We spent two nights at the Ivyfort.
On the first morning, after breaking my fast on porridge and bacon, I sought out Ol' Al Lantry and sat him down to have a talk.
There was a lot of denial at first, a lot of pointing out he was a godly, Seven-fearing man, but I got through to him in the end. Like I expected, Ol' Al was a warg himself, one who had always been afraid of using his power, and who thought that putting the fear of the gods in his grandson was the best thing he could do for him.
I promised Ol' Al to care of the boy and that I'd raise up his house if he served me well. That did it.
An hour later, young Arlan and I rode out from the Ivyfort with a heavy squad of guards, ten men in House Tarth colors, well-armed and watchful. I wasn't taking any chances with so many unknowns around.
The boy was guarded at first, sitting stiffly in his saddle and speaking only when spoken to. He kept glancing at me sideways, like he expected me to suddenly draw my sword and run him through.
But once we'd ridden for an hour through the Rainwood without incident, once he realized I wasn't taking him into the woods to kill him and hide his body—gods, what stories had people been telling themselves about me?—it became a task to stop his prattling.
At my request, he took me to his favorite spots. A deep ravine you could ride down into, the walls rising twenty feet on either side, covered in moss and ferns. We emerged from the other end into a small canyon that cut through the land like a knife slash, opening up to reveal a vista of forest stretching to the horizon.
"I found this when I was twelve," Arlan said proudly. "Flew over it as a hawk and spent three days trying to find it on foot."
Then a small river where salmon leaped from the water in such numbers it looked like the surface was boiling. The guards actually stopped to watch, one of them laughing in delight at the sight.
"They run like this in spring and fall," Arlan explained. "The smallfolk net them by the hundreds. Could be more, if we had better equipment."
It was magnificent. All of it. I imagined no one knew this land like he did. Every hidden trail, every secret clearing, every cave and waterfall and fishing spot.
As we rode, he told me about growing up in the Ivyfort. How his grandfather had taught him cartography when he was just a boy. How he'd drawn his first map at age seven and found he had a natural talent for it.
"And then one day I woke up and I was looking down at myself from the ceiling," he said, his voice dropping slightly despite our distance from the guards. "Took me a moment to realize I was inside a raven that had flown in through the window."
"How old were you?"
"Nine." He shook his head. "When I told my Grandfather a few weeks later, he looked like he'd seen a ghost. He refused to even talk to me for a whole week and stopped teaching me about maps altogether, but I figured out what was happening eventually. Started practicing in secret."
"And he never knew?"
"Oh, he knew." Arlan's expression darkened. "Caught me at it when I was eleven. I'd slipped into a hawk to scout the forest and stayed too long. Came back to find him standing over my body, terrified I'd never come back." He swallowed. "He made me swear never to speak of it. Said the Faith would burn me if they found out my curse. That I'd bring shame to House Lantry."
Realizing he was working himself up with the skinchanging talk, I held up a hand. The guards were coming closer, and I didn't want to take any chances of that kind of rumor spreading. These were loyal Tarth men to be sure, but they were not my Companions, and the south didn't deal well with what some called barbaric northern magicks.
"Later," I said quietly. "When we have privacy."
He nodded, understanding immediately.
But there was one more spot he wanted to show me. Hidden deep in the woods, down a trail so faint I would have missed it entirely if Arlan hadn't led us there.
A weirwood tree. I'd seen one or two here and there during Endrew's tour, which already gave me many ideas, but this wasn't just any weirwood either. This was a heart tree, ancient beyond reckoning.
The bark was bone-white, almost luminescent in the dappled forest light. Red leaves rustled overhead, the color of fresh blood. And, carved into the trunk, the face. Hollow eyes wept red sap down the white bark. The mouth was open in what might have been a scream or a prayer. The expression was haunting, terrible, impossibly old.
By the time I could see the details clearly, I started to feel it. An itch at the back of my head. A pressure building behind my eyes. Like something was trying to feel its way in.
I stopped my horse immediately, pulling hard on the reins. The animal whinnied in protest but obeyed.
"What is it?" Arlan asked, confused.
I worked my jaw, squinting my eyes as if that'd work to relieve the pressure. No help.
"Let us go back for now," I told him, my voice tight.
He frowned for a second, clearly wanting to ask more questions. Then he shrugged and turned his own horse around. As we rode back toward the guards on the trail, I shot one last look behind me at the heart tree.
Not today, Bloodraven. Not today.
I'd been careless enough already. Back in the Red Keep with Melisandre and the glass candle. Then bloody Quaithe appearing like some kind of stalker.
Gods, I needed a break from magic. At least the kind with the possibility of some creepy, voyeuristic observer watching me on the other end.
Basic skinchanging though? Well, that was something else. Something I'd felt a pull toward for years already with Smoker but never tried to explore. Never had the time or the knowledge to attempt it safely.
If the only creepy observer I had when skinchanging was Smoker himself, then I could probably get past whatever sexy dreams involving mares of all shapes and colors he'd throw at me once I slipped into his mind.
The thought amused me despite the lingering unease from the weirwood.
xxx
I spent the next day mostly in Ivyfort itself.
First, I tested out Arlan's swordarm in the courtyard. He wasn't as terrible as I'd expected. He'd been taught the basics, at least. His form was adequate, his footwork decent if unpolished.
But watching him move, seeing how his hands gripped the blade, I confirmed what I'd already decided. He would never be anything other than a passing knight, and his hands were too important to waste on swordwork. Too valuable for the delicate task of cartography. Almost like a surgeon's hands, I thought. You wouldn't risk a surgeon in the front lines when his skills could save more lives in a tent behind them.
"You'll continue training," I told him as we finished. "Every man should know how to defend himself. But your real value isn't with a sword. There's more than one way to become a good knight, Arlan."
He looked relieved. "Thank you, my lord."
After that, I spent hours with Endrew working through the logistical nightmare we'd inherited.
We spread Arlan's maps across the solar table and planned. Which established villages were optimally positioned for expansion. Which ones were too isolated or poorly situated. Which ones would need to be built up from scratch.
"We'll need at least three new fishing villages along the coast," Endrew said, marking spots on the map. "The waters here are rich, but no one's been properly exploiting them."
"And here," I pointed to a cluster of farms inland. "These are barely producing. The soil's good though. They just need better equipment and knowledge. We'll bring some farmers from Tarth who've already adapted to our new rotations to set them straight."
Then there were all the newcomers. Unused farm plots to be distributed to the refugees, expanding the town around the Ivyfort, setting up proper workshops and housing for the craftsmen. A proper dock, even if small, to handle fishing boats and coastal trade.
Lots to work on. Years of work, really. But it could be done.
That night, after the evening meal, we met with the two knightly families who'd come seeking to swear to House Tarth. Ser Olver Denton was a hard man in his fifties, grief etched deep into the lines of his face. He knelt before my father in the great hall, his household knights arrayed behind him.
"My lord," he said, his voice rough. "House Denton swears itself to House Tarth. My sword and my loyalty are yours. All I ask is justice for my murdered kin."
"You have already received it," Father said gravely. "The woman who ordered those deaths is dead. But I will not forget what House Denton has suffered. Rise, Ser Olver. You are welcome among us."
House Wensington was younger. Ser Pate Wensington, who I liked by name alone, couldn't have been more than thirty, with a wife and three small children. His keep had been burnt, his holdings devastated by bandits.
"We have nothing left, my lord," he said plainly. "But we have our strength and our service to offer. If you'll have us."
"I will," Father said. "You'll help settle these lands. Defend them. Build something new from the ashes of what was lost."
Both men swore their oaths. Both received lands and the promise of support in rebuilding.
As they left, Father turned to Endrew and me. "Come. There's something else we need to discuss."
xxx
We met up in the lord's solar again, gathering around Arlan's map spread across the desk.
Father pulled another piece of paper from his coat pocket and laid it against the map. He pointed to a spot on the coastline, a small inlet, sheltered, squeezed between the mainland of Cape Wrath and the peninsula stretching out into the ocean.
"This is where we'll build our port," he said.
I stared at him, mouth slightly ajar. Endrew just blinked.
"What?" I managed to ask first.
"This is my agreement with Lord Steffon. The final one we signed at Storm's End." Father tapped the paper. "I told him we might need to build some docking here to bring over supplies. We're an island house, after all. It made sense."
He paused, looking between us.
"I did not think we would have need to use it in such a way. It would be too big an investment for a forgotten piece of land with not enough resources or people to make something out of it."
The implications hit me like a hammer.
"But that's changed," I said.
Selwyn nodded. "It has changed. Already, coastal houses send some of their ships up to Dawnrest to sell their goods. But their vessels are small since they have no ports of their own, and they're too far from King's Landing to send their goods overland. The trade is limited. With this..."
I let out an awed breath. "We command all the trade in Cape Wrath."
I looked between the document and the map, my mind racing. "Few captains brave Shipbreaker Bay in the kind of boats these houses operate. But they can follow the coast to us here easily, like they did for the Weeping Town. And..." I traced potential routes with my finger. "And we'll need roads too. For all the inland trade."
"Your mother's house sits to our east," Father said. "House Rogers to our west. Mertyns to the south. A dozen smaller houses all around. Then there's Crow's Nest and Stonehelm and Griffin's Roost even further west, all inland or without ports of their own." He sounded certain, confident in a way I rarely heard from him. "With enough favors and promises, it can be done. Rogers is sensible. He'll see the advantages to his own house. Mistwood... I'm not so sure. Lady Mary is as clever as the owl on her coat of arms. And I'll stop by Rain House myself on the way back. Lord Wylde shall not deny me."
Endrew was shaking his head slowly. "Seven hells, cousin. You've put a lot of thought into this."
Father's hand on the table slowly closed into a fist. "My wife was taken," he said, his voice low and hard. "And for a while, I was powerless to stop it. It will not happen again."
He tapped the spot on the map for the new port. Hard enough that the vellum jumped.
"This gives us power. Real power. Not just the power of arms or alliances, but economic power. Control of trade routes. Influence over every house in Cape Wrath." His eyes met mine. "The kind of power that makes people think twice before they cross you."
My jaw locked, and I nodded back at him, suddenly feeling a fire light up inside me. Together, we'd make sure House Tarth would never be helpless again.
xxx
We left the Ivyfort the next morning with the addition of Young Arlan Lantry to our party, looking both terrified and excited as Davos guided us out of the inlet. His hawk circled overhead, following the ships.
The workers we'd brought stayed behind. They had months of work ahead clearing land, building structures, preparing for the influx of even more refugees who'd soon become residents in our new lands.
And I had left someone else behind too. A slight young man who knew his letters and numbers and who just so happened to also be a Companion. One of Jace's men who would be working as the assistant to the head steward under Endrew.
A high enough position to be on par of everything, yet low enough to remain beneath notice. Perfect for a spy. An insurance, I'd told my father. Someone to watch and report and make sure Ser Endrew remained loyal and the refugees integrated smoothly. Make sure we knew immediately if anything went wrong.
Before the Weeping Town, I suspected Father might have objected. Might have said we should trust family, that spying on our own cousin, or even the concept of having spies, was dishonorable.
But Mother's kidnapping had changed him. Made him harder. More willing to do what was necessary rather than what was proper.
Now, with some of our captains sailing constantly between Tarth and the Ivyfort, we'd be getting regular letters and reports. Both from Ser Endrew Tarth—a dear cousin who I hoped never to find betraying us—and from Jace's man, who I hoped would remain as invisible and effective as all of Jace's people seemed to be.
Trust, but verify.
It was becoming something of a house motto.
As the Rainwood receded behind us and Tarth's cliffs came into view ahead, I stood at the rail with Arlan beside me. The boy was gripping the wood hard enough to turn his knuckles white, clearly not used to being on ships.
"Are you well?" I asked.
"Fine, my lord." He swallowed hard. "Just... everything's changing so fast."
I looked back at the mainland. At the lands we'd just claimed. The future we were building.
"Yeah," I agreed. "It is. But that's not always a bad thing."
His hawk called from above, and despite his seasickness, Arlan smiled.
"No, my lord. I suppose it's not."
xxx
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