Chapter 62: Mylenda Wytch III
Mid 158 AC
The gathering storm clouds to the east spoke of snow, if not that night, then by morning for certain. This early into winter, it had been so thankfully mild, with most snowfalls melting within weeks, but in her heart Mylenda knew it would not last. Long had she secluded herself from her outdoor proclivities, tending to the duties of the keep as its lady and the hopeful mother of its future heirs. Absentmindedly, she slowly drifted a hand across her swollen stomach, feeling a dull kick from within. Those had only grown more and more frequent these past weeks, which according to Maester Gorman was a great sign the babe within her was healthy.
Whilst her husband wished for a healthy child above all else, one she mirrored this entire pregnancy, she was torn between the wishes for a daughter and a son. A daughter would be hers to bond with in the ways women did, and Mylenda could give her daughter the childhood she herself had been robbed of when her mother passed years ago. Yet for all the thoughts of riding, falconry, stewardly lessons and sharing with her the history of her family's house, a daughter could not pass on the Windhill name to any of her own children. A single son of Mylenda's could pass that name then to his own second son at least, but a daughter could not. Curse the scattered and disunified laws of the western Stormlands! If only Casper could convince the prince to speak with Lord Baratheon and King Daeron on the matter…
"Lady Wytch?"
She turned to the somewhat high-pitched yet gruff voice of her student. "Ah, yes, my apologies Jonnel, I was lost in thought on other matters. Have you finished?"
"Aye," the young boy replied, and what a strange thought that was, to have been sent here from the North, and to be considered young when her husband was only around a decade his senior. "The sums weren't no trouble, and the maester has said my figures are doing just fine. I'm still unsure why you had me put all these sums together for the fields outside Winterfell though..."
"An excellent point, one I am certain you'll come to understand is quite important for any good lord to not only know, but to plan for. Assuming your assessment of your sums is correct, how fare they compared to what you determined before our additions?"
He looked torn between embarrassment at how wrong he was about farming and indignation at what he could have perceived as a slight against himself, something she had taken no pleasure in producing from her husband's ward. The boy was prideful of his heritage as any son of a great house should be, but whereas others may simply be polite about it or ignore the potential slights of lesser men and women, he had proven… difficult at times. This had only exacerbated since her husband's departure for Dorne once more, enacting the need for greater time spent with the lad outside of his maesterly lessons. He especially did not take kindly to whatever he perceived to be a slight against the North and his people from anyone, and in the earlier days that had been anything said in front of him about the North or South. She had slowly built a rapport with the young lad, very slowly at times, but now he was no longer slinging subtle insults her way anymore, nor upon her goodsisters or goodmother. In time he might even regard them as he did Maester Gorman, whose grandmother being a Blackwood was apparently good enough to earn him a modicum of respect.
"The yields will be greater by a good sum with just a few additions," he all but muttered, his one eye looking back down to his parchment. "Much greater than before, even if we lost as much to vermin or rot as you have predicted for your own."
"An excellent thing to be certain of, and that is just with the drills and plows," she said, shifting slightly in her seat. Standing for periods of time had begun to take its toll on her swollen feet, and the cold of the flagstones certainly had not helped. At least her goodmother had gifted her a wonderful set of wool-lined slippers for her more private duties. "Now, as with all things, we must look to what we know, and question what else might we do to improve. As trial and error are among the best means of determining if something will or won't succeed, planting windbreaks where winds are harshest has proven most beneficial to fields and pastures in poorer areas."
"Windbreaks?"
She nodded. "A simple line of trees or large shrubs in singular or multiple rows, usually those with thick branches or dense needles. At the times of year where rain is scarcer or the crops are just sprouting, sheltered fields with these lines of trees tend to not dry out as much. These can also aid in shielding more delicate crops, especially when they are first growing, from driving winds that might strip the soil or scatter the plants. Many can also, in the case of shrubs, provide additional crops for our own needs, and as it turns out, may draw in nesting birds that eat the pests of the fields. Those same birds may also eat whatever fruits spoil or miss our harvests, which would also reduce the chance of drawing more pests to our fields than before."
"The North indeed does have seasons of great wind, and many fields have been damaged or lost from our own eastern storms, so the thought of lines of firs and thick shrubs deflecting wind holds more merit than I thought," the Stark spare said. "Yet we also face great winds from beyond the Wall, biting and fierce when autumn is fading and growing only worse as winter deepens. How would we combat these?"
"Aside from windbreaks and ensuring both plantings and harvests are done before such times arrive? Grow whatever you can within your glass houses, and expand them if you can," Mylenda replied. "I have been told that many of the greater Northern houses have glass gardens to help offset winter's inability to grow foods, with many greater castles being built upon natural hotsprings and sources of such heat. Why not expand upon these gardens?"
"Good glass is expensive in the North, especially glass as thick as in Winterfell," Jonnel replied. "For all their fine craftsmanship, the Myrish are slaving, conniving, copper-grubbing merchants, and would squeeze the North dry of what little we have if we came to them to buy the amount of glass needed for such projects." He paused for a moment. "Yet we are by no means poor, but for the sake of our people and our houses we must be more frugal than those in the South would deem acceptable."
Mylenda remained silent at that, knowing well the plans her husband had for such a trade disparity within the kingdoms. With the coming talks with the Tarths and Conningtons as to an eastern Westerosi trade fleet, it would be a great boon to include Jonnel in those meetings. He could be their go-between with the Manderlys should they need more convincing, even with Casper's gift of that strange needle…
"Say for an instance, Jonnel, that the expense of glass was not an issue. You have access to as much of it as you could desire, as well as the materials to build the structure they would be inlaid with. How might you go about with the glass gardens then?"
"Simple, I would build more of them where possible, but maintaining them would be additional work for whoever tends to them in wintertime. Our house has enough smallfolk to tend to Winterfell's, as I assume other houses do, but there is limited space within the castle's walls to add more, and aside from the obvious threat of pests sneaking in there, ensuring they would not be tainted by blight or damaged by weather would be of greater importance yet."
"Then should you build more outside of the walls yet near enough to the castle that it is not isolated in terrible storms, ensuring their stability and the safety of the crops within could be somewhat easier. Were construction and smallfolk to tend to them not an issue, then these gardens could be longer, sturdier, built with protection in mind against the worst of the elements yet near enough to not become a liability." Given the importance of food for the North, they might even be able to determine a law or custom that such glass gardens would be entirely off-limits in times of war in terms of damaging through sacks or raids.
"Wintertown might be a place to build more, but the people within would need housing more suited to make room for these additions. Some older buildings might even need to be torn down."
"Then in summer, to make ready for winter, this Wintertown could be rebuilt, much as my lordly husband has done with the homes of the smallfolk in Lowhill and the other towns and villages within our combined lands."
Jonnel nodded at that, which pleased Mylenda. She had noticed him wandering Lowhill during his freer periods, and his escorts told her how he examined these newer buildings and how they fared against the weather. Given his lack of derision after speaking with numerous smallfolk on the matter, Mylenda hoped he was at least somewhat impressed with what they had done by increasing the heights of homes, rather than merely the lateral dimensions.
Another strong kick rumbled in her stomach, and she bit her lip, wincing as she again shifted in her seat. "Then were Wintertown to be rebuilt to house more people in taller yet fewer homes, how many of these long glass gardens might be built?"
"With a flat ground and enough space away from the walls, I'd say… enough to feed the town for a few months, but not much longer than that," the boy said. "Unless Lord Wytch has a way of growing more food faster than we do."
She made to grab one of the ledgers her husband had compiled, of the effects of spreading manure in certain field plots at differing times of the year, when a knock at the door interrupted her. "Yes. Come in," she called.
Flanked by a pair of guards, one of their messengers appeared, his face red from the bite of the wind. "My lady, the banners have been sighted," he said.
"Those of my husband?"
"Aye, and more besides. T'were mayhaps a dozen or more that we could see before the captain bid me to return."
"Then it seems we will be hosting guests," Mylenda said, gingerly rising to her feet. "How soon might they arrive?"
"Within a day my lady, but best they make good time, that winter storm'll catch them outside otherwise."
She turned to her husband's ward. "Jonnel, lunch will be ready soon, and after that I will be unable to aid in your studies. Maester Gorman has returned from his meeting in Lowhill, so he will continue where we left off. Until lunch, you may do as you wish."
Departing, Mylenda dismissed the other guards and the messenger, and waddled with some difficulty to the room in which her goodsisters were practicing. This 'dulcimer' of his was an intriguing instrument, and the music it played was something she'd not heard before, but had come to enjoy whenever she visited with her younger goodsisters.
A shallow pain erupted in her belly, and she nearly collapsed to the ground in surprise, saved only by the quick thinking of her guards and the wall she leaned against. With a wince, she made to stand upright, but the pain flared once more, slightly greater this time, and it did not dissipate as she breathed. She cried out as another pain erupted, this one in her lower back, and within her garments, she felt a hot liquid spread.
Janyce Wytch emerged from the door just as another pain erupted through her groin. Yet without a word, her mind going somewhat muddied in the process, Mylenda distantly heard her goodmother giving instructions, and more guards arriving to support her. Where were they taking her? What was going on?
She was in bed, the recognition of those around her one of the few things she could focus on. Her goodmother Janyce patted her forehead with a small towel, the copious sweat threatening to fall into her eyes as it had her hair and the pillows beneath her. The pain had only been increasing since before, and by now Mylenda was unsure she could even walk in this state. The thought of being as immobile as her grandfather had been brought with it a great fear, the fear all women faced in the birthing bed. What if she were to die here? What if she were to pass upon the birth of her babe, or perhaps just as terrible, lose the babe?
"Goodmother," she wheezed, gingerly pulling the woman closer so that no others may hear. Not long after finding out she was with child, Mylenda had ensured that the secrets of her grandfather and her house would not die with her. They were far too important to simply be left to chance, and had taken steps to ensure those she trusted would know them without needing to dictate them from a deathbed.
"Yes, gooddaughter?"
"In my study, beneath the flagstones under my window, there is a small cedar chest. Within contains scrolls that are for Casper should I not survive-,"
"You will survive my dear, Gorman and the others have the most experience we could hope for-,"
"Yet he must have these should the worst come to pass-," she stopped, pushing her goodmother to the side as another wail crawled from her throat in the aftermath of another contraction. The pain was greater than she'd feared it would be, but somehow she took solace in the fact she was not dead, even as exhaustion crept upon her after lying in this bed for so many hours. Was it half a day by now, or had she been here longer? She could hardly speak, and few seemed to understand her when she did. The eldest of the midwives was alongside Maester Gorman, their voices low as they examined her. Off to the side, her goodmother had disappeared with Arenna and Shyra, the two girls unable to bear the sight of their goodsister in labor. For that was what was happening to her, and to think she had been looking forward to her child being born!
"The timing is correct at least," the maester said, turning to one of the older women, an older septa whose experience had aided other women in Lowhill long before Mylenda herself had been born. "This will not be an early birth, thank the Seven, and by all accounts, the signs point to a healthy child."
"In my experience, an earlier birth is brought on by harm to the mother, yet the lady has suffered no such ruin upon her body," the septa said. "What of her work? Has she been afforded little stress?"
"Aye, her duties have been reduced as per your instructions, and those of Lord Wytch," the maester said, his cold hands moving across her swollen belly. "If it is not twins, then a large babe it will be."
"She's opened enough for a normal babe, let us pray it is not too large, lest something tear within her that we cannot hope to heal," the midwife replied, dipping beneath the long blanket preserving what was left of Mylenda's modesty. A flash of lightning lit up the outside, casting long shadows in the otherwise dimly lit room, and for a moment, the expectant mother could see the entirety of the lands spread out before her. A wall of white was approaching as trees whipped in unseen winds, and then it faded back to inky darkness.
Not that she cared, the fog of her mind rendering her thoughts scattered. Where was her husband? Where was her goodmother? The pain had leveled out, great and aching with every movement, and as another maid mopped her brow, she wanted nothing more than to lay back and sleep. Yet sleep would elude her, as the maester had told her the dangers of any aid in sleeping at a time like this, and this was to be her first child. A son or a daughter, to think such a choice mattered not so long ago! Let it be healthy, let them both live, and she would bear this pain for the both of them.
As she screamed again, Lady Janyce entered the room once more, worry etching her features. Had she been gone mere minutes, or more than an hour? Mylenda could no more track the passing of time than she could predict the future.
"My lady, was is it?" one of the maids asked.
"Our guests have arrived, and just in time too, for the storm is upon us," the elder woman said. "It is undoubtedly that which we have our namesake, a winter wytch, just as it was for the birth of my son."
Mylenda would have laughed at the irony if not for her pain. "What of my husband? What of Casper?"
"He was overseeing the settling of our guests, among them the prince and Lord Baratheon. However… Casper is injured."
"Injured!" Mylenda screeched, throwing her head back into the nest of pillows as a new, stronger contraction erupted. Gods, could she dilate any more, or was this baby a monstrous giant of an infant?!
"He is recovering well, I have been assured it was from weeks before, and he will be here soon under his own effort," her goodmother said. "The prince wished to come with him, but his own injuries, as healed as they are, were determined by Casper to be too severe for him to come as well. Best that nonfamily do not witness this as it is, even though the prince and my son are close."
Myelnda felt her throat grow hoarse with every passing scream and cry. Gods, let this baby come out! "How long have I been in here?" she garbled, gratefully accepting a glass of diluted fruit juice. She had wanted something stronger, but again, Maester Gorman had forbid it, and were it not for his experience in delivering babes alongside the midwives, she'd have told him to fuck off when he refused her.
"Six and ten hours, my lady," the aforementioned maester said, as the wind outside began to grow in strength. Another flash of lightning was closely followed by the roar of thunder, and the snow swirling outside the windows all but erased any sight of the lands beyond it, piling against the thick glass and exterior shutters.
She cried out again as she felt something move, and the midwife septa made a sound beneath. "A head, I see the head," she said, her calmness almost driving Mylenda into a fit of hysterical giggles. How could she be so calm?! "You must push my lady, keep pushing in time with your contractions-,"
The door burst open and for a bewildering moment, Mylenda saw only the silhouette of a man, wreathed in shadow and storms, smelling of salt and rain. Yet when she blinked her terrified eyes, she saw no such figure, but her husband Casper, one of his arms in a sling and bandages wrapped around his torso. "Myllie!" he cried, out of breath as he crossed the room in so few strides and gingerly knelt by her side. She pulled him in for a kiss just as another contraction struck. Nearly biting her husband's lip, she leaned back and screamed, pushing again and again with every pulsing contraction, her fingers interlacing with her husband's in a grip so tight she thought she might break his hand. Yet for all the whiteness of her knuckles and the crashing of thunder above their home, he held firm, her rock against this storm of agony, and with a flash of lighting so bright it must have nearly struck their home, she pushed again.
Amidst the howling of the snowy wind and the crash of thunder surrounding them, there was a pause of dreadful silence, deeper than her darkest dreams, and then she heard a cry sound from the room that was not her own, nor that of anyone she had known. A screeching wail, one from beneath her blanket as the maester joined the septa midwife. Falling back as exhaustion began to overtake the pain, she looked Casper in the eyes as he kissed her hand.
Was it over?
The cries grew louder as the midwife emerged with a pink squawking thing, wriggling as she wiped it clean of blood and whatever fluids had emerged with it. "A daughter, my lord," she said, and indeed, there lay no cock between the babe's legs as she cleaned it. "A healthy daughter judging by these cries, and a big one too."
"A daughter," Mylenda parroted, her body relaxing as the weight that had lain upon her for nine months fell free from her shoulders. "My husband, we have a daughter."
"We do, Myllie," her husband said, kissing her sweaty forehead as the other midwives came to look over the baby. No, not a baby, their baby girl. A daughter of Houses Wytch and Windhall, though only the former by name, but now, that didn't matter to Mylenda. Time passed swiftly after the babe had been attended to by Gorman and the midwives, and with a proud expression, the older man brought to them, swaddled in the softest blankets they had, their daughter. Mylenda could barely extend her arms to receive the murmuring bundle, but felt something impossibly strong fill her spirit as she beheld the baby in her arms.
"She has your eyes," she muttered, her husband yet by her side but now free of her death grip.
"Aye, but she has your hair, perhaps a shade darker but undoubtedly yours," he said, the small mop a shock of color against the pinkish skin beneath. "And your size, I should think, you are touch taller than most other ladies in these lands."
Indeed, the babe was large, larger than Mylenda had thought she would be. Were all babies so big upon exiting a woman? "Some of that must be from your side, you're the taller one," she mumbled, letting the babe's hand grip one of her fingers, strong for its size but that much more precious.
"Hopefully she'll grow into an intelligent beauty like her mother did."
"You're saying I wasn't always beautiful?"
"Well, you did say you hated when your legs and arms seemed too long for the rest of you…"
She playfully pressed her head against her husband's, weakly chuckling as she watched her daughter look up to them in the wonder only a baby could possess. She was beautiful, so beautiful, even with her wrinkles and pink skin and odd proportions. Yet they had a daughter, an heir to the Wytch name born of their joined bloodlines.
"Shall I have the wet-nurse take her?" Casper asked.
"No, not yet, I want to feed her first," Mylenda said. To hells with the other ladies that spoke of never breastfeeding their babes, for as she looked into her child's eyes, all she could think of was how she would protect her daughter from all she could. Then the great exhaustion she had been putting off rolled over her as a wave. "Perhaps after the first feeding, then the wet-nurse can come."
Casper kissed her head as she undid her clothes, the babe latching naturally to her. So odd, that for all the trappings, they were still driven by instincts, be they that of the babe in her arms, or that in her heart for this bundle. "What should we name her?"
Casper was silent for a few moments, a pondering look crossing his features. "What of that of your mother?"
"Truly?" she asked, wishing she could kiss her husband all over again, but whether that was the delirium brought on by the labor, or a genuine feeling of affection, she could not tell. "Are there no names you would wish for?"
"One of them is your mother's name, my wife. It was as soon as I learned of it and have kept it close since the day we married."
She nodded softly as the baby eagerly fed, looking down at the daughter they had made. Someday, perhaps, they would have another, a son or two, but for now, she enjoyed the weight in her arms, and the peace she felt even as the storm bearing their name continued to rage outside the keep of Stormhall.
"Argella," she whispered. "Argella Wytch."
END OF ARC III