In the old days, the farms upon Bitter Hill were green and full of life. The orchards hung heavy with fruit, and the people who lived there were healthy and long-lived. It was said that time itself was gentler on those slopes. The clans laughed easily, and the faces of the old looked little different from the young.
But peace seldom lasts when envy takes root. Across the neighboring valleys, rumors began to stir. The people of Bitter Hill were said to be witches, or worse, undead spirits walking in fair disguise. Fear turned to anger, and anger to fire. A Maester came among them, fanning the hatred. “It is a bitter hill of sorrow,” he declared, “and if left to stand, it will poison the land.”
The mob rose like a flood and charged up the valley. They tore down the stone cottages and drove the people into the fields. In the heart of the village stood an ancient peach tree, gnarled but golden in its bloom. The mob chopped it down to make a great bonfire, its light blazing against the dark.
That tree was the secret of the hill’s grace. Its fall ended the blessing. The few who lived grew old in a single season, their fields turning gray beneath their hands. When the ashes cooled, the Maester looked upon the ruin and said, “A bitter harvest on a bitter hill.”
From that day, the name remained.
