the tilts or swordplay. Later in life, upon becoming a Kingsguard, that same training was reinforced to an incredible degree, where both skill and discipline were so highly demanded of the most vaunted order of knights in all the kingdoms. Sometimes, he swore the less-aware courtiers and castle smallfolk thought of him and his brothers as statues at times, so startled where they upon fully noticing him move.
It had paid off more times than he could remember, and now, with how long the discussion in Lord Baratheon's temporary solar took before Baelor emerged from within, Thorne could not help but expel a silent breath of relief as the prince moved towards the rookery. Any steps would help stretch out his legs and move the blood again, even if the rain outside had not yet stopped.
"He is skeptical of the idea, but does recognize its potential benefits," Baelor said after some time. With how sparse the castle yet stood, the only people they passed were the occasional Dornish-born smallfolk, each escorted by at least one guard. Judging from the fleeting looks between each other, Thorne guessed the last two they passed would either be found fornicating behind the stables or married within the year.
"Indeed, but I sense there is more to it than that," Thorne replied.
"Aye, but it's something I wasn't prepared for. Given my foster-father's many duties, he has deemed me fit to lead this expedition to the Vulture's Roost."
"I assume you would defer to whichever lords are more experienced that make up this party?"
The prince nodded. "I know I've come far, but I also know I've so much more to learn. Better that I am advised and 'led' by others with greater knowledge and experience than my own. Besides, Lord Baratheon has allowed me to decide which lords I would summon to my cause, on the condition that they are not lords who so recently returned home and must be from the Stormlands alone. The longer this is left to fester, he says, the more likely something will occur that will delay or destroy any chance of accomplishing what I wish to do, or others find out and ensure a mad treasure hunt in that mountain valley."
"Which lords would you call upon to join you?"
"As their forces returned home after the savaging that the Wyls visited upon the Stormlands, I would think the westernmost Stormlords, barring the major Marcher lords, would be most inclined to take part in this expedition. I'm to write the letters myself for the raveners, and with this," he added, holding up a small pair of stamps, upon which rested the seals of the Baratheons and Targaryens, "it should be enough to encourage them to arrive with good pace."
"So Greycairn, Wysp and the others?" Surely he did not mean to invite Lord Wytch in this endeavor? There was no telling if the young, yet highly capable lord had recovered from his battles.
"Indeed."
"What about House Craggner?"
Baelor scoffed and gave the Kingsguard a look. "What aboutthem?"
"Well, the Lady Craggner is technically the regent for her young son, so perhaps she could contribute?"
"Given how long her limits have been in place, courtesy of Lord Baratheon, I'd not trust her men around those I have in mind to invite."
"What about supplies? Asking for them surely would help without the need for more men."
The prince was silent for a few moments before sighing. "I suppose I'll write to her as well, if only for supplies. Additional pack animals and carts will be needed if we find even a fraction of what the Wyls may have taken up there, and their lands have escaped any damage since the Dance, I suppose. Lord Wytch will no doubt have enough wagons to haul these additional supplies."
Smallfolk VII
Early 158 AC
The wind whistled through his ears, just barely over the thunder of hooves, and as he exhaled through his nose, Edric shot his arrow, the streak arcing until it struck the central mass of the man-shaped target. While he would never consider himself a great bowman upon a horse, and likely never would, that he had managed to land what would be a mortal wound upon anyone not in decent armor was more than enough to gladden him. It was not a particularly distant shot, but against troops without bows, did it matter how far he was so long as their spears could not reach him?
After all, out here in Selmy lands, there had not been much else to do before Lord Selmy's return but practice, practice, and occasionally lend their aid to local smallfolk as they had in other lands. Captain Farlin, along with whomever they could trust, as per a letter from Lord Selmy, had maintained a watchful eye over young Addam and the rest of Harvest Hall. They all served in a rotation that saw peace maintained, even if the tension sometimes grew to near bursting among a select few. The former Fossoway, Borros Selmy's widow, was not an entirely unpleasant woman, but the fact she had raised hell at their appearance indicated either she was a part of something or was outraged that someone would think she would harm her goodbrother.
In either case, there had been a tense standoff as she attempted to divvy up the castle between their men but had been overruled by the welcomed return of Lord Selmy, who spoke in no uncertain terms that Wytch men would not be barred from any portion of the castle fit for men of their (admittedly low) station. She acquiesced, though her stinging words about the interference of his lord, the prestige of his family, and the repayment of the Fossoways sometimes echoed in Edric's ears when he went to sleep after a long day.
"A fine shot!" his brother cried from where most of their men rested, many having gone before him. The mood had finally picked up again after the somber days following the internment of Borros Selmy's bones in the crypt of his ancestors. The end of the war had brought more joy than that week had taken, so at least they could say they were still in high, if weary, spirits.
"Enough to give a Dornish bowman pause?" he replied with a laugh as he dismounted.
"Not quite, but more than enough for any peasant levies and even most footmen," Captain Farlin replied, one of the attendants taking the horse to the stable, one of several located outside of the castle's walls. "Come, get yourselves ready, word has reached us that Lord Selmy wishes to speak with us once more."
"Again? Hopefully it's a letter from Lord Wytch bidding us done in these lands, so that we can return home," Arin said. "My wife n' I want to start our family, and I've been away from home fer too long. Who'll go up to his solar this time, captain?"
"We're not," the captain replied, just as a group of household guards, looking well-rested in their Selmy regalia, exited the castle gate and approached them, Lord Selmy and his new heir among the procession. They looked great, and the lord had even managed to cut the shaggy mop of hair and unkempt beard he had grown out on campaign, looking far more lordly than his original return.
"My heir and I wish to thank you and yours, Captain Farlin, for all you and your lord have done for my house these past moons," Lord Selmy said, his heir timidly waving at them. Young Addam was a bright lad, but a bit shy to strangers, and it had taken some time before he'd accepted their newfound presence in his life. At least he wasn't scared of them anymore and could actually ask them questions about life in Lowhill.
"I will give Lord Wytch your gratitude, Lord Selmy," Captain Farlin replied with a bow. "Yet I suspect there is more to it than that. Are we to return to Wytch lands now that you have returned to Harvest Hall and the war is over?"
Edric did not realize he had stopped breathing until he exhaled in resignation at the shake of Lord Selmy's head.
"I am afraid not, my good men. It would seem you have one more task of you, courtesy of the words of both your lord and those currently overseeing the rebuilding and governance of Dorne east of the major rivers."
"But the war is over, milord, what are we to do?" Arin asked, stepping beside his captain.
"By all accounts, you are to join up with a procession of western lords, Stormlords at that, to assemble with Prince Baelor for some unmentioned assignment," the older man replied. "No messages have related as to the exact details, I am afraid, but these lords you'll serve alongside are many of the same ones who you fought beside against the Wyl bastard and his dishonorable wretches."
"What of Lord Wytch?" Edric asked, despite his wish to not dwell on this. How he yearned to return home with his brother, safe and sound, to their families and loved ones. His parents, his goodsister Meredyth, his own special lady Floris…
Then again, they would be serving alongside a prince, an actual prince! The stories they'd be able to tell even if all they did was wander the countryside for a few moons before returning home…
"He is to join you at Blackhaven, where the rest of the lords will assemble before marching to Castle Wyl, or the former Castle Wyl, now that the house is extinct," Lord Selmy replied. "Given the time of day, come to the castle for supper and a good night's rest, as the feast is to be held celebrating Addam's position as my new heir of Harvest Hall. I assume you will depart with the morning sun?"
"Indeed we shall, milord, and we will gladly accept an offer of such generosity," Captain Farlin replied. "I will see to it we are all at least presentable for such a momentous occasion."
Lord Selmy smiled at that, ruffling Addam's hair as they made to return to the castle proper. "Give my regards to Lord Wytch when you reunite with him, captain, for I've the news that Lady Wytch is far along with child. After Addam marries young Arenna, perhaps he will have a nephew or niece to spoil in the coming years?"
The lord and his men were thankfully well out of earshot before Berric cursed, and loudly at that, mirrored quite readily by some of the other men. "Fuckin' hells!" he cried, his anger more than justified in Edric's opinion. "The war is over! What could we possibly be needed for in that desert hellhole?"
"Who knows?" Arin replied, though his frown was an odd replacement for his usual Dornish smirk. "Perhaps we're to show my distant kin how real men can accomplish work?"
"Whattever do you mean by that, Arin?" the captain asked.
"Well, sir, we know how to build quite a bit, especially since those engineers have basically taught us all how to build camps, homes and everything short of a real bridge," the man replied. "Maybe there's some rebel hideouts the prince wants cleared out, and we're to build the siege camps to starve them out of their holes? We're not going into this alone, thank the Seven, as we'd be too few as it is."
"It'd make sense, given that none of us ever entered Dorne and Lord Baratheon knows that," Edric said, grabbing his brother by the shoulder to try and calm his seething hisses. "A bit of revenge against those that did us and ours such wrongs, don't you think?"
"Aye, but the longer we're away from home, the worse things could be for us or our families," Berric countered, though his breathing did deepen, and his hands unclenched. "Work is to be done, even in winter, and the lost wages will take time to recover. Besides… I miss Meredyth."
"I miss my wife too, but what our lord needs is what we'll have to do first," Arin said, his natural smile returning. "Besides, my friends, we're to be in Dorne in winter. The heat isn't so bad then, there's even rain and cool cloudy days to look forward to!"
"We've enough of those in the Stormlands, Arin, but we don't have sand and scorpions to go along with it," Edric said, trying and failing to maintain a neutral scowl. He couldn't help it, few of them could, Arin's infectious optimism was hard to handle when they weren't fighting someone else. "Besides, the sooner we reunite with Lord Wytch and accomplish whatever he, Lord Baratheon and the prince wish of us, the sooner we can all finally go home."
"I'll drink to that," Captain Farlin said, rubbing his face. "But only at the feast since Lord Selmy is being generous enough to feed and shelter us all as thanks for our work. Everyone, get your gear together and ensure you're clean enough for Harvest Halls'… halls, I guess. I'll see to the quartermasters that we've the supplies to make it until Blackhaven."
Berric turned to Edric as the others moved apart, a sudden gleam in his eyes. Oh no.
"What?" Edric asked, suspicious and, to be honest, a touch terrified. His brother had developed a rather mischievous streak since he'd quit the drink, but at least he'd stopped putting moldy breadcrumbs under the tents to attract crickets. The racket those things would make at night…
"So… Floris. I take it you're looking to get back to her as much as I am with my Meredyth, huh?"
Shit, he knew he shouldn't have gotten into his cups in the celebration following Lord Selmy's return. He didn't make a fool of himself, and Berric had refrained from any drink, but that hadn't meant his own lips would stay shut. "I'll tell mother and father when we return."
"Is a marriage in the future?"
Edric shrugged. "I would like to think so."
"You made her sound so special, much like Meredyth is to me, I'd hope you'd marry her," Berric replied. "What does she do for work?"
"Nothing much," he replied. He'd received a letter from her, stashed away in a passing merchant's urn, vaguely worded enough that only he truly knew what it meant. That she now worked for their lord, though the role was not specified, was as relieving as it was, frankly, terrifying. Would his association with her and her hopefully former practices leave him hanging by a noose upon his return? Her letter had said no in the ways it could, but still…
"Well, so long as she's a hard worker and good for you, you'll brook no arguin' from me, but it's ma you'll have to convince more," Berric said, gesturing to their small field of tents. "Come on, let's get our bedrolls packed up before the quartermasters run out of room to store them. I'd rather mine stayed dry under a covered wagon rather than on some rain-soaked pack mule."
Edric sighed. Well, at least the trek back to Blackhaven would not be a worrying one. No heirs to protect against possible family violence, no war parties to engage, and no sieges to lift. Should be an easier time than before, at least.