Durin II
The castle wasn't in quite the uproar he'd expected, coming back from his nighttime expedition, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Sure, the guards were on the lookout. Sure, they shouted when they saw him and sent one among them running to go grab Torrhen or his mother. And sure, he had probably just missed the search parties sent after him.
But… Well, he didn't know what he'd expected.
A funeral to walk in on?
Maybe he was being overdramatic. If he was, he had a very good reason for it.
Even as he was carried along— yes he had consented to being held just this once, he was only half-paying attention to what his castellan was saying. That was being generous. A quarter, at best. The bulk of his mind was firmly stuck on the events of the previous night.
Why couldn't he be a more standard-fare fantasy protagonist?
He'd take a prophecy over a curse any day of the week.
Granted, he hadn't been looking to be the focus of any kind of portends, let alone something so utterly ridiculous as what had been revealed to him. And it was. Ridiculous, that is.
Become king?
It was— just… He couldn't find the words for it.
Ridiculous.
Whose fucking idea had this oath been? One of his lauded ancestors? The First King himself? More than ever, Durin was certain that his house was nothing but a bunch of prancing morons more concerned with history than reality. They had doomed him. As surely as if the skeleton had broken free of the dragonglass grave and choked the life from him at that very moment.
Honestly, he'd prefer that.
If that was it.
But it wasn't. Eternal servitude? Yes, he was good and fucked now, wasn't he? Thank you, First King. What a wise and glorious man you must have been, to leave in your wake such an idiotic line of kings and lords and fucking idiots. He kept trying to reach for other insults, but nothing fit his ancestors better.
By the time Torrhen had brought him to his mother, in his rooms, Durin was fuming again.
Well… Fuming harder.
To be fair, his mother looked almost as distressed as he felt.
She stifled a gasp when she saw him, rushing forward and taking him from Torrhen's arm to hold him tightly.
"Durin," she whispered, clutching him all the tighter. He returned the embrace, awkwardly patting her back with his non-injured hand. Pulling away only slightly, she inspected him and frowned at the spots of dried blood on his shirt and face. "What's happened to you? Where are you hurt? Where have you been?"
"Cut my hand," he offered lamely, holding up the wound for inspection.
He winced, even as she touched it as light as could be.
Barbrey looked up at Torrhen and took a breath, then said, "Have you sent for the old man yet?"
Torrhen nodded. "Aye, my lady. The maester is on his way."
"The grey rat… Today, at least, he'll earn his keep."
She fell silent after muttering that, turning back to look at him with an expression that made his gut twist in guilt. Durin took for granted, at times, that his new mother loved him as much as she did. Best he try not to make this a habit.
"What did you do, Durin?" she asked softly, cupping his un-blooded cheek. "Or did you do anything… Were you taken? Come, sit."
She carried him over to a chair and set him onto it, ignoring his token protests.
Durin sighed, dreading the conversation to follow.
But as his mother looked at him with such concern, and the beginnings of anger on his behalf, he decided that honesty wouldn't be amiss here. In most things.
"I went down into the barrow," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. "The Great Barrow. I walked down to see it."
This time it was Torrhen who sighed, so Durin avoided looking at him too.
Instead, he focused on the ceiling.
"And?" his mother prompted.
Ugh… How dare he feel bad for making people worry. It wasn't fair.
"I cut myself on the glass there," he said, then elaborated when he realized that wasn't very specific. "The dragonglass on the grave."
There, that was pretty honest.
It was at this point that Maester Kayl arrived, looking more than a little out of breath, carrying a pouch and clutching several small pots and bandages in his arms. He looked around the room wildly, before he focused on Durin and his mother. "My lord… My lady. How—" he panted, then cleared his throat. "How may I be of service?"
Barbrey grabbed his hand and held it out for the man to see. "He's cut himself on dragonglass. Mend the wound, maester. Quickly."
She had such a way with words, his mother.
If Kayl took any offense to her brusqueness he did not show it. To be expected, given his years spent under her thumb. He nodded, walking up and gently arranging his things out on the small table near them. "Of course, my lady… How old is the wound? Does it still bleed?"
"No," she said, peering at the cut. "It's stopped. It happened—" She looked at Durin again, furrowing her brow. "When was this, Durin?"
"Late last night."
"Late last night," she repeated unnecessarily, looking back again at Kayl with impatience. She opened her mouth, likely to demand he hurry himself, but the old man was already making his way over with his tools. He pulled up a chair and sat, opening one of the small jars he'd brought with him. As he spooned something around in the jar, Durin squinted at the label. Honey? That was good, right? Honey was good for wounds. He would probably be fine being treated with it.
That brought back to mind the events of last night, and his task.
Oh lord. He was going to have to try and uplift a bunch of things to even have a chance at this, wasn't he?
That just figured.
As Kayl cleaned and tended to his cut, humming to himself but not otherwise speaking, Durin continued to fume. He almost failed to notice his mother's concerned look.
Well, he did fail at first. Concern was expected.
But concern aside, it mixed with something like… Dread? Like she already knew something.
"Mother?"
She didn't bite her lip; his mother was far too sophisticated a woman for that, but she did press her lips into a thin line.
"What possessed you to go down there, my son? Why did you?"
He wanted to lie. Almost did.
But he bit his tongue.
Things were— well, they were different than they had been just yesterday. A lot different. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't pretend otherwise. Before, he was content to live kind of aimlessly and accept the inevitability of misery and death. Now he was truly fucked. He was not content to live forever as an undead servant to the Others— or whoever had cursed him. Had to be them, right? Didn't matter. He couldn't do it.
Eternity was one day too long for him, thank you very much.
That said, it was an impossible goal. Forget trying to uplift anything, save the world, or bring about democracy. He had to become king. He wasn't even a Stark! The Seven Kingdoms were an empire in all but name, and he had to take advantage of the chaos that would take place in order to somehow end up in charge of— of something.
Again, not possible.
Buuut he had to do it.
He refused to live forever, let alone serve forever.
Unstoppable force? Meet immovable object.
He had to do it. Not try. Do. Like the wise green space muppet always said.
And that meant he had to have his mother on his side. On his side, and in the loop. She had to know the stakes, or at least grasp how serious he was about it. She was his regent, and he was on a really short timetable. Too short. If she wasn't fully on board? If she wasn't as dedicated to this stupid mission as he was? He might as well die now. It pretty much had to be her, too. Another regent would be more practical, or self-serving, and thus far less helpful.
She had to know enough to support the insane plans of her three-year-old son.
Whatever 'enough' meant here.
As always his age worked against him.
He liked to think he had started talking more coherently in a pretty gradual way, easing everyone into it. Wow, what a smart baby! Wow, he's a prodigy! He talks and writes and tells weird stories and sings weird songs! So impressive, and definitely not disturbing.
But he was probably fooling himself. In any case, he had to speak now. And a lot, at that.
A lot of nonsense.
He was aware of the prolonged silence as he considered, broken only by the occasional guard stepping into the room to whisper something to Torrhen before rushing back off. Would they block off the tomb now? They should. It was a mess. Dangerous, too. Plain inconsiderate, leaving it like that. Someone could hurt themselves.
By the time Durin had settled on some version of what to say, his cut had been cleaned and bandaged. Not serious enough to warrant stitches, apparently.
That was nice.
He raised his arms and allowed his bloodied shirt to be removed, and a wet cloth gently scrubbed the blood from his face. He avoided his mothers eyes as she did it.
When she finished, she sat back with a sigh.
Accepting a new shirt that he pulled on, Durin ran his right thumb over the fingers of his left hand. Prodding the edge of the bandage but not applying any pressure. Looking up at his mother, he cleared his throat. Thankfully this didn't end in a string of coughs. First time for everything.
"Mother… Can I speak to you alone?"
She considered him, but didn't hesitate to gesture the maester away without looking. "Thank you, maester. Torrhen, I will call you to my solar later this afternoon. You may call your men back from the search, as well."
"Already done, my lady," his kinsman said, bowing to her and then to Durin. "Mend well, my lord."
"Thanks," he said awkwardly.
Mayster Kayl looked as though he suspected something, and he lingered a second longer than necessary to look between Durin and his mother, but he departed shortly after Torrhen all the same.
His mother watched as the door shut behind the men before turning to look at him patiently. She smiled an encouraging sort of smile, and leaned forward to gently grasp his hands in hers.
Waiting.
Durin puffed his cheeks up and blew out a gust of air.
"I… I had a vision," he said, piecing together the explanation as he said it aloud. He shut his eyes so as not to be distracted by her reaction. "By the dragonglass grave. My cut wasn't an accident, and this was about the curse. I know you wanted me to leave it be, but I just couldn't…"
He should have, gods damn him.
"The vision… I passed out. And I'm so sorry for worrying you, I never meant— I didn't mean to stay there. It just happened. Then I woke up and it was morning."
No response, but her grip had tightened slightly. Not painfully.
"It's real," he said.
There.
Start with that, then work his way to the rest… Most of the rest.
"Durin… I know you've been frustrated by your sickness. Believe me, I am too. If I thought that another of those rats would do any be—"
He jerked his head harshly, opening his eyes and staring at her.
She trailed off.
"No, Mother," he said quietly, "not a sickness. Not a natural one, anyway. A curse."
Clenching her jaw, this time it was she who averted her eyes.
"The gods would not," she said, almost speaking to the open air. "Why would they? You are a child… You've done nothing."
He gestured to himself, emphasizing the skin that was showing. "Look at me! What sickness does this? Has Maester Kayl identified it? Has he narrowed it down at all? Greyscale? Leprosy? Pox? Perhaps it's only a unique skin disorder, and we've all been overthinking this."
She remained silent.
His biting wit wasn't helping here. He tried to reign in his frustration. "I needn't have done anything, Mother. I'm a Dustin. That's enough."
"Truly?" Barbrey laughed bitterly. She stood and walked to the window, looking out on the town and river. "Your lord father never suffered as such, as I knew him. Nor his father, or any Dustin in living memory I've heard of."
That was… Probably true.
He knew the truth of it now, but did they? Did anyone in his house remember? It seemed unlikely, as they'd left so much else behind already. And why not his father? Why him? Why right now? Was it as simple as magic only now beginning to return to the world? Because he reincarnated and fucked things up by being here when he shouldn't be?
Durin followed her over to the window, reaching up to take her hand again.
"I don't know why it's me," he said, keeping his suspicions to himself. "But it is. I know it is. The curse is real, and I have to beat it."
"Ah, yes. Your vision…"
"My vision." He agreed.
"It shouldn't surprise me so… That you seem to be blessed and cursed by the gods in equal measure." As she said that, he wondered if she was starting to believe him. But she didn't look down at him, just out at the lands beyond Barrowton. She shook her head. "You're a child, Durin. You are my son, but you are a child… Yet you speak like a boy at least thrice your age, and your script is neater than mine." She laughed at that.
"I'm being honest," he said quietly, looking down at the floor.
"I do not doubt the truth you believe… Only whether it is the truth at all. You would not be the first to fall prey to visions of doom and glory." She inhaled slowly, then let it out slower yet. When she continued, her voice was small. He had to strain to hear any of it despite their closeness. "I swore, didn't I? Are my words to be tested so soon? Or was this always the path you would have to tread."
He kept silent.
Finally, she turned and lowered herself to her knees, looking into his eyes.
"This vision," she said, and he was impressed she was able to say it with a straight face. But no, his mother was utterly serious at this moment. It unnerved him, slightly. "You say the curse is real, and you know how to overcome it. How— tell me what you need to do. Please."
This was it.
The beginning of the long end.
Durin's heart raced and he felt the stutter in his voice even before he opened his mouth to tell his mother that he had doomed them both.
"I have to become king."
So simple.
Barbrey didn't flinch. She didn't laugh, cry, or look at him like he was crazy. So by those metrics, she was taking it all pretty well. All she did was frown. She looked at him expectantly. He frowned back.
"Of what?"
"What?" he said smartly.
She sighed and leaned back a little, some of the tension in the room easing away. "King of what? Of whom? Where? The Barrowlands, the North, or all of Westeros? More? What is being asked of you to best this thing?"
Oh.
He rubbed the back of his head, feeling sort of stupid. This was what he got for trying to piece together an explanation on the fly. He needed time! A script! Notecards! Something other than absolutely nothing.
"Maybe I should just tell you what I heard," he mused aloud, then squinted at her. "That'd probably be more helpful."
Again, the frown. "I have heard the tales told by the smallfolk, but if you think hearing it again would—"
"No, that's not… It's not the right version," he said with a shake of his head.
"Oh? Right, the vision." She tilted her head in a mix of genuine curiosity and a bit of impatience, which was fair because he was dragging this out. "If you can remember, I'd hear it now."
So Durin repeated the curse.
It was easy, being so fresh in his mind. But he was confident he would recall it just as easily in ten years. Twenty. A hundred? He shivered. If he was still around in a hundred years, something had likely gone very wrong.
As he finished his retelling, she stood and went to sit in the chair he'd been in by the desk where he kept his writing things. She clasped her hands in front of her, a calculating look in her eyes. Almost distant. But he was certain she'd been listening intently the entire time. He wouldn't be shocked if she memorized it as well as came naturally to him. She was like that.
All of it was concerning, but he was grateful to see her focusing on the last line.
Aside from the consequence of failure, it was the worst bit.
"Surpass the First King," she said, testing the words. He could see her rolling them around in her mind, as he had done.
Pulling out one of his blank pieces of parchment and uncorking an inkpot, she wrote them down.
Then Barbrey wrote the rest of it, in order, asking him to repeat it several times. Once she asked if he was sure of the wording, really sure, but when he nodded as seriously as he could she didn't bring it up again. She stared at the words, then glared. Then she brought her thumb and index finger up and rubbed at her eyelids, sighing. Durin tried to keep in mind that his mother was only six and twenty. She wasn't the wise old mentor here. She was— well, like him. He was lucky to get this far.
"Not very helpful, is it?" he asked, aiming for a bit of humor.
Her shoulders shook in a silent laugh.
So… Success?
Durin, for one, was feeling a good deal better. A burden shared and all that. Sure his task didn't seem any more possible than it had a few minutes ago, but now his mother could share in a little of his misery. Assuming she took it as seriously as him, that is.
"So." It had been a few minutes where Durin shuffled his feet and avoided picking at his bandage, and his mother's voice carved through the silence. Cold and serious. Not angry. Or if she was, then not at him. "You must be king."
Yep.
That was about the size of it.
"King, and I have to figure out what the rest means. The pact, and oath."
If they were actually two distinct things.
She waved his words off. "Those will follow. They are the last of it, not the first. Despite how it was presented in your vision. You can do nothing to 'honor' or 'fulfill' anything without a level of power and authority over the first men that House Dustin has not possessed since the time of the Barrow Kings."
True enough.
So keep it simple, stupid. One thing at a time.
'Simple.'
He really was fucked.
"Do you believe it? Believe me, I mean."
His mother wasn't looking at him, still glaring at the parchment, but she nodded. "I believe that you believe it…" Durin opened his mouth to interrupt, but she held up a hand. "I believe you're being honest. At first I suspected that you were simply telling tales out of shame from injuring yourself in such a manner. But that isn't your way."
He was almost afraid to ask, but he pressed on.
"And the vision?"
Finally, she turned to look at him. Still tired and frustrated. But he saw determination there, as well. "You're special, Durin. It is so, so very clear. To everyone. Not merely because of your appearance, but your mind. The maester says it so often that I might suspect he was trying to curry favor with me, if he wasn't simply giving voice to thoughts the rest of us harbor more quietly. That the gods share in that opinion is—" she broke off, deflating in her seat a little while still managing to look every inch the imperious noblewoman. "It isn't good. The gods seldom give us anything good that we do not bleed for. It isn't good at all, nor bad. It merely is."
No, this was pretty bad.
Durin shrugged, feeling a little helpless. "So… What do we do?"
Her smile was grim.
"As the gods will it? Treason, my son. War with the Starks, at the least. The Riverlands as well. All of the Seven Kingdoms? Almost certainly. The gods will ask everything of you, and we must succeed. So it is treason. Such ambitious usurpation that not even King Robert himself would think to look for it. It will be the work of a lifetime, for the cost of failure means that only death should keep us from continuing the work. It will be your legacy, and mine. For good, or ill."
He suppressed a grimace at that, but she must have seen something in his face all the same.
"Not enough?"
"No, it isn't that," he quickly reassured her, wondering how in the world he was going to explain the next bit. Fuck it. Go for broke. Not the reincarnation thing, but the foreknowledge thing. Or… Well, some version of it. Total honesty was fine for the curse, but he didn't want to freak her out any more than absolutely necessary.
He had the vision angle, right? Just build more onto that. Easy peasy.
"There's a time limit."
He saw her looking back to the parchment with a new frown, quickly rereading the lines, and he rushed to elaborate.
"Not one from the curse, but… Something will happen." He swallowed nervously. "From my vision, I can't… I'm not totally sure on the details. But after this upcoming winter, we'll have a short spring. Followed by the longest summer in living memory. Ten years of it."
"That is quite the summer," she said softly, looking thoughtful. "Ending three hundred years after the conquest, at a guess. How fitting. And after?"
"After that…"
Durin shook his head.
"It'll be harder. Maybe impossible, if it wasn't already."
And it was.
At this, she did laugh. Not mirthless, but he could see the weariness starting to build. "Harder, you say? My… What follows the summer must be truly dreadful. Or else what precedes it is the best and only chance your vision has shown to you."
More the former than the latter, but he kept that to himself.
It wouldn't do for his regent to lose herself to the hopelessness of the situation. That was his job. She was the adult. Those were the rules, gods dammit.
She seemed tired, and he felt it.
"Is there anything else, Durin?" she asked, and he realized he'd been staring at nothing for a moment.
He looked at his mother as she idly tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear, trying to think of what else he could say. Did she need more context? Less? What level of stress was optimal for this sort of situation? He felt wretched at the thought of burdening her with more of the shit he knew was coming, and ultimately decided to leave that be for now. It was time for a bit of hope.
Or the closest thing he could provide.
"I do have some good news," he said, smiling tentatively. "Some things— ideas that may be helpful. Will be, I mean. Tools and tricks. I can show you one, I think. If you'd like more evidence of it all."
She chuckled ruefully.
"More evidence is the last thing I want, but I fear we'd best have it."
Yeah, he probably deserved that.
He started towards the door. "In that case, we need to speak to Maester Kayl. I think he'll have what I need for this."
As he reached for the handle he was lifted into the air and onto his mother's hip, held firmly at her side. She lifted the latch with her other hand and carried him through, making her way down the corridor and towards the stairway at a sedate pace.
"Mother," Durin whined, squirming. "I'm three and a half. I can walk on my own."
She shushed him gently.
"You've been burdened by glorious purpose, Durin," she said, and Durin snickered to himself. She smiled down at him, and maybe it didn't matter that she wasn't in on the joke. He laid his head against her shoulder. "But you're still my boy. You're already far too grown up for your own good, and we've barely started. Before anything else, I will hold you as if nothing was amiss."
He supposed that was fair.
—
Durin didn't glare at the smoking remnants of his efforts.
He was too tired for that.
He just kind of stared through the smoke, wondering what he did wrong.
Of course, he'd done nothing wrong. It had gone perfectly. At the same time, he knew exactly what he'd done wrong. He'd assumed that Maester Kayl would have enough of the right materials on hand for him to create enough black powder for a suitable demonstration of his towering intellect.
Assumed. Like an idiot.
Taking a mental step back, it was honestly lucky the old man had possessed the right stuff in any quantity whatsoever. Yeah, he was an academically trained alchemist— whatever that meant here. Yeah, he probably maintained an interest in odd or esoteric substances and new discoveries.
But who kept niter around?
What a weirdo.
Hours of effort, for that. Durin didn't remember it being such a hassle. He blamed the old man's primitive tools instead of himself.
Turning to his mother, he gestured lamely to the burn marks on the table.
The only remaining evidence of his ideas.
Aside from the smell.
His mother was standing a ways back, near the doorway, holding the back of her hand up to her nose. She looked… Not quite impressed. A little disgusted, maybe. "Was that what you wanted to show me?" She asked, managing to not sound as disappointed as he felt. "It was certainly bright enough. Loud, too."
She'd been in and out of the workshop as he worked, attending to regency things.
And this was what he had to show for it.
"No, it's—" Durin trailed off and gestured angrily at the table, frustrated, trying to just will the right words into being. "It was supposed to be more impressive. It explodes. If I had more ingredients, I could turn this whole tower into rubble."
She raised an eyebrow at that, glancing back at the remains of his pitiful showcase. "Truly?" When he nodded, she considered him more seriously. "How much more?"
He couldn't help but deflate.
"Lots. A whole lot more. Barrels. Would have to import the sulfur and niter in bulk, and that's assuming we can convince anyone to bother sending it all the way up north. The sulfur isn't as troublesome, since it's used in some good cement recipes, but niter…"
That was the big issue…
Actually, that wasn't even the biggest issue with this idea.
Turning back to look at his lackluster ingredients again, holding his nose shut, he tried to look ahead in time.
What could he even do with gunpowder?
He didn't know how to make guns. Nobody did. Even if he did, he was just one kid. Even if he then went through the trouble of teaching a bunch of blacksmiths how to make muskets… There were no assembly lines. No smithing unions. No central authority of blacksmiths in Barrowton. King's Landing had the street of steel, but even if he had access to it there were other issues. Quality assurance would be a nightmare, and the cost of failure was a dead soldier. Centralization of smithing knowledge aside, Barrowton probably didn't have enough smiths to begin with.
It was a trade here, not an industry.
Did they even have an iron mine worth a damn in his lands? He had no idea.
Even downgrading his ambitions to 'merely' cannons— which he also didn't really know how to make, it wasn't something he could throw together in an afternoon. Or even a month. This would take years. Years of costly R&D, and he couldn't do it on his own.
He didn't want to do it at all, honestly. It sounded horribly tedious and dangerous.
Realizing he'd been silent for a long moment, he sighed. "On its own, the black powder can be effective. More stable than something like wildfire, without burning out of control in the aftermath… Barrel it up and throw a torch at it, or set up a trail of it," he said, gesturing to the line of the powder he'd just set alight. "A fuse. The heat and fire burn on and away to some stockpile of the stuff, and down comes the castle wall it sits under. Or a building."
"That's certainly impressive," she said diplomatically, even as she took another small step out of the door. "But then why do you seem so disappointed? Is it only that you can't do such a thing now..? I'm afraid I'm rather fond of our current walls."
Washing his hands of this business— figuratively and literally, Durin followed her out of the Maesters secret laboratory and strained to close the door behind them.
More of an otherwise unused stockroom with his ingredients and instruments stuffed in there…
But the man was an alchemist. He needed a secret lab.
That was the law.
"It's just… I realized that I need a lot more. Not just the powder, but everything that goes with it. People building parts, passing those parts along to other people who then assemble those parts into larger parts…" He sighed and gave a little shrug.
Based on her growing frown, he could tell that she was beginning to grasp his frustration.
Or maybe she was just worried he would beggar their house.
He might, at that.
"Durin," she started slowly, looking ahead and narrowing her eyes at something only she could see. "How many 'ideas' do you have?"
He opened his mouth to give an honest, horrifying answer, but she kept going.
"Are they all from the vision you had last night? Or have you had visions of this sort before?" He closed his mouth, and she looked down at him with concern. "You write so much, I'd wondered about it. Is it all like this? Like that powder?"
Ah, damn…
Not quite so slick as he thought he was, huh?
'Course not. He hadn't exactly been a master of subtlety up to this point.
"Not visions. Dreams, mostly."
He couldn't say 'memories'. Things weren't quite that dire yet.
"They might be related? I'm not sure… Mostly they aren't helpful at all. But yes, some ideas are in there that could help. I'll dig them out, Mother."
Judiciously, and not all at once.
It wasn't that he was afraid of flipping the table of the status quo. That was going to happen no matter what, the way he was headed. But he'd read 'A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court' and knew to expect people to react poorly when he changed too much, too quickly. He'd have to do it anyway, but at least he could try to plan around the collapse of society that might occur in the aftermath.
First, he needed money.
If even a quarter of what he wanted ended up being possible, and practical, it was going to cost him a fortune.
So…
Where could he start?
Torrhen I
"Boats."
Torrhen raised an eyebrow, but he kept silent.
Lady Dustin aimed a frown at him, then looked away. "Ships, I mean. We need to acquire or build a number of them. A dozen. Twenty, if possible."
She was fidgeting again. Pressing her thumbs and fingers together until they were white. Glancing around at nothing. It reminded him of when she'd arrived in Barrow Hall, and the first few moons she spent there. The wedding had been pleasant enough, but young Willam had confessed during the months to follow that he worried she would never feel at home. Perhaps he'd felt insecure knowing that the Ryswells— Barbrey in particular, had been after a Stark marriage for some time.
It was ironic that Barbrey seemed to only grow comfortable once her husband had gone, however genuine her grief had been upon news of his death.
Torrhen kept that thought to himself, though.
The lady regent seemed troubled enough, and he needn't have guessed why.
"Ships," he repeated, aiming for a pleasantness he didn't quite feel. Based on the glare, she wasn't fooled. So he shrugged and scratched at his greying beard. "I can find the timber, and the men. Dockgrave's more ruin than town these days, but there's port and people enough to begin there."
She waited patiently, clearly expecting him to ruin this for her.
"Issue is… We don't have ships."
A look of understanding crossed her face, and she sighed. "And so there are no shipbuilders of appropriate skill plying their trade in our lands."
He nodded. "Aye."
"We might tempt one from White Harbor, or thereabouts…" She shook her head, already reaching the point he'd been about to make. "But the Manderlys are no friends of ours."
That was putting it somewhat lightly.
Barrowton was one of three 'major' trade hubs within the North, the others being White Harbor and Winterfell itself. Having no great port to speak of, Barrowton mostly benefited from easy access to the Kingsroad that passed through its lands on its way further north.
That, and their proximity to the lands of other northern houses with far less easy access to the rest of the world. Flints, Cerwyns, and Tallharts. They could just as well trade directly with their liege in Winterfell, but the land trade passed through the Barrowlands first. Not directly, but near enough not to matter. Even Crannogmen were no strangers to Barrowton, despite the Kingsroad running directly through their marsh. Merchants spent as little time as possible in the Neck, and trading within the North was cheaper than Seagard to the south.
Borders and tariffs.
Sea trade along the western coast more or less stopped where the North began. The Ryswells, Fishers, Slates, and Glovers sat along that coast, with the Mormonts further north still, and they possessed some token coast-bound ships to fend off Ironborn reavers, but there hadn't been a serious investment in ships since Brandon the Burner had ended the North's naval ambitions.
Long time ago, that. But that was true of everything here.
By contrast, the Myrmen liked ships a lot. The bulk of whatever navy the North could call upon came from White Harbor. Mere merchant galleys, but a fair number of them. They were copper counters first and foremost, and possessed the only city charter north of the Neck. They liked to trade. They didn't like Barrowmen.
The feeling was largely mutual.
Where the Myrmen kept a tight grip on the trade that came up from the east coast, from The Sisters to King's Landing, the men of Barrowton kept an equally tight grip on the trade flowing north by land. As well as whatever scraps of sea trade came far enough north to hit the Saltspear. One was clearly much more profitable than the other, but that hadn't kept their houses from resenting each other equally.
Torrhen frowned and stood from Lady Dustin's desk to stand by the window and stare down at the water, thinking.
Seagard would be the best bet. Followed distantly by Lannisport.
He snorted. As if they could tempt a southron Westerman this far north in winter. "I don't suppose you want an Ironborn coming to show us how it's done?"
"If you can find a trustworthy one? Certainly."
That was a no, then.
So, Seagard.
Letting out a grunt, he turned back and crossed his arms. "What manner of ships does the little lord want?"
Barbrey frowned, but didn't bother much with the pretense. "Ships of war. Seafaring deterrents for reavers. As many as can be fashioned within four years."
She sounded very sure of that timeframe. Strange.
Torrhen squinted at her. "What happens in four years?"
"It matters not, only that we have enough of them to make a difference."
More strange words.
Reaching up to run a hand through his braids, he sighed.
There was no shortage of strangeness in Barrow Hall, these days. Since young Will had gotten himself killed fighting the Sword of the Morning of all bloody people. Since Torrhen's cousin Jorah had died on the Trident. Maybe even since his other cousin, Lord Rodrik Dustin, had died a scant two years before the rebellion.
Torrhen had lived to see three Barrow Lords die in his time, including his uncle Rickard— though he ruled for a very respectable four and forty years. They told him he was the oldest Dustin remaining. Torrhen the Elder, they japed. Even his brother Eckard, who was only younger by two years.
He was merely six and forty. Not a hundred.
But the grey in his hair and the heavy heart he rose with each day did much to convince him otherwise, much as his Berena took joy in teasing him about it. His own two children were grown and living, if not yet wed. The gods had spared him that much.
"A difference, you say," he grumbled, more to himself. But he could tell Barbrey was listening. "Difference in what? You make much of your son's nightmares, my lady."
For he knew that was what she referred to.
These days, most knew something of the maladies and habits that plagued the young Lord Dustin. Certainly those of his house knew. Too much nattering. Torrhen wasn't much for rumor, but it had been going on for so long that the repetition had pounded the lies and half-truths into his mind.
"My son," she said sharply, tapping her fingers on the desk in a haphazard rhythm, "is of little concern to you, beyond what he asks for and I command to be done. Is this task beyond you, Torrhen? If so, I'm sure we can find someone more suited to it."
He shook his head once. "I'll see it done… Is that all?"
He'd been a little careless in addressing her, but that was his way.
Lady Dustin would not set him aside so easily. It was her way to push and test him when she doubted herself.
He didn't mind.
They had an understanding, of sorts. Torrhen held the respect of his house and influence among the local nobility— the Stouts and Brownbarrows, and he wielded these things in Barbrey's name. Durin's name, rather. In return, she kept him and his family close and had promised good marriages and generous dowries for Bethany and Roderick. That hadn't yet come to pass, but he was in no rush.
She even honored Roderick by deigning to let him wield the sword of House Dustin until Durin was of an age to, but that was perhaps meant more as a slight to Durin's heir. Both, maybe.
After a bit of a staredown, Barbrey leaned back in her seat. As relaxed as she ever looked.
"No… No, I'm afraid not." She sounded a little overwhelmed, and he immediately straightened up. "There's more. Much more, and ever more after. Some will not be possible until spring, and others will take years. But not all of it will need your hand. I know you care little for haggling."
Torrhen nodded firmly.
He could never be Barrow Lord, even if he were closer in line to it. Too much penny-pinching for his tastes.
That said…
"How much would you spend on these ships?" he asked, doing some basic sums in his mind and not liking the results. "Across a decade it would be a project. But four years for a dozen ships? Even five or six… Thousands of gold dragons."
She nodded and the edges of her mouth twitched up. "Ten thousand," she said, then let out a short laugh at his expression. "As you say, Torrhen… Finding the man with the right experience, renovating Dockgrave, and then fashioning at least a dozen seaworthy warships. In four years… We will be very fortunate to pay only that much. If a dozen cannot be done in time, it is an acceptable failure. But no less than eight. More will come after, one way or another."
He nodded back, feeling a little dazed.
Ten thousand. That was southron tourney money, at minimum. Perhaps not the big jousting pots, but for archery and melee. Even spent over several years, it was a very large expense for a northern house.
He knew their house was by no means poor, but…
"Is this truly a good time?" he said, speaking without meaning to. Seeing her expression begin to harden again, he pressed on. "Winter comes, my lady. It is only a few moons away. Winter towns will soon begin to fill, and the ground will freeze. Any amount you think to spend, consider that. Whatever happens in four years… Is it worth the effort? Can it not wait until spring?"
But before she replied he knew what her answer was.
"No, it cannot." She was quieter than he'd expected, looking far away for a moment. "Four years. Fifteen. There's too little time already…"
Fifteen?
"Time for what?"
Lady Dustin huffed a humorless laugh. "What should we need warships for, Torrhen, if not war?"
True enough, yet still alarming.
She seemed to sense his consternation, quickly sobering. "Not one of our making."
"Of course… But one that you are now expecting?"
Based on the ravings of a sickly child?
He only voiced the first part of that concern, but the absence of the other was loud enough in its own right.
Lady Barbrey's son, the very young— and very strange, Lord Dustin. A child who acted like no child he'd ever seen or heard of, looked like no child anyone had heard of, and spoke as well as Torrhen's own grown children. A boy who told stories and made arguments about things he couldn't possibly know.
Then there were the events of that morning.
When the castle had been thrust into a wild panic over his disappearance, Torrhen had suspected the lad had fallen from a high place. The fear of discovering the twisted corpse of the young lord had been a very real thing, and the boy's mother had felt it most keenly. No wonder there. But no. He had turned up of his own accord, with blood on him and a wound on his hand, but no serious injury. Then he'd admitted to venturing down into the tomb and asked to speak to his mother alone.
The barrow, his blood, and the whisperings of a curse…
All of it had left a bad taste in Torrhen's mouth and a foreboding in his gut.
One that reappeared now.
But the lady did not rush to elaborate.
"The Ironborn will rebel," she said eventually, not looking at him as he hissed in a breath. She closed her eyes, and he wondered if she was even more worried than he. Just better at hiding it, maybe. "Four years, Torrhen. Give me ships, and perhaps try to bloody the reavers that slink across our waters in the meantime… For now, that will have to do."
For now.
The feeling in his gut intensified.
He bowed. "I am at your service, Lady Dustin. If there is anything else I can do to assist you…"
With a short gesture towards the door, she dismissed him.
But not before calling after him to add even more to his growing anxiety.
"I may need you to carry out some— declarations. As you say, winter approaches. The winter towns will fill, and there are some things we cannot leave for spring." She smiled mirthlessly to herself as she read something on a parchment he was not privy to. "Needs must, Torrhen… And believe me, we have great needs. Many, and more to come."
—
The work started slowly.
Slowly, but only by the standards of someone looking to accomplish something with great haste. Anyone paying attention— meaning almost nobody, raised both eyebrows at the activity in Dockgrave. Only the smallfolk still lingering in the area saw fit to grumble about it. Torrhen hadn't forgotten Lady Dustin's strict time limit, nor her strict quota. Quite the opposite. Her unease had rubbed off on him. He went about the task as swiftly as he could.
The first of his funds appeared quick enough, and he had a practiced eye for good working men.
Rotten wood and the wreckage of the old portage was hacked to pieces and turned to firewood, the worst of it torched outright. Thankfully repairing and rebuilding the port itself wasn't necessary at the moment. If it was… Well, it would take a few more years and a few more tens of thousands of gold dragons. Forget doing it in the winter.
All they needed was the skeleton of the shipyard, not the whole port.
Just the shipyard. As if that made it easier.
It was simple, but not easy.
The shipyard had been abandoned for just as long as the rest of the port. But the main structure and its enclosures were ruins of stone, not wood, and they had weathered their years of neglect and disuse with more dignity than the port proper. Some of it had been quarried for spare stone by nearby villages, or inhabited by vagrants, but putting those things to rights was part of his mandate and within his budget.
In the end, repairing the parts of Dockgrave they actually needed was more a test of patience than a cause for madness.
Barely.
Around a third of it was unusable, which was better than he'd feared.
The problems began to appear when the shipwright and his apprentices arrived from Seagard.
A younger man than Torrhen had expected. Twig-like in build and posture, Master Jerrel seemed no more than five and twenty at the oldest. That was concerning. His bald head confused things there. Yet his apparent youth didn't stop him from inspecting the salvaged shipyard with a critical eye and eventually a scoff, muttering to himself and walking away from the structure to glare out at the water.
Looking at the man's apprentices they seemed about as put out as the man himself. A few of them looked at Torrhen and gestured at their master helplessly.
Well go on then, they seemed to say.
He stifled a sigh and approached the man. "Is there a problem?" he asked lightly.
Jerrel seemed to bite his tongue at first, then jerked his head back at the shipyard. "Six, m'lord. Galleys."
Frowning, Torrhen looked at the building and then back at Jerrel. "To start?"
He barked out a laugh.
"To start," he said bitterly, visibly trembling with anger. "Six galleys in total! I told them it wouldn't happen. A four-year contract and a near ruin for a workspace? Six."
"If gold is the issue—"
"Forgive my interrupting, m'lord… But it isn't gold. It's the men." Jerrel nodded towards the buildings, then scowled at his four apprentices milling about. He shook his head. "But Lady Dustin's gold does spend and she spent a good deal to secure my master's services."
"Your master? But you…" Torrhen trailed off.
Jerrel laughed at his own expense and smiled, both without humor. "Yes. 'Master' Jerrel. It's all very legitimate. There was even a ceremony! Everyone knew I was on track for mastery, in a decade."
It took a second.
Then Torrhen cursed.
"Precisely."
"If we—" He broke off and cursed again. "I can bring you more woodworkers. Skilled carpenters. Will that help?"
Jerrel shrugged.
"In time, perhaps they can be of use. We're already hiring the best from among the smallfolk in your winter towns, but bringing in more yet?" He gestured towards the shipyard. "We will need more space. You've eight usable enclosures for construction, but only three will do for the galleys you want. The rest are too small by half, more suited to skiffs and river runners. I don't doubt you can give me more space, but it will take time. Time and money, and time. I've four years to not make a fool of myself and winter is coming, as the Starks say. Work will be hard enough as it is with the cold coming."
That was all too true.
While the shipwright brooded, Torrhen brooded with purpose. Thinking.
It hadn't been a small sum, hiring one of the shipwrights out of Seagard. If one of the guild's masters had thought to try something, who was to say it wouldn't happen again? They could press the issue, maybe take it before Lord Mallister. But even if Torrhen was of a mind to sail there and put this to rights— which he was not, winter was upon them. The first snowfall couldn't be more than days away.
They didn't have time to dance to the tune of freemen guilder schemes.
But Torrhen wasn't fool enough to think that a seasoned master would be able to somehow conjure up ships faster than this man could. He believed Jerrel on that front, which made this worse. It was a matter of quality that Lady Dustin had paid for and now might not receive.
He sympathized with the man. Backstabbing and politicking at all levels, anything to make his job more complicated. In all circles. It didn't make things better, but it cooled his temper ever so slightly.
Before he could continue the conversation with the man, a commotion drew his eyes away. A few men were shouting, one of them pointed.
One of the watchtowers down the coast had lit their signal fire.
Squinting, Torrhen could barely see the outlines of a few men atop the tower. They were waving their hands around and trying to point at something, and doing a sloppy job of it…
You'd think Barrowmen would be better at this.
Looking out past the shores of the Saltspear, Torrhen cursed darkly.
Ironborn.
Their ships were far off, but unmistakable in their shape. Longships. He counted only two, but recently their piracy had thinned. Plus, they weren't close. Not near close enough for an attack to be imminent, but that was what the watchtowers were for. Still, this was bad timing.
But not altogether unexpected.
Ironborn attack. Four years. Lady Dustin's words rang anew in his mind.
Or were they the words of Durin?
In either case, it was hardly a novel prediction. Strange was the year when the men of the barrows weren't plagued by the island scum at the behest of their drowned god. But that was raiding. An attack was something altogether different. It meant they had a fleet, or would soon. The lady hadn't said more, but Torrhen could piece together what might embolden them so.
A new king ruled the Seven Kingdoms. A new dynasty. That and the death of Quellon Greyjoy. By all accounts, Balon held none of his father's desires for peace and cooperation.
Nothing less would get those bastards slinking off of their rocks.
Armies and ships, a warmonger lord, and a new rule to test themselves against.
His musing was interrupted when a young man ran up to his side, flushed with excitement.
"You see them, father?" Roderick said eagerly, gripping the pommel of his sword and looking out at the ships. His son went on without waiting for a reply. "Are they going to attack? I can gather the men and set them ready on the beachhead. Give the word, and we'll be ready."
Jerrel seemed a little ill at the prospect, taking a step back.
With a grunt, Torrhen shook his head. "No. Not an attack. Not yet. The cowards will strike at the first sign of opposition. But only on their own terms… I wager they'll try to swarm the first fighting ship we put to water."
Roderick grinned at that, to his dismay.
"Let them try. Too long have their ilk haunted our shores. Put me on that first ship and I'll send any attackers down to meet their god with Sunfang." With that, he pulled his bastard sword from its scabbard and pointed it in the direction of the Ironborn.
It was an impressive blade, to be sure. Even Jerrel made an appreciative sound.
No valyrian steel had ever been held by a Dustin, but Sunfang was just as precious to their house. More heirloom than a proper weapon in its looks, it had been commissioned by the Lord Dustin of several centuries past. Desmond Dustin, maybe? Before the conquest. Fashioned like the bronze weapons of old Barrow Kings from the Age of Heroes, it was still better steel than many of its like. Its only flaws were a few tiny blemishes where the late Lord Willam had crossed blades with Ser Arthur Dayne. The bronze was mostly filigree and enameling on the sword, along with a good bit of fire gilding with mercury that the smith hadn't long survived the effects of.
Altogether the sword almost seemed to glow with the light of the sun at times.
Hence the name.
Torrhen placed a calming hand on Roderick's shoulder. "There'll be a time for that, my son. They won't be coming ashore any time soon… No need to scare the poor shipwright here." He nodded towards Jerrel and gestured to his son. "Master Jerrel, this is my son Roderick. He'll be in command of the troops I leave mustered here, for the protection of you and yours. Roderick, this is the shipwright."
Would that it wasn't needed. But Lady Dustin would suffer few setbacks to this venture, and his son was capable.
Overeager, but capable.
Jerrel seemed to have gotten over his unease at the sight of the distant longships, and he bowed to them.
"Lord Roderick, my humble thanks for your protection. I am at your service."
Though he remembered to at least nod in turn, Roderick barely glanced at the man as he returned the sword to its sheath. "Likewise, Master Jerrel. Yours and your family's. Have no fear, the Ironborn will not trouble your labor while I draw breath."
Very inspiring. Torrhen stifled a sigh.
That still left the dangers awaiting them once the ships were completed.
Torrhen had mostly been trying to calm his son, but the truth of the matter was clear enough for even the shipwright to see. A fresh galley with a green crew taking to the waters wouldn't survive a battle with one of those longships. Let alone two.
If they waited and sent three of them out at once? They might survive. But was that how he'd forge a navy? Throwing men to the slaughter until they figured out how to sail properly? And would the pirates sit idly by? Perhaps more would arrive to hammer down the growing naval power of the Barrowmen. It all depended on how they reacted.
That realization ate at Torrhen.
He hated waiting.
He looked over at Jerrel again, narrowing his eyes in thought. "You said six galleys in four years. I can get the last of this shipyard rebuilt by winter's end, and more besides. With your input, we'll get you enough space for more galleys. Maybe even a carrack if Lady Dustin sees fit to keep you on after your contract, and if the North agrees with you."
Jerrel choked, looking at him with wide-eyed confusion and opening his mouth to protest.
But Torrhen raised a hand to silence him. "Your old master in Seagard has played his tricks, and he will suffer his own consequences once my lady hears of it. You are here, and he is not. Do your job well and you'll avoid disgracing yourself."
The man opened and closed his mouth several times, speechless.
Eventually, he just nodded.
Torrhen suppressed a smile at his bewilderment. Even Roderick was giving him the side-eye at his promises. A carrack would be a great expense… If they got that far. He'd have to explain himself to Barbrey. In the meantime, he had to stave off these pirates before they cost them all even more time and money.
"For now," he began slowly, stroking his beard and considering the longships as they grew smaller on the horizon. "For now, give me one galley as quick as you can manage."
Now mostly recovered, Jerrel cleared his throat. "My lord?"
"As I said. A single galley. How soon can you have one ready to launch?"
"Father," Roderick said with a hint of exasperation, "I know I can't fight them off single-handed. You needn't mock my boasting… It will take time, yes, but engaging them with three will be better than one." He sounded bitter at the admittance but gave voice to it all the same.
At least he understood that much.
Torrhen shook his head. "I'm not mocking you, Roderick. But I do need a galley. No masterwork. It needs only to look like a warship… If it floats and it is swift, it will suffice."
Now they were both properly confused.
Good.
It might actually work then.
286 AC
Barrowton had changed.
Half a year went by, winter had come, and his home was different.
Not drastically. Nothing had been burnt down or rearranged. No new buildings he could spot. Still far more wood than stone. The streets were the same; straight and neatly aligned in a way that he found satisfying. The people were as he remembered them; severe, annoyed, and cold. Barrow Hall stood watch over the River Cairn as ever it did.
Torrhen walked down the wide market street lined with elms and still felt at home.
But something was off.
Something small, but it irked him to be so unsure.
Before he could figure it out, he was interrupted by perhaps the last person he wanted to speak to at that moment. Or any given moment, really.
"Cousin Torrhen, you are back! It is good…"
Jon Dustin approached him with a wide smile, open arms, and an unsteady gait.
Torrhen suppressed a sigh.
They embraced, and he winced at the intense smell of wine coming from the man. Fresh from his favored haunt, no doubt. He pulled back and placed his arms on Jon's shoulder, both to keep him at a distance and to stop him falling over. He nodded. "It's good to be home, Jon. How are Alys and the children? Faring well, I hope."
Jon's smile grew smaller. "Very good, very good. Denys is strong, he will be a good lord… And little Barbs, she's— and my Alys is well enough. But what of you? You have not been here, cousin. What does the Ryswell woman have you skulking around for that I cannot know of it..? I am—"
"You are the heir, yes." Torrhen didn't bother suppressing a sigh this time.
"I am, you know." The smile slid off the man's face, and he poked Torrhen in the chest. "I deserve to know what all this… What in the world is going on with my family? We are family, cousin… That woman, she only cares about horses. Damn Ryswells… We must come together, as one. House Dustin is ancient and proud, and I… It is my—"
This was an old argument.
Presented even more clumsily than usual.
The market street was crowded enough, but no one was drifting too close to them. He had the guards to thank for that. He nodded in their direction even as he cursed them internally for letting Jon make a public fool of himself.
No telling who he'd been whinging to already. An inn? There were two within eyesight, and that was without looking around.
Looking around for some distraction, Torrhen was once again struck by the sense that something was off. Was it the stench of sweat and wine from Jon? No, he'd still felt it before, but the contrast of it… He turned his head away from the man and sniffed the air, frowning.
It wasn't just Jon.
"Has something happened, Jon?" Torrhen asked, both out of curiosity and to get the man talking about something else. "The city seems different to me. Strange smells."
He scowled but nodded.
"Aye, it is different. That woman— Ryswell, the regent… She commis— command… Puts a bounty on soaps for the smallfolk. Soaps and soaps." Jon scoffed and pointed a shaky finger at a series of smokestacks on the far end of town. Were they not all from forges? "Animal fat and ashes. That's the stench of home now, cousin. Wood ash into lye… Lye. Liars! She lies to all of our people. Washing hands doesn't… Disease, it won't stop it. The smallfolk are fooled, but not me… She lies with her lye!" The man broke into giggles at his own joke.
Torrhen could barely follow what the man was saying, but he nodded along idly. If he thought it would do any good he'd smack him upside the head.
He had before, and it hadn't.
Didn't stop him from wanting to.
"I'm sure the lady regent has her reasons, Jon." With winter upon them and the slimming down of the herds, there should be no shortage of animal fats. Whatever goal the soaps worked towards, it was a well-timed strategy. "With Lord Durin's sickness, perhaps the maester—"
Jon snorted loudly, which ended in a disgusting hiccup.
"Do not speak to me of that boy, if a human child he truly is… His sickness. If only a bit of filth was all it took… We'll be well rid of the brat, cousin."
Making eye contact with the two guards, Torrhen turned Jon around and led him back towards them.
"Go home, Jon."
"I am home…" He trailed off as he reached up to rub his eyes.
Ignoring him, Torrhen fixed the escorts with a glare. They had the decency to look a little abashed even as they straightened up. "Beren, Edder. Take my cousin home to his wife. He is very tired, and you should not delay his return more—"
A horn blast cut through the commotion of the market.
Torrhen's eyes snapped to Barrow Hall.
Another blast.
Then a pause, followed by five short blasts played in quick succession.
He cursed.
He didn't quite shove Jon into the arms of his guards, but he nearly did. Jon yelped in indignation and shock as he stumbled forward, turning back to stare at Torrhen with wide eyes. He sputtered. "Wha— what was that? Are we expecting guests? No, the horn…" His face scrunched up as he tried to pry his mind out of the pool of wine he'd drowned it in.
"Yes, Jon. We have guests," Torrhen said with false cheer, smiling at the man. "You'd best go and get yourself presentable, cousin. Sober up, right quick! They'll be waiting to meet you, the heir."
Smiling back at him, Jon slapped his chest. "Of course! I… I'll do that."
Yes. Do that.
Torrhen stayed only long enough to make sure his idiot kinsman and his guards were actually headed back to Barrow Hall. Jon actually stopped to smile and wave at him, which had him gritting his teeth even as he returned the wave. Once they were gone, he sighed.
Then he turned and started running towards the docks while cursing his aching limbs.
He had guests to welcome, after all.