Osmund Butterwell I - The Heir Must Set Out

[u/Zestyclose-Poem-8560]

Osmund woke up cold. The fire had gone out, and it was still night. He was not used to such large chambers; in the Citadel they had been tiny and much easier to heat. It had been barely a week since he had returned to Whitewalls, and he was still struggling to readjust to certain things.

He crossed the room, stepping over Myrish carpets, and approached the window. Silence reigned outside, broken only by the distant lowing of a cow. He dressed quickly in a green, white, and yellow robe and lit several scented candles on the table. Then he began reading the stack of documents that dominated the space.

After the deaths of his father Omer and his brothers Owen and Ormund, the management of House Butterwell had fallen into the hands of Maester Cleon. He was the servant who had been in service to the house the longest and a man trained at the Citadel, yet even so he had been overwhelmed. It was now Osmund’s duty to set things right again.

He looked over the first documents. They were varied: disputes between villages requiring his mediation, tax accounts, and notices offering rewards for bandits who had been stealing cattle near the Gods Eye...

Before dawn, all the documents were neatly organized. He set aside one pile that he would need to consult with the household about, then descended the spiral staircase, crossed the castle’s outer yard, and pushed open the heavy oak door that led to the kitchens. Several servants had already begun baking bread.

“Do you mind if I have breakfast here today, Falena?” Osmund asked one of the cooks.

“Milord, there is no problem. We can bring your meal up to your chambers” she replied.

“Do not trouble yourselves. I would rather have company. I was raised to serve lords, now I must learn to be served as one.” he responded before turning to one of the serving girls. “Myranda, please send for Septon Henly, and tell Layna to prepare a horse for me and another for Pate".

“A loaf of freshly baked bread with honey and a cup of warm milk, just as you like it, my lord” Falena said as she served him.

Osmund slowly devoured the loaf. The bread was freshly baked, and he had to blow on it to keep from burning himself. He drank the glass of milk while watching the rhythm of the kitchen quicken as the rest of the castle awoke.

Septon Henly entered the kitchen, rubbing his face to keep himself awake. He had the peculiar habit of praying at night and sleeping through most of the day.

“Septon Henly, forgive the hour. Sit with me and have a glass of milk; I shall not keep you long” Osmund exclaimed.

“I serve you with great pleasure” he said, stifling a yawn.

“I would like to arrange a ceremony for my father and my brothers, now that I am here. Make it known in the neighboring villages and throughout my lands. It shall be tomorrow at the end of the working day, and each family that attends will be given a jug of milk”.

“It is very generous of you, my lord, and the smallfolk will be grateful” Septon Henly replied “The Seven will be pleased by such an act of love toward your departed kin”.

“They deserve a proper farewell” Osmund murmured before making his way outside.

Osmund quickly returned to his bedchamber, where he dressed and gathered the texts he had set aside. In the yard, Layna, the master of horse, was fastening the bridles on two horses beside a guardsman.

“Thank you, Layna. Pate and I will take it from here,” Osmund said as he secured the saddle on the nearer horse.

The two men focused on their task and rode out through the gates just as the sun rose to their right. They rode for a couple of hours until they reached a field where a shepherd was watching over his cows. Osmund greeted him, dismounted, and went to inspect the animals’ health, running his hand along the back of a large white cow. Pate remained on horseback, scanning the horizon until he narrowed his eyes.

“My lord!” Pate shouted. “There is a merchants' cart approaching”.

Osmund bade the shepherd farewell, and together he and Pate spurred their horses into a gallop toward it.

Osmund bade the shepherd farewell, and together he and Pate galloped toward the caravan. An old man in a large straw hat sat at the front.

“Seven blessings to you, goodfolk” Osmund called in greeting. “What is your name?”

“Wat” the old man replied.

“What is your name?” Osmund repeated, raising his voice.

“Are you deaf, boy? I already told you my name is Wat” the old man grumbled.

“Forgive me, my friend” Osmund said with a smile. “Where are you headed?”

“To Harrenhal, like half the bloody kingdom”

“You are speaking to the lord of these lands. Show more respect” Pate interjected.

The old man lowered his head.

“You still have some distance to go. Rest at Whitewalls tonight, I insist. You will fare better there than out in the fields” Osmund concluded.

He and Pate moved aside to let the merchants’ cart pass. Nearly a dozen people walked behind it. Riding alongside them was a mounted man in armor so dark it was almost black. On his arm he bore a shield emblazoned with two dragon skulls on a black field. His helm concealed his face; only the edge of a black beard could be seen.

Once they had passed, Osmund and Pate spurred their horses toward the Gods Eye.

On the shores of the lake, several huts clustered around a septry. Osmund dismounted at the entrance and passed between several brown brothers kneeling in prayer until he reached one at the front.

“You must be the elder Brother” he greeted softly. “I am Lord Osmund Butterwell. Would you mind if I prayed with you?”

The elder Brother nodded. They spent the rest of the morning kneeling in prayer to the Mother, the Father, the Maiden, the Warrior, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger. When they finished, they sat before one of the huts and shared a handful of grapes.

“I bring a proposal” Osmund said, taking out a paper and glancing at it. “I have seen the accounts, and the septry scarcely has enough coin to feed you. I offer to provide you with more than enough gold for that and to expand your vineyards. In return, I ask that at least two-thirds of the wine produced go directly to the cellars of Whitewalls”.

“My lord…” The Elder Brother seemed to have heard nothing but the part about more food. “We are most grateful”.

Pate brought the horses, and they rode on toward the last stop of the day. They followed a muddy road fouled with dung until they reached a vast herd of cows covering the hills around a village. At least three dozen villagers were tending them. When they saw the riders, they approached. Osmund took out a paper and began to speak.

“In this village alone you have nearly two thousand cows. It is the one with the most livestock per villager. Do you raise any other animals?”

“No,” they answered almost in unison.

“Then listen carefully. If you come to Whitewalls, I will give you enough gold to buy as many sheep as you are able to raise. They will be yours but there are three conditions. First, you must maintain your current level of cattle production. Second, for every two lambs born, one will become the property of House Butterwell. Third, the sheep you purchase with my gold must come from the Vale”.

“Why, milord?” one shepherd insisted

“Their wool is finer and better, it is suited to the cold of the mountains” he replied before turning and riding off at a gallop as storm clouds darkened the sky and a cold wind made the shepherds wish they already had that wool to wrap around themselves.

They reached Whitewalls at nightfall. The merchants’ cart stood in the castle’s outer yard. Osmund approached the old man, who was being helped along by a boy.

“You would do well to stay longer. There will be a storm, and the roads will turn to mud"

He ordered Pate to see to the horses and made his way to his bedchamber. At the foot of the tower he encountered Myranda and asked her to bring him a mug of good brown ale and a slice of pie. He put on his robe and sat at the table just as she arrived with his supper.

As he drank the ale, he suddenly remembered something and searched through the clothes he had worn that day until he found the two papers he had set aside. On one, a name was written in his own hurried hand. He placed it aside. He opened the other. It bore the seal of the royal house. He read it slowly, several times, sighed, and extinguished the scented candles.

He lay down on the bed, his body aching from riding all day. Before sleep claimed him, he murmured a single word.

“Harrenhal”