Chapter 52

We left the ship anchored off the coast. Here in the northern Cape Wrath, there was no proper docking to be had. 

Despite the shaky weather, Davos had done well navigating us here. The captain he’d shadowed had come up to my Dawnrest manse just a few days ago to say he had nothing else to teach him. Well, after seeing the future Ser Seaworth in action, I believed him.

Behind us, his carrack sat steady in the swells, sails furled, riding the waves like she'd been born to it, just as its captain. Another carrack and a galley completed our small fleet, their own crews lowering boats. Dozens of these smaller boats made for shore, loaded with men and supplies. House Tarth had come in force.

I stood in the lead boat beside my father as the oarsmen pulled us toward the beach. The spray was cool on my face, the salt sharp in my nose. Around us, the water was remarkably clear. I could see fish darting beneath the surface, kelp swaying with the current.

Ahead, beyond a vast strip of flat land around the coastline, the Rainwood sprawled misty and green. As close to my idea of a fantasy forest as the first time I'd seen it, maybe more so. The trees rose like cathedral pillars, their canopy so thick it created a perpetual twilight beneath. Mist clung to the ground and drifted between the trunks in lazy coils.

We weren't alone in our boats. Father had brought workers: woodsmen with axes slung over their shoulders, hunters carrying bows and quivers, craftsmen with their tools wrapped in oiled cloth. Builders and surveyors. Men who knew how to carve civilization from wilderness.

The boat crunched against the beach and I jumped out, helping drag it further up the sand. The ground was firm beneath my boots, dark sand mixed with small stones. Driftwood littered the high-water mark, bleached white by sun and salt.

Ser Endrew Tarth was waiting for us ashore.

My father's cousin was in his late twenties, broad-shouldered and solid as all Tarth men seemed to be built, a trustworthy knight Father had counted on for many sensitive duties over the years. He wore simple traveling clothes now, practical leather and wool, but his sword hung at his hip and his boots were mudded to the knee. He’d not been idle.

Endrew had been here taking care of the new lands for longer than I'd even known the deal for these holdings had been struck with Lord Steffon.

"Cousin," Selwyn called as we approached. "Well met."

"My lord." Endrew clasped Father's arm in greeting, then turned to me. "Ser Galladon. Welcome to your new holdings."

"Good to see you, Endrew," I said. Looking past him toward the forest. "It's... impressive."

"That it is." He gestured inland. "I've got horses ready. Thought we'd tour the lands before we deal with other matters." 

Other matters. The way he said it made me think there were complications. But that could wait. 

As promised, we spent the rest of the morning and afternoon touring the lands on horseback. Endrew took us up the coast first. We couldn't cover the entire piece of land—it was significant enough that it would take days at an easy pace. The territory that had once belonged to a branch of House Whitehead was an entire small peninsula jutting north from Cape Wrath, along with vast stretches of mainland to the south and west.

From horseback, I could see how the coastline curved and twisted. Rocky headlands gave way to sheltered coves. Beaches of black sand alternated with stretches of stone. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries sharp in the salt air.

Then we turned inland.

There were no proper roads here. Only crooked trails that wound between huge moss-covered rocks, descended into deep ravines where streams rushed over worn stone, and skirted the edges of waterfalls that tumbled from hidden heights above.

The Rainwood itself was mystical. Everywhere I looked, mist rolled through in banks and tendrils, sometimes thick enough to reduce visibility to a few dozen yards, other times thinning to let shafts of green-filtered sunlight through the canopy.

The trees were giants. Red cedars with bark like rust. Hemlocks towering overhead. Maples with leaves that caught the light like stained glass. White oaks that must have been centuries old, their trunks wider than three men with arms spread. Redwoods that made even those look small. Wormtrees with their pale, twisted bark.

The undergrowth was thick everywhere the canopy allowed light through. Moss covered everything—rocks, fallen logs, the bases of living trees. Ferns unfurled in dense carpets. Flowers I couldn't name dotted clearings in bursts of color, purple and yellow and white.

It felt ancient. Untouched. Like we were the first people to ever pass through, though I knew that couldn't be true.

Endrew pointed out hunting cabins as we rode. Small structures, well-built from local timber, some with smoke rising from their chimneys where families of smallfolk made their living trapping and hunting.

"The potential for the fur trade here is significant," Endrew said as we paused to let the horses drink from a stream. "It's been neglected for decades. But the woods are teeming with game. Deer, boar, elk. And beaver. So much beaver. There are colonies all up and down the streams. Good pelts, if we can organize the trappers properly."

I nodded, already thinking about the logistics of it. Trade routes. Markets in the Free Cities where furs commanded high prices.

We continued deeper. Endrew showed us the amber mines closest to the main keep—one still worked occasionally by local smallfolk, the other completely abandoned and half-collapsed. He spoke of many more still inland, further into the Rainwood, left to decay over the years as the Whitehead branch house fell into decline and mismanagement.

"Amber's valuable," I said, studying the worked-out mine. The entrance was a dark mouth in the hillside, timber supports visible within. "Could be worth reopening some of these."

"Aye," Endrew agreed. "But it'll take investment. Proper mining takes equipment, skilled workers. It's not like farming where you can just put a man with a hoe in a field."

Then we turned west, and the character of the land changed. Here the Rainwood broke apart, giving way to cleared fields and pastures. The farms looked productive despite the frequent rain, the soil dark and rich, crops growing in neat rows.

"The land here is fertile enough," Endrew said as we rode past a farmstead where a family watched us pass. They bowed their heads but didn't approach. "Though the people are a bit wary of their new lords. Not hostile, mind you. Just... cautious."

"Can't blame them for that," Father said. "They've just seen one house fall and another rise. They're probably wondering if we'll be any better than the last Whiteheads, however many years ago they still ruled here."

"Some forty years, I was told. Usually they're a quiet people," Endrew continued. "Keep to themselves, work their land, pay their taxes."

I caught the emphasis. "Usually?"

Endrew nodded tightly. "Aye. There's been much happening here as of late." He glanced at Father, then back to me. "Come. I'll explain everything at the keep."

xxx

He took us to the main castle of the extinct House Whitehead of the Northwood.

The Ivyfort.

When I saw it, I knew the name did it justice. The castle was a small thing, if solidly built. Dark stone walls, weathered by rain and time, and a central tower and keep covered in ivy so thick it was hard to see the stone beneath. The whole structure squatted above a steep hill overlooking a small town.

Only the town didn't look small at all.

If anything, it looked like a tourney was being held. Dozens and dozens of tents and lean-tos spread across the fields around the castle. Even a few large pavilions with banners flying overhead, proper noble accommodations, not peasant camps.

I looked around, a bit gobsmacked. "What the hell is going on here?"

Was Endrew actually throwing a tourney? Had he decided to host some kind of festival without telling us?

Lord Selwyn Tarth was frowning. "Endrew..." His tone promised explanations would be required.

Ser Endrew sighed. "I told as much in the letter, cousin."

"Your letter did not do it justice."

"Aye, I imagine it didn't,” he said. “But only because more of them have been arriving these past weeks."

Father was quiet after that, his face hard as he looked around at the tent city.

I felt out of the loop. I'd had my plate full the last fortnight, even spending nights down at the Dawnrest manse working on loans, writing letters to both friends and contacts across Westeros, speaking with every Tarth captain I could get hold of to assess our trading fleet. Reading Jace's reports his men had gathered on the town and our trading ventures, looking for captains who might be hiding cargo or skimming profits beyond the usual acceptable amounts. Organizing the training expedition with Jack. Brainstorming about the distilling operations with Grey.

It had been hectic. And though Father had mentioned Endrew and his task here, I'd mostly put it aside as I worked on everything else. No man could do everything. Something always slipped through the cracks.

We rode straight into the Ivyfort. The gates opened before us, guards in House Tarth colors standing at attention.

Ser Endrew hadn't been sent alone. Father had given him a full company of guards—some twenty men—as well as two of our household knights to assist. Plus servants to maintain the keep.

The castle itself was slightly damp but in better shape than I'd expected. The courtyard was weed-covered, cobbles cracked here and there, but functional. The walls were sound. The tower looked sturdy despite the ivy.

There was no maester stationed here. With the ruling house extinct and House Whitehead absent, rule of the lands had been left to the castellan: an old, blind man from an insignificant noble family, living here with a handful of guards and servants. Ser Endrew had taken pity on him and allowed the old man to stay, though he ruled no longer.

Endrew quickly ceded the lord's apartments to Father for our stay, then we climbed the tower stairs, narrow steps and worn smooth by centuries of feet, and emerged into the solar at the highest point.

Small windows looked down on the courtyard below. The room was sparse but clean. A desk, some chairs, a hearth where a fire crackled. Endrew spread a large vellum map across the desk.

I gasped, genuinely surprised by the detail and craftsmanship. Every contour of the land was marked. Rivers and streams traced in blue ink. Forests shaded in green. Mines marked with tiny crossed picks. Villages and farms dotted across the territory.

Lord Selwyn raised an eyebrow at the quality of the work. "This is exceptional."

Endrew pointed at a spot on the map with a tiny tower etched in careful detail. "We're here at Ivyfort." His finger moved across the vellum. "This is where we landed today. And here and here are the mines I showed you. But you can see how many more there are around the castle and deeper inland."

Dotted across the map were several markings indicating mines and canyons and waterfalls. Even old, ruined keeps from centuries and millenia past.

"How did you get a map like this?" I asked, leaning closer. "Even the ones we have of Tarth aren't half as good."

Endrew smiled slightly. "It's the old castellan's work. See?" He pointed to a tiny signature I hadn't noticed in the corner. Arlan Lantry, it read. 

Selwyn was skeptical. "The blind one?"

"Wasn't always blind, I suppose." Endrew shrugged. "He has more too. Many more. You should see the map he has for the castle and the lands immediately around it. You'd think he was a raven flying above it when he drew the damned thing. Every building, every field. All perfectly to scale."

My eyes shot up to Endrew, as if trying to see if he understood the significance of what he just said. But there was nothing. Father too, just moved on as if it didn’t mean anything. A man who could draw maps like he'd seen them from above. Who knew every detail of the land as if he'd flown over it. 

The word skinchanger rang in my mind like a church bell, and I had to bite my tongue not to shout it out as the most obvious possibility. A blind man too? A bit on the nose, but I’d take it.

Either he was the most dedicated surveyor in Westeros, or he'd had help. The kind that involved slipping into the skin of birds and seeing through their eyes.

"I see," I said simply, keeping my voice level. "I'd like to meet him, if possible."

Endrew shrugged. "Feel free. He's a nice enough man, if cantankerous and protective of his work. Almost had to pull my sword on him to get my hands on this one." He patted the map fondly.

"It's good work to be sure," Selwyn said. Then his expression hardened. "What of the crowd outside, Endrew? What's truly going on here?"

Endrew sat back in his chair, suddenly looking tired. Older than his years.

"It's the Weeping Town coming back to haunt us, cousin." He paused. "Or bless us, I suppose."

My stomach twisted. I thought it over quickly in my mind and realized I already knew where this was going.

"So all the people you mentioned..." Father started.

Endrew nodded. "And more. I've heard Lord Baratheon's men arrived at the town a week or so back to restore order. But it's been chaos down there since we left the place burning. Bandits went around robbing and burning farms. Sacking villages. Taking women and whatever else they pleased."

I let out a hiss. Tale as old as time. A gap in power and lack of anyone to uphold the law would spawn all the worst elements. Desperate men turning predator. The strong preying on the weak.

Selwyn only frowned, his brows furrowing tightly.

Endrew continued, "It was only smallfolk at first. Not many. Just some local people who heard a new knight was settling down here and came to try their luck for a better living. But they just kept coming. More and more. Whole villages worth of people at times."

"Why?" I asked. "Surely there were closer towns and villages for them to settle."

"Mistwood comes to mind," Selwyn said. "North of the Weeping Town. House Mertyns holds it."

"Aye," Endrew confirmed. "But it seems they put out riders to keep anyone from settling in their land and just sent them up our way. They want nothing to do with it." He leaned forward. "But as I said, this could be a blessing, my lord. I've been sending my men around asking questions. It wasn't only desperate smallfolk who came. We've got fisherfolk and hunters and woodsmen. All sorts of craftsmen—carpenters, smiths, tanners, weavers. Merchants too, from the Weeping Town, who banded together with former men-at-arms and guards who didn't turn to banditry. They made their way north when they heard House Tarth would be settling the land here."

I sat back myself, considering. Certainly unexpected, I had to admit. But not bad. Not at all.

Endrew was right. This was an opportunity we had to seize. There were unspoken rules among the highborn about poaching your neighbors' smallfolk wholesale, but House Whitehead wasn’t truly our neighbors, and our family was well past caring about their bad opinion.

I looked to Father to gauge his reaction.

Surprisingly, Selwyn didn't seem to mind it overmuch. He was thinking, calculating. I could see it in the way his fingers drummed against the desk.

I spoke up first. "This is an opportunity to make this land worth something, Father."

Selwyn was nodding slowly. "Aye. So it is. So it is."

Endrew was more careful. "I don't imagine Lord Baratheon's steward will be happy about it. He'll be sending letters to his liege as soon as he gets a proper accounting of the situation."

Selwyn seemed to consider this for a moment. "Might be that he will," he said finally. "But we have no maester here. No ravens beyond the ones I gave you that fly east to Tarth." His expression was sharp now. "We are also only just establishing a foothold in new holdings. And who might say that the old castellan kept any proper records at all of the populace in the lands he administered?"

Letting out a breath, I smiled. "Like they were here all along."

"Exactly." Selwyn nodded. "And Steffon will be plenty busy. In King's Landing now, then Essos for months. By the time his man at the Weeping Town gets word to him, it'll be all but settled."

"If he complains at all," I added. "The man's not a Whitehead himself. He'll have nothing to inherit there, so it might be he'll just do his duty quietly before Lord Steffon recalls him or Addam Whitehead comes of age." I paused. "And he would be wise not to make an enemy of House Tarth so soon after what happened."

Endrew looked between the two of us as if he'd just met us for the first time. "So..." he started carefully. "We take them all in?"

"We take them all in," Selwyn confirmed. "It'll be a task and a half, Endrew. I'll send a raven tonight asking for more men to be sent from Tarth. But it can be done. I know you won't disappoint me."

Endrew nodded gravely. "Never, my lord."

"Good." Selwyn turned to look out the window. "What of the pavilions and the banners, then? Those aren't smallfolk or craftsmen."

"Aye." Endrew's expression grew troubled. "Those arrived a few days past. Two highborn families sworn to the Whiteheads. They came with their knights and guards and entire households."

"Why?" Selwyn asked. "They're landed knights, I imagine. Why leave their own holdings behind?"

"House Wensington had their wooden keep sacked and burnt a fortnight back," Endrew explained. "They were caught unawares but managed to fight off the outlaws. The keep though..." He made a face. "It'll take years to rebuild. And they don't have the coin or the men to do it while also defending against more raids."

"And the other?"

Endrew's expression darkened. "The other had two of his family members killed by Lenora Whitehead. His sister and his nephew. Ser Olver Denton said he'd rather burn his own castle to the ground before he serves another Whitehead. Said he figured he might as well serve the house that delivered justice on his behalf."

Selwyn grunted. "Their case is more concerning. But leave it to me, Endrew. I'll speak with them myself and come to a decision."

We took a break for supper then, but my mind was already racing ahead. Two knightly families. Hundreds of smallfolk. Craftsmen and merchants and former soldiers.

We'd come here expecting to administer some backwater territory. Instead, we'd found the seeds of something much larger. And I found something even more interesting. Someone I needed to meet as soon as possible.

xxx

After supper, a simple fare of bread and stew which we took in the great hall with the rest of the guards and knights, I went to find the old castellan of Ivyfort.

The man's name was signed on the map. Arlan Lantry. A family name so minor I'd never even heard of it, despite Maester Rowen's exhaustive lessons on the genealogy of Stormlander houses both great and small.

Arlan Lantry had not come down to eat with the new lords of the castle, so I asked one of the servants where I might find him.

"The library, m'lord," she said, bobbing a curtsy. "That's where he takes his meals these days. Ol’ Al don't like leaving his maps."

I was surprised such a small keep even had a library. Most castles this size made do with a maester's chambers and maybe a solar with a few books. But when I found the room tucked away in a corner of the tower's second floor, I understood.

It was tight and cramped but surprisingly long. Might had been some other kind of storage room at some point, but now it only had rows and rows of vellum scrolls and leather-bound books and crumbling parchment piled up on shelves that reached up to the low ceiling. The room ran the length of the keep’s western face, with narrow windows every few yards letting in the last light of day.

I almost couldn't fit inside, and I had to turn sideways to navigate between the shelves without knocking anything over. The room smelled strongly of ink and dust and old paper, which I thoroughly enjoyed, and for a while I forgot all about Arlan Lantry and his maps.

I just looked around, pulling books out of their spots to leaf through them. One about the Conquest of Dorne by the Young Dragon, written by some maester whose name I didn't recognize. The ink was faded but the writing was clear, meticulous observations about troop movements and political machinations.

Another on the reign of King Aegon III, the Dragonbane. This one was older, the vellum yellowed and brittle at the edges. I handled it carefully like it was some ancient treasure.

Then I found the maps. Gods, there were so many.

But I noticed quickly that all of them seemed to be from Cape Wrath itself. Most focusing on the northern Rainwood around the Ivyfort. Showing waterfalls hidden deep in the forest, canyons that cut through the hills, even what looked like a cave system marked with warnings about flooding and unstable passages.

I was holding a small, neatly drawn map depicting trails that snaked around the Ivyfort when someone spoke behind me.

"Might I help you?"

I turned to find a young man staring back at me. Younger than me, even. Shorter by a head and likely half my body weight. Thin in that gangly way of boys who hadn't quite grown into their frames yet. Dark hair, sharp features, intense eyes.

"Yes, I suppose," I said. "I'm looking for Arlan Lantry, the man who made these." I pulled the map in my hands forward slightly.

The young man's gaze sharpened at the sight of it. Fixed on the parchment with an intensity that bordered on possessive.

"I'm Arlan Lantry."

I lifted an eyebrow. "I don't think you are."

The shorter, slighter boy took a step toward me. "I am and you are holding my map!"

He dashed forward then, quicker than I'd expected. Hands reaching for the parchment.

With one hand, I shoved him back. Gently, by my standards. Just enough to create space.

It was enough to send the boy flying backward into a desk against the wall. He crashed into it hard, scattering parchment everywhere and knocking over an inkwell that spilled in a black pool across the wood. He moaned in pain.

"That wasn't very smart, was it?" I kept my voice calm. "Who are you really, boy?"

Grunting, the boy pulled a piece of paper from his face and stood up. His teeth were gritted in anger, not fear. "I told you who I am. And careful with that! That's my best work you're holding."

I had to give it to him—he had guts. For a thief trying to steal from the newly arrived lords, he was remarkably bold.

Though something didn't quite fit. A smallfolk kid trying to get some treasure would have settled for something more obviously valuable than maps. And he certainly wouldn't have confronted me instead of just sneaking away with his findings.

Besides, he didn't speak like a commoner. His voice and vocabulary were too refined. Too educated.

"Unless I'm the blind one," I said, "you're not an old, blind, decrepit man quite yet. So you're not Arlan Lantry."

The boy scoffed even as he dusted himself off. "My grandfather? No one here calls him anything other than Ol' Al." He looked me up and down, some of his anger returning. "Who are you, then, to manhandle my work like a troll trying to destroy it?"

I hid a smile. I did like the boy. "I'm Ser Galladon Tarth, son of Lord Selwyn Tarth."

The boy's mouth made an O but no sound came out. He wasn’t the brightest if he didn’t make the connection between the new arrivals and a six and a half feet mini giant before him.

He suddenly dropped, knees thudding hard on the floor. "My lord... I... I apologize, my lord. I apologize profusely. I did not know! I thought... my maps!"

A bit taken aback by the sudden shift, I frowned. "Calm down, man. I'm not going to kill you for it."

The boy flinched despite my words.

I paused, confused. I'd never met him before. Why be so afraid? I hadn't even raised my voice. And though I was tall, I didn’t really look that scary. A shame, really. Intimidation often works best when you look like you ate puppies for breakfast.

Some noise outside caught my attention then, coming from an open window on the eastern side of the room. From there, I could see the campfires of the people camped outside the castle walls. Dozens of them, flickering in the gathering darkness.

People who'd come from the Weeping Town. Which I had, officially speaking, burnt and razed to the ground in a fit of vengeful rage.

"Oh," I said aloud. "I see. I imagine the fleeing people of the Weeping Town must tell quite the stories about me."

On the ground, the boy winced. Right in one.

"Tell me," I said. "What do they say? The truth now. I feel like I've grown tired of saying this recently, but I'll take simple honesty over empty bootlicking any day."

The boy looked up at me. His gaze struggled to keep from straying down to the floor. He wet his lips nervously.

"My lord, they say..." He swallowed. "And it's only what I've heard, of course, but they say you slew half the town guard at the walls in your fury. That you butchered your way into the keep on your own. Killed the lady with your bare hands. And only stopped because there was so much blood on your hands you could no longer hold onto your sword."

My eyebrows climbed higher and higher with each word. Then I burst out laughing.

The boy winced at the sound as if I might jump on him.

"That paints quite the picture," I managed between chuckles. "Do you truly believe all of it? I've had my hands covered in blood once before, in fact. You know what I did?"

The boy shook his head wildly. "No, my lord." His voice was barely a squeak.

"I wiped them, of course." I grinned. "If I wanted to keep the slaughter going, I could've just wiped them clean. Point is, don't believe everything people say. The truth is rarely a good enough story worth spreading around." I sobered slightly. "Though I don't blame them for hating me."

"Not at all, my lord!” Jumping to his feet, the boy waved his arms around even more frantically. “I don't think they hate you at all! They're afraid of you, yes, it is true. But they tell the story as if you're the hero of it.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “That your rampage was a just and godly campaign to save your mother from the monstrous lady who'd ensnared old Elmar Whitehead to her evil whims. They say the Warrior himself blessed you that night!"

"Huh," was all I could say.

I supposed they wouldn't have come here if they feared and hated me to the point of telling horror stories about my name. In fact, now that I thought about it, it was likely because of what happened that they'd come at all.

In a world where martial prowess was the highest currency, why wouldn't you want the lord whose umbrella you sheltered under to be capable of terrifying, righteous violence? Better to be protected by a monster than devoured by one.

"I see," I said. "Then that is good to hear."

There was silence in the library then. Only the sounds of the refugees outside drifting through the window. Voices murmuring. A baby crying. Someone playing a flute badly.

"Uhm, my lord," the boy asked hesitantly. "You wished to meet with my grandfather?"

I blinked. "Oh, aye. So I did. I have a few questions about these maps of his."

The boy straightened. "But... my lord, as I've said, that is my work. I drew them."

I looked down at the map in my hands, then back at the boy. "Forgive me if I don't believe a boy younger than me could do such work."

Some of the indignation came back to his voice. "But I did! My grandfather hasn't worked on a map for ten years." He pointed emphatically. "Look at the signature at the bottom. That's me, Arlan Lantry. He always signed as Lantry only! You can see his old work at the back. He was good, yes, but I’m better, my lord, I really am!" 

I thought back on the Arlan Lantry signature on the map Endrew had shown me earlier. Had it been different? I couldn't remember clearly.

"Your grandfather told my cousin, Ser Endrew Tarth, that he was the one to draw it," I said.

The boy—Arlan Lantry, the real one perhaps—scoffed. "He only says so because he’s jealous of my maps. Even though he taught me what I knew, he says I should’ve become a knight instead. I wanted to be a knight too, of course. What boy doesn't?" His expression fell slightly. "But I barely have any talent for it. Maps though... maps is what I know."

There was something honest in the way he said it. A resignation mixed with pride. The way someone might admit to being bad at archery but excellent at chess.

I studied him more carefully. "Did you also draw the one of the Ivyfort from above? The one that shows the castle and surrounding lands as if seen by a bird?"

Arlan smirked. "Yes, my lord, I did. Fine work, is it not?"

I tilted my head. It was amusing that the boy didn't realize what he'd just basically admitted.

"So you're the skinchanger, then?"

The boy sputtered. His face went red. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping on a dock.

"I— that's— my lord, I would never— it's not— how did you—"

"Do you prefer the term warg?" I asked mildly.

As the boy continued to issue the weakest denials I'd ever heard, I sighed. "Look, Arlan, right?"

The boy didn't say anything. Completely paralyzed now. His eyes were wide, his breathing fast and shallow.

I snapped my fingers in front of him. "Wake up, Arlan. You like maps, don't you? And you said you wanted to be a knight?"

The boy nodded mechanically.

"Have you ever wanted to draw other maps?" I asked. "I see the only maps you have around here are of the surrounding lands. The forests and the canyons and the keep. Don't you ever want to see what lies beyond Cape Wrath? What the rest of Westeros looks like from above?"

Arlan swallowed hard. "I... I've only ever been here with my grandfather. It's all I could draw."

I nodded. "Good. Then you'll come with me."

The boy's eyes widened even further, if that was possible. "What?"

"Aye. I'll make a knight out of you yet. And you'll get to draw all sorts of maps. Maps of places you've never seen. Maps that could change how we understand the world." I leaned forward slightly. "And you know what's the best part of it?"

Suddenly mute, Arlan Lantry could only shake his head.

I smiled. "That you'll teach me everything you know about being a warg, Arlan. Every damned thing."

"I—" He found his voice, though it came out strangled. "My lord, I don't— I can't— it's not something that can be taught. It's just... it just is. I slip into crows and rats sometimes. And I have a hawk too. It started when I was a boy and I thought it was normal until grandfather told me never to do it again, that it was a family curse."

"A curse, huh?” I thought it through for a moment. "Let me guess, he told you it was dark magic too? That the Faith would take you for it if they knew? That you should never speak of it to anyone?"

He nodded miserably, but I thought he was simply too young and sheltered to understand what his grandfather tried to do with this so-called family curse. Likely, it was the same reason why the old men had hid here in this forgotten corner of the world. Why he had told everyone the maps were his work, not his grandchild’s. 

All to protect him. To hide him from the scrutiny and danger that being a warg here in the south would bring over him.

I shook my head. The boy was loved and he didn’t even know it.

"Listen to me, Arlan," I said seriously. "I don't care what the Faith says. I don't care what anyone says. You have a gift. A rare one. Not only as a warg, but as a mapmaker." I gestured around the library. "You've spent your whole life hiding here, making maps of the same forests over and over. Don't you want more?"

"More," he repeated, like the word was foreign.

"More," I confirmed. "Seeing the Free Cities, King’s Landing. The Wall, if we’re feeling ambitious. Drawing maps that will be used by lords and merchants and explorers for generations."

Arlan was quiet for a long moment. I could see him thinking, weighing his options. The safe, small life he knew against the unknown I was offering.

"My grandfather won't allow it," he said finally. "He'll say I'm needed here. That I shouldn't abandon him."

"Your grandfather is no longer castellan of this keep," I pointed out. "And I am the son of the man who rules it. If I say you're coming with me, you're coming with me." I softened my tone. "But I'll speak with him if you'd like. Explain that you'll be serving House Tarth in a capacity that suits your talents." 

And tell him I’d take care of him. One day, the boy might even understand what his grandfather meant with all this. 

"And if I refuse?" he asked quietly.

I shrugged. "Then you stay here and spend the rest of your life drawing the same canyons and waterfalls while your gift withers from disuse. It's your choice."

He looked down at the map still in my hands. His map. His best work, he'd said.

"I'll do it," he said suddenly. "I'll come with you. I'll teach you what I can, though I make no promises about whether you can actually learn.”

"We'll see," I said, smiling slightly. "I've managed to surprise myself before."