UNDER SPRING AIR, MEET ME ANYWHERE
89 YEARS AFTER AEGON'S CONQUEST
NEW CASTLE, WHITE HARBOR
@ofviserra
The spring flood that had trapped smallfolk on the wrong side of the swollen White Knife had receded into a clatter of laboring men and the whinnies of restless destriers. The land was a grim tableau of the water's chisel; the riverbank, only just beginning to turn green at the season's turn, had become a tract of muddy, rutted earth. No sooner had Edric arrived to the lands east of the mouth of the White Knife had he commanded for a makeshift bridge to be sustained with fishing nets and horse rope. He crossed first, alone, testing each step until his feet no longer broke right through the planks. Forty-seven souls, both young and old, had been hauled to safety. But by nightfall, the cold air had begun to lick at the rising fever from under Edric's furs. His shambling movements would not give way to the long days spent on saddle in the journey back home, so he had been put to rest in one of New Castle's guest rooms. When Edric soon deteriorated to such a point that he could scarce endure the touch of his own undershirt, he finally let himself collapse into a fitful sleep.
Come morning, the warmth of the crackling brazier and the careful ministrations of the maester had done little to ease Edric's bone-deep shivering, but even that could not dissuade the customary quiet efficiency he brought to all matters of rulership. A sheaf of papers and a servitor to curry reports were at his bedside at every waking moment of the day; the status of the water levels of the river, whether the day's weather conditions would allow more water to be diverted into floodplain areas, the names of fishermen and stonemasons required for continued relief efforts, and all relevant summaries that preempted every conceivable question and follow up. It was a level of organization that bordered on the fastidiousness, leaving him to a thoughtful world of his own. It was only when he wrote to both Ellard and Arsa that he realized he would never be quite so sick as he was now with longing.
Once his fever broke, Edric's body and mind were able to move with a certainty that it lacked days prior. He wore a black doublet of quilted-linen that lent warmth without ostentation, the collar drawn high against his throat. His boots were brown leather, well-worn and unadorned, leading him all along the stonework that gave way to the evening's feast. Pearwood chairs shifted, new rushes laid, and perfumed scents lingered through corridors that warmed into the evening. Lord Theomore's hand – or perhaps his need for distinction and praise – was everywhere. The lord's table was the glaring proof of it, where cushions found the best of the brazier's warmth and delicacies lined a table with faultless precision; the spread of a man who enjoyed the excesses and pageantry of what his shipping lanes, trade agreements, and marriage alliance to House Targaryen had afforded him. Around the lord's table, servants milled about in neat arcs – likely turned more cautious since Edric's arrival – and worked diligently to smooth a place that looked as if winter's bite had never reached it. The scent of sweetmeats and foodstuffs too foreign for Edric to name shone like the stuff of dreams, of memories of summers bygone, fruits so ripe that they fell from the stem. To his right, a carafe of Arbor gold gleamed like the real thing, refracting firelight through the cut leaded-glass it was being poured into. Edric eyed his cup suspiciously. What lies and affectations would old Theomore feed him tonight?
When he had only just turned to give a thankful remark to his hosts, he locked eyes with Princess Viserra, in spite himself. He took in the smooth delineation of her jaw, the mischievous edge to her lips, and the way the firelight of the brazier caught in the silver strands of her hair – a sight to stir the heart of every man. Edric withdrew his gaze before he could let it linger, but even as he traded curt pleasantries with the rest of the table, his mind was rapt by every murmur and breath she drew. The slip of skin over the table, or against her skirts, seemed as if it was whispered right against him, as if the sound need not travel at all. The spell broke when he noticed the smiles that Theomore's kin offered him, and they were not returned in kind, Edric's own expression stoic. Even though Theomore's sons and daughters were considerably older than him, their wide, unsuspecting eyes and soft faces looked vulnerable, making them seem younger than their thirty and spare-namedays. That was the way with it; peace and favor crafted soft-handed men that were not brought up on stories of long winters and famine, who had never seen combat – and of those who had, fewer still had commanded a garrison. Edric continued to watch them all in turns, letting out a nearly inaudible sigh through his nose. Indeed, Edric felt much older than his own twenty-one years.
"My good lords," Edric began, his back set squarely against the backrest of the chair, hands clasped together over his midsection. "The spring flood in the White Knife saw many of our people besieged and displaced all along the riverbank. While I am glad that we have come together in strength and bond to provide rescue efforts, we all know that our work is not yet done. The wooden suspension bridge will not hold till next spring, or even within the fortnight, so I call upon you to make the necessary relief measures." He let his eyes hang heavily on the Lord of White Harbor to excise any doubt or challenge to his command. There would be no questioning, no asking, no negotiating– Edric would not beg his vassals for anything when duty demanded to be fulfilled. It was a serious matter, as tantamount as the land's law. So let Theomore, Defender of the Dispossessed, prove his worth and honor in service, and not in baubles and exotic throwaways. Edric leaned in then, his tone no less serious, but newly thoughtful. "This incident has made me reflect. On my account, I will be sending small groups of inspectors to survey as many bridges and mills in the northern reaches each spring. This is a custom that House Stark will carry out henceforth."
From across the table, two of Theomore's sons exchanged a knowing look. Theomore seemed amenable enough, but never in an obsequious manner, and for that he was relieved. After all, Edric could not fault the old man for keeping his pride. But in between mouthfuls of stew and a heel of bread, Theomore suddenly took on a curious tone that was itself a form of interrogation: "Lord Stark, I take it you and your men will need permanent accommodations in White Harbor when you come to inspect the White Knife each spring. What other amenities will you require of us in the coming years?”
Edric’s lips tipped upwards in a slight, appreciative grin. It was a considerable offer, but Edric would have rather been stripped of his last coin than be beholden to the Manderlys any more than he had been. “Lord Theomore, you misunderstood me. That I can leave the seat of my rule whenever I please is simply not conceivable. I must insist that you treat with a surveyor of my own choosing when the time comes.” Then, a pause, if only to allow them all a rare moment of unguarded honesty. "The North prospers and yet prosperity is a... restless child. It constantly demands new paths to walk." Edric gave his head an emphatic shake as though to conclude the matter altogether. "No, my place is in Winterfell, where I may rear it with the vigilance and steady hand it requires."
The old lord gave a slight, understanding smile as he brought his glass up high. “Well said.” His voice, now in declaration, carried in the cavernous space. “To the North!”
“To the North,” Edric repeated, the uneasy distance between them shrinking to that of meaningful understanding. “If nothing else, I thought we might have every family’s name who has been affected by the flood recorded for later aid.”
The suggestion let out a peal of laughter from one brother, which then drew an answering laugh out of the other. “Lord Edric,” he tittered, “if I may... the tedious negotiations of tariffs and trade routes are matters that need revisiting with every turn of the season, as well. We are at a deadlock this very moment with the merchant princes of Qarth. You must be aware that to make headway in Qarth is to play three games of cyvasse at once, each board with a different set of rules and many sets of hands."
The stale ache in his temples that carried with his fever now began to flare. Edric narrowed his eyes as if listening with a curious, if not scholarly intensity, when all the while a sense of exasperation simmered inside him like hot oil inside a lidded pot. This long winding talk of captains charting unknown waters and traders weighing the worth of strange ports and stranger men were the troubles of young men too rapt by what lay beyond the horizon to consider the intricate, unglamorous mechanics that kept the North afloat. By contrast, Edric was a practical man that wore his lordship and ever expanding experience rather plainly, yet he held an edge to him in what he chose not to say. So for now, he would play audience to this fool’s mindless chatter, all the while counting faults and provocations like one of the many merchants at the counting houses that lined the waterfront of White Harbor.
"What you ask for is women's work, the dry accounting of bushels and barrels, tallying people and allotting for headstones for the few who regrettably did not survive. Yes, we have many supplies to give and more. So the matter is quite simple.” He gestured towards Viserra with the smug curl of a man who had carried his weight uphill and expected applause for not dropping it. “Let our lady of White Harbor do it.”
Edric’s heart gave into a breathless plunge of bewilderment. Without meaning to, Edric’s gaze turned to Viserra, and the world and all its peripheral inhabitants seemed to darken to a pool of pitch in that blinding firebrand of a moment that Viserra’s fingers wound within his own, seizing him completely unawares; the chaste brush of her breath against his cheek as they danced together, the soft heat between the gaps of their bodies that made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, like warm water trailing down his spine. That his mind would insist on wandering to a dance they shared with one another, dogging his steps at every turn like her own bridal's cloak had the day they met, while he remained a guest in her husband's castle was shame unto him and a blight to her honor. He pushed the stew away as if that movement alone could shutter her away from his mind, his eyes fixed narrowly into the bowl to reclaim control, to remind his body and mind who it belonged to. “Simple,” he repeated, allowing himself to taste the veritable gall of it all. A steadying force amidst the tangled mess of feeling he could not let himself unravel. “So very simple, while you and your father’s hands must toil and bandy with princes from across the narrow sea when your own set of feet are firm on our shared corner of the realm." Edric bit down a scoff, expression carefully neutral, though his tone was discernibly disappointed. “Tallying families is simple enough, yes. But the consequences of your mismanagement are not.” Silence followed, because what had been spoken here had rung true. “Just as well,” Edric said at last. “Perhaps Princess Viserra will prove that she understands the needs of the entire terrain, and not just the coastlines.” Edric bowed his head slightly in a gesture of respect towards the princess, his movements devoid of flagrance and fuss. He would not seek her allowance and favor with dishonesty. “Of course, only if my lady will have me."
2087
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