Timeline of my stories:
Past!Blackfish:
- CHALLENGE, posted
- FOR THE CAUSE, work in progress
- A WORTHLESS LIFE, posted
- UNTITLED 1, work in progress
- A TULLY PARTING, posted
- THE KNIGHT OF THE BLOODY GATE, posted
Present!Blackfish (AFFC-ADWD timeline):
- MOURNING, posted
- ALLEGIANCE, complete, unpublished
- FAITH, complete, unpublished
(NOTE: there are 2 small deviations from canon in this story. Barristan is said to have won the MELEE at Maidenpool, while I made him win the tourney. Also, Arthur Dayne is shown as his contemporary, but if he was Rhaegar's friend he was probably younger. But in this case there would be no Arthur in this story, and you do want Arthur in this story, do you?...)
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
Oscar Wilde - The Ballad of Reading Gaol
THE MASTER-AT-ARMS
Ser Ross Hornwood was used to the chatter of the recently-knighted lad riding by his side in a brilliant morning of pure blue sky. It had helped enliven a dull voyage. He was almost seventy, and few things could still surprise him; but the lad was spirited and witty, and the excitement of his first tourney was infectious. If only they had not got lost en route, along with their full escort of ten horsemen and a mule.
"Worry not," the young knight said with a grand gesture. "The sun is at our back, right? We're going west. We're supposed to be going west."
"We were supposed to turn west a day ago," Ser Ross replied long-sufferingly. "Now we might be leaving Maidenpool north of us, while we ride towards the sea."
"The western sea holds many wonders."
Ser Ross sighed. "I hope your brother will be of the same advice."
The lad's face darkened. "My brother can go..."
Before he could specify his brother's destination, a sound of hooves overlapped their own. Ser Ross raised a hand to stop their small company. The lad reined in and stared at the road in front of them, a mixture of worry and curiosity on his fair-skinned face.
It was a group of armoured men, at least double their number, led by a middle-aged knight bearing the Florent emblem. The man rode closer and halted his troop in front of them. "State your purpose, strangers, or I'll have you arrested and taken to the prince."
"How convenient," the lad said, as Ser Ross cringed. "We aregoing to see the prince, if it's true he's attending the tourney at Maidenpool. And we're not strangers, in fact..."
"I see who you are," the Florent man replied. He pointed at the young man's chest with a sneer. "Your trout really looks fierce. Be careful where you aim it."
Ser Ross expected a deflagration, but the lad threw back his head and laughed. "Be careful where you aim it! Funny line, ser. I'll use it tonight at the feast to charm some maiden, while your bones are mending." Quicker than Ser Ross' old eyes, he drew his sword. His men did the same.
"You're in trouble, boy," the Florent man snarled, his hand going for the hilt of his sword. "Let's see if your blood is redder than your hair. Soldiers..."
"Stop!"
The cry had come from the hills slightly above them. They all turned. Even Ser Ross, who had seen that sight before, gaped at the apparition. It was a man of the Kingsguard, the élite group of seven knights chosen for the personal protection of the king and his family, the very best in Westeros. He was very young, but his renown was already staggering. A queue of white-blond hair fell on the shoulder of his white armour, framing his high-cheekboned face. The eyes revealed his Southern origins, violet like the dark sky in the west, shadowed by his frown. What made him the greatest of the great was the object behind his back; the white hilt of a white sword, forged from a fallen star.
"Ser Arthur Dayne," the lad breathed out. "The Sword of the Morning."
The knight spurred his white-caparisoned destrier down the hill, followed by his own guard of half a dozen mounted warriors. "The Tully delegation," he said with a warning glance at the Florent man, then turned to the lad. "Ser Brynden. You have to be. You look like your brother."
Even the Sword of the Morning could talk too much, Ser Ross thought, but the lad was too star-struck to take offence. He kept his composure, making the old knight proud. "It is an honour, Ser Arthur. Let me introduce you to Ser Ross Hornwood, my master-at-arms, and to these brave men, the best warriors of Riverrun."
Dayne nodded courteously, then addressed the Florent man in his soft lilting accent. "Why are you threatening them? Seyward?"
"They... Ser Arthur, they are far from the tourney grounds. Ill-willing men might use this road to try and attack Prince Aerys by surprise..."
"I know. I am making sure it is well-watched. It seems it is. Seyward. I advise you, though. Be less zealous."
"It might have been a trap..."
"An auburn-haired young knight. Flying the leaping fish. Unmistakable. A proud and ancient family. The Tullys. Liege lords of the Mootons. They deserve a better welcome." He turned to the lad with a detached smile. "Come. Ser. I shall lead you."
The Florent man and his troop made way, still bewildered, and the Tully group advanced on the road while Dayne joined them with his guards. They cleared a cluster of trees, and up there on the hill, decked in the garish colours of the tourney, stood Maidenpool, twinkling with the last lights of the night.
Ser Ross cursed inwardly; a few steps, and they would have seen it. He glanced at the lad and saw him redden in shame. It was disgraceful enough to be sent by his brother to his first tourney with a guard barely worth of the humblest squire in Riverrun; but to find himself lost, a few leagues from a town belonging to a Tully bannerman...
Dayne fell in easily with the two lead riders. "You took the high road to Maidenpool. A common mistake. Ser Brynden. Congratulations. On your knighthood. How is the lord your brother?"
"His wife has just given him another daughter," the lad replied curtly. His voice was harsher than his young age suggested. "Now he has a couple of baby girls to marry off for alliances."
Ser Ross tried to kick him. Blurting out his frustrations in front of Ser Arthur Dayne! But the white knight just laughed in his quiet way. "Kingsguard advantage. You stop worrying. About family alliances. Do you desire to take the white? Ser Brynden? Wait for one of us to die. Meanwhile. Prove yourself the best of the best. Your journey might start here."
Ser Ross looked at Brynden, horrified. The lad only needed his hero to put such ideas in his head. But the dogged gaze in his blue eyes horrified the old knight even more.
He already had such ideas in his head.
THE SWORD OF THE MORNING
Prince Aerys welcomed Ser Brynden Tully with a bored nod from his high throne in the royal Targaryen tent, surmounted by the dragon banner. Arthur Dayne was offended by the slight, but knew better than to speak out. The prince was in a good mood, comparatively; he did not take Tully's head off for being late.
Lord Mooton was kinder to young Tully, as the brother of his liege lord Hoster. Yet the Sword of the Morning could recognize a proud spirit even in so green a knight, and he thought Tully was swallowing more humiliations than he deserved. Lord Hoster of Riverrun had not deemed it worthy of his time to be present at his little brother's first tourney, at one of his bannermen's castle; he had given him as escort a few stableboys and an old knight who had forgotten the way to Maidenpool; and finally the prince had barely looked at him. Tully deserved better. He was heir presumptive to Riverrun, until Hoster had a male child.
Still he was a boy, bursting with wonder at the sights and sounds that surrounded him. Arthur led him to the baths to get refreshed after his prolonged trip, then tried to attend to his Kingsguard duties... until a squeaky-clean Tully, chattier than ever, attached himself to Arthur like a leech.
Nay, that was unfair. Tully was clear-minded for his years, bold, humorous, not in awe of Arthur as so many were, often sycophantically. He listened attentively to his tales, provided sensible comments and behaved with respect.
The Tullys were one of the greatest Houses in Westeros, but they kept to their waters, rarely surfacing. Brynden's enthusiasm and sociable nature could be a welcome change. Arthur suspected he would make a better lord of Riverrun than his crusty brother; he had an innate ability to connect with others - when he wished to. He clearly had wished to connect the flat of his sword with Seyward Hill's rump. This was an attitude to curb if Tully wanted to survive, let alone become a great knight.
Arthur wished he could take better care of him. Yet he already had a host of attendants, and that evening he had to keep close to Prince Aerys. During the feast he would stand behind him with one of his sworn brothers. Another white knight was in charge of mingling with the guests in the Maidenpool feast hall, to sedate any rows among spirits heated by the rousing atmosphere of a tourney eve.
The knight in question was getting dressed in his room when Arthur dumped Tully on him. An aide was helping him fasten his white cloak over white garments; contrary to Arthur he wore no armour, but his sword was strapped to his waist.
"This is Ser Barristan Selmy. My sworn brother. And my friend. Barristan. I leave Ser Brynden Tully in your charge. Keep an eye on him. Tomorrow he shall be our most dangerous adversary." Tully grinned, but Arthur hoped that Barristan understood he was not joking. That day he had heard enough about Hoster Tully to know his little brother was a wildfire keg ready to explode, and woe to whoever was near.
But Barristan was solid as a rock. Though raised to the Kingsguard only recently, he had the self-possessed, quiet strength of a veteran. It showed in his clean-shaven firm face and close-cut brown hair; his eyes, clear windows into his steady, honest soul, were a cooler hue than the Tully turquoise. Arthur felt he was not doing injustice to either young man by entrusting Tully to him.
Tully bowed correctly, then held out his hand in unaffected joy. "A great honour, Ser Barristan. Today I have met two of the greatest knights in the realm. Thank you, Ser Arthur."
Barristan grabbed his hand, giving him one of his rare smiles. "The honour is mine, Ser Brynden."
Arthur laughed. "Very well. Ser Barristan. Ser Brynden. Ser Arthur has had enough of 'sers' for today. But it is only the beginning. Alas. I will get ready for the feast. Have a good evening. I look forward to sharing a quiet ale with you both. After the tourney."
As he walked out, he heard Tully's brusque voice, tinged with awe: "Barristan the Bold! You've won your first tourney when you were only ten..."
Arthur smiled to himself and closed the door.
THE WHITE KNIGHT
Barristan Selmy sat in a strategic position in the Mooton feast hall. He could see all the guests, starting with Prince Aerys, seated at Lord Mooton's dais with the lord of the castle, his wife and their children. Arthur Dayne stood behind him like a deadly statue, his aquiline face turned to stone, his hands resting on Dawn's hilt in front of him.
Barristan was surrounded by Northern troublemakers; a Greyjoy, a couple of Freys (did they always travel in pairs, like the towers on their emblem?), the whole Umber clan and the Boltons - Arthur thought them creepy, but Barristan was careful to keep that a secret between them. That was the most likely place where words might fly and blows be exchanged. He was there to avoid it.
Aerys had commandeered Mooton's table, to the impotent embarrassment of the lord of the castle who would have wished to dine with Brynden Tully and maybe interest him in his daughter. Barristan managed to defuse a potential diplomatic incident by placing Tully by his own side. Dining with a member of the Kingsguard was a distinguished honour. Barristan's intent, however, was not entirely politic. To judge by Arthur's implicit warning, the lad might be the worst troublemaker of them all.
Ser Ross sat on Brynden's other side. He wore an uncomfortable expression, but despite his age Barristan thought he would be an effective ally in sedating a riot.
Privately, he laughed at himself. Expecting the worst was his job, but so far the feast was going on at a normal level of dissipation. The revelers were not too loud, maybe due to the presence of the prince, though in Barristan's experience this had not prevented other banquets from degenerating into a bloody mess. That was why the Kingsguard existed, among other things.
The two young men got along well. At twenty-three, Barristan was a man grown, while Brynden could maybe pretend he was seventeen, if he frowned. Yet they had many things in common beside tales of knighthood: maidens and travels in far-off lands, dreams still unformed, and family troubles. Barristan did not want to turn the conversation into a contest of woes, but he quietly told Brynden: "White knights do not marry and do not hold lands and titles. When I took the white, I had to break my engagement to the girl I loved. I envy you a little."
Brynden sighed. "It sounds so much easier."
Barristan smiled. "Wait till you realise your vows forbid you to even kiss a girl. Some of my comrades think this is the least binding of oaths." He saw where Brynden's gaze wandered, and cut that chain of thought at once. "Nay, not Arthur. I do not believe so, either. It's tough, by all the gods. Have you seen that strawberry blonde down there at the Blackwood table? The one with freckles everywhere, judging by her low-cut gown?"
"Haven't I," Brynden replied dreamily.
"Go ahead. Talk to her after the feast. You can."
Brynden laughed. "I talked to her before the feast. She's engaged to a Darry."
"Damn."
"Indeed."
They drank meditatively, while Barristan scanned the hall. Brynden was a moderate drinker; at least that was reassuring. If he started a fight with some Darry, it would not be because of the ale. Instead he was carefully observing each knight. Unlike many others at the banquet, he was already preparing for the tourney.
His next words surprised Barristan. "I've been thinking of joining the Faith."
"I don't see you as a priest, Brynden. You love fighting too much..."
Brynden raised an eyebrow and shot him a sideways glance from under his disheveled auburn hair.
A chill ran up Barristan's spine. He had grown fond of his young Tully friend, and his words were a death knell. He could only mean the Faith Militant. It had been abolished by Maegor the Cruel, who had stated that any of the warrior priests caught in Westeros would be put to the sword. Or worse.
"Don't say it!" he hissed. "Are you crazy? Why?"
Brynden laughed again. "A fair maiden, why else? There's a secret sept..."
"SHUT UP!"
Clueless, Ser Ross turned to look at the two young men. Barristan reassured him with a nod, then glared at Brynden, boring into those blue eyes with his own.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Tully, and anyway you've told me nothing. NOTHING. Forget this conversation, if you have any love in you for anyone."
Brynden seemed to sober up. "I know not either, Selmy. You make no sense. Sure you've not had too much ale?"
"Very good." Barristan took another swill of ale, then a deep breath. He looked around, checking that Arthur was still in his place and that no Umbers and Boltons had killed each other yet. He turned to Brynden as though nothing had happened, and patently changed the subject.
"I've always wondered, Tully, why in the seven hells, a trout?"
Brynden laughed in that sudden way he had. "You know what that Florent man told me this morning?..."
THE LITTLE BROTHER
His first tourney.
Brynden stood at one end of the lists beside his sturdy grey horse, tall enough for the tall man he had become. Hoster's present for his knighthood. It was one of those things that made him feel bad for his enduring resentment towards his older brother. The horse's dark red and blue caparison marked him as a Tully for everybody to see, a fact that he could not forget either.
Some duels had already been fought. The first contenders had been drawn by chance, and they had the privilege of choosing their adversary. No members of the royal family had entered the contest, so the youngest knights of the Kingsguard could fight as they pleased. Most of the noble Houses of Westeros had sent their representatives, and there were some illustrious contestants.
Brynden had prayed to the Seven that Arthur Dayne would choose him. The Sword of the Morning would tear him to pieces, he knew, but he would discover that a Tully is a tough fish to chew. Ser Ross had pointed out that the famed knight was scarcely older than him, but to Brynden he looked ageless like many Southerners. Brynden suspected he would look that way thirty years onward.
Ser Arthur rode up to the prince's dais and tipped his lance to the lion shield of some Lannister, making short work of him. Brynden's wonder at seeing the Sword of the Morning in action ran by too quickly. Now the white knight would wait for the winners of the first round, and choose his next adversary for the final jousts. There was little doubt in Brynden's mind that Ser Arthur would win the tourney.
He was still standing there, brooding, when they called out his name.
Ser Ross gave one last look at his outfit and nodded. A squire helped him on his horse. Visor raised, Brynden made the turn of the field. His grey armour was good-looking, nothing exceptional but nothing to be ashamed of either. He did not care about being handsome, but he cared about being orderly.
He certainly had achieved his purpose and more, also due to his red hair streaming from under his helm. Maidens were shouting "Tully!" from the stands. An older, handsome lady in green even offered him her favour, a blue scarf. He had no idea who she was or what House she belonged to, but the scarf matched his eyes. Maybe she hoped to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty by him if he won the tourney, according to the ancient custom. He let her tie the scarf to his shield arm, feeling empty. If only Hoster had been there, hearing people cheer their name.
When he reached the prince's dais he saluted Aerys, who still looked bored, then gazed at the shields as though he had not learned them by heart. The white knights had already had their first run, all but one.
Brynden tipped his lance towards Barristan Selmy's white shield.
A murmur ran through the crowd. Brynden turned his horse and saw Selmy mount and select his spear and shield. The young knight had studied all his prospective opponents the night before, watching how much they drank, how they moved when they went out to piss, which one had a shoulder higher than the other or limped from an old wound. He had prepared tactics for each one. But Selmy had no visible weaknesses. He was actually wider than Brynden, although Brynden was taller by a fingerbreadth. Selmy could smash him away by putting all his weight behind the spear.
It was all a matter of balance, Brynden thought. If he leaned forward over his horse, he would offer a smaller target and be more likely to stand Barristan's charge. But not too forward, or the crowd would mark him for a coward...
Lost in these thoughts, Brynden trotted towards his end of the field, lowering his visor. A strange, uneasy calm had settled over him. He heard only the beating of his own heart inside the helm.
Ser Ross looked up at him with pride. He was the closest thing to a father Brynden had had since old Lord Tully's death and his brother's accession to the title. The young man nodded at his master-at-arms, recognizing those years of devotion.
Barristan was a speck of shining white at the end of what seemed to be an endless stretch of land through the slit of his visor. The signal was called, and Brynden spurred with a cry. He could think of no prayer but Gods, it is true. He was straddling an earthquake. Never in his training at Riverrun had he ridden so fast, straight as an arrow. His teeth were chattering so hard it felt like they were loosening. Typically, an outrageous thought came to him: if it were so, all knights would be toothless.
The ride seemed forever, then the speck of white was on him, larger than life, and Brynden aimed at Barristan's shield. The world exploded in splinters. Brynden's left arm slammed against his chest, the edge of the shield cracking on his own helm. Half-stunned, he took a moment to register he was still upright in the saddle, as his well-trained horse was slowing down. He had shut his eyes tight. He let out a laughing yell of triumph at being alive, still in the race, and maybe...
He turned in the saddle, but there was Barristan, wheeling his horse to regain his post. Brynden was too excited to be disappointed. He changed direction and trotted along the lists. When he crossed Barristan, he met his eyes through his visor and saw that the white knight was smiling.
"Keep your shield lower," Barristan whispered.
Brynden could only blink in response. His face was aflame. What a stupid mistake!
A frantic Ser Ross handed him a new spear and shield and several pieces of advice that Brynden did not hear.
Five times they jousted; Barristan broke three spears on Brynden's shield, Brynden broke two and missed twice, and the prayer kept running through his head, Gods, gods, it is true. He was a single-minded driven force, fearless but for one thing: his mouth had gone completely dry. He had to stop at his post each time to ask for water, and each time Ross gave a waterskin to him, still prattling. The young knight heard nothing but his name, whether in curse or in cheer he did not know, bryndenbryndenbrynden. It echoed inside his helm like a chime until it became a foreign word. All that mattered in his world had shrunk to a point centered on Barristan's white shield.
The fifth time, something very strange happened. As he tilted his spear for a hit, Brynden crashed into a wall that should not have been there. Everything went black and silver, and as he wondered about that mystery, the same wall slammed into his back. Quite an odd behaviour for a wall.
A stripe of blue came slowly into view. The lady's favour floating in the night? The rivers of his home? Finally Brynden realized he was looking up at the sky through the slit in his visor.
He could not breathe. Scared, he raised both gauntleted hands to his helm. He tore it away, and the fresh air revived him a little. All right. His upper body was still working, if sore and stiff. What about the rest? He bent his knees and sat up, coughing, red hair all over his face.
Barristan was dismounting from his palfrey, raising his visor. A relieved smile spread across his severe features. He strode towards the fallen knight, holding out his hand.
Not beaten yet.
Brynden climbed to his feet. Though he had discarded his helm, he still heard only echoes, tullytullytully. They wanted him to keep fighting. He went for his scabbard by his side, and his sword leaped into his hand as if by its own will.
Barristan stopped, perplexed, and said something. Brynden attacked him. The white knight drew and parried. Through the clanging steel and the screams of the crowd, Brynden began to hear his words. "... you crazy?... crazy?... crazy?...crazycrazycrazy..."
"You asked me already," Brynden gasped, pressing the attack.
Another noise joined in the din, a Southern-accented voice yelling "STOP!"
Not again.
"Do you want me to kill you, Brynden?" Barristan asked quietly.
This came across. His arms were shaking, seven hells, all his aching muscles were shaking. His vision was dotted with silver flares. Through their crossed swords, Brynden looked at Barristan's earnest face. He could not keep up the fight after that fall.
He stepped back, staggering. "Nay," he whispered, just as another white knight stepped in front of Barristan, silvery ponytail coming undone, the white sword Dawn shining in his right hand. With his left, Arthur Dayne grabbed Brynden's shoulder. The young knight nodded wearily, and managed to keep his hand steady until he had slipped his sword back into its sheath.
The crowd went mad.
They both helped him to his tent. Ser Ross was out of himself. Brynden collapsed on a stool as his fretful master-at-arms began removing his armour. The two white knights stood looking down at him, a flustered Barristan and a stern Dayne. Ser Ross stared from them to Brynden, awed that his ward had made such illustrious friends.
"By all the gods, Tully, I thought you'd never stop fighting."
"Measure your strength. You have to. Lad. You had no reserves left."
Brynden's head was drooping. He drank from the cup Dayne was holding to his lips. For the barest of instants, his old family sword had whispered against Dawn. Something to tell his grandchildren, if he never did anything else in his life.
"Liar," Barristan said.
This made him look up through his tangled hair. The white knight was grinning. "Yes, you liar. This wasnot your first tourney. I broke three lances on you!"
"Was," Brynden panted.
"Was not."
Dayne smiled. "You will be a great knight. Ser Brynden. If you survive your pride."
Brynden nodded, hoping to look intelligent. It was like someone had stuffed cotton into his ears. At last Dayne clapped Barristan on his back, and the two sworn brothers left the tent, Barristan looking over his shoulder with concern.
As soon as they were out of sight, Brynden felt free to pass out.
BARRISTAN THE BOLD
A long, long soak in the hot baths had taken away some of his aches. It was Barristan's turn to stand behind the prince at dinner. He saw Brynden sitting between Ser Ross and some noisy Umber. The lad had slept all afternoon. He was gloomy, his grin less quick than usual. The guests were all for him, the brave newcomer who had challenged a white knight and held out for five rounds. Ladies walked by and patted his shoulder. Brynden smiled, then returned to stare at his full cup.
Leaning slightly on his sword to ease his sore back, Barristan tried to understand. Brynden had shown wisdom, quickness and clarity beyond his years. He had fought Barristan as though they were veterans of a hundred tourneys: he seemed to know the white knight's habits, his movements, even his quirks. He had gathered that knowledge in a few hours of observation. Someday the lad would make a great aide for his brother.
But he could not expect to win, could he? He did not have enough physical and mental resistance yet. Technically he might be able to stand up to Barristan in a swordfight - and Barristan was curious to see how it would turn out - but doggedness was not enough to carry him through. He had not needed Arthur Dayne to stop him; he was already giving up when the Sword of the Morning had intervened. His head was well screwed upon his shoulders. He had to know that putting an end to the duel was the right thing, the best thing.
Yet Brynden Tully was not satisfied.
Barristan sighed and tried to get it out of his mind. His friend would talk, if he wished to; if not, there was nothing the white knight could do. He had his duties, and the next day he was going to fight again.
The prince left the banquet early, before the dances, and Barristan escorted him to his chambers. A white brother took his place to watch the doors. Barristan went down to the armoury, where the Mooton master-at-arms and his own squires helped him undress. In his white tunic, keeping his sword by his side, a habit already old in him, he walked to the chambers he shared with his sworn brothers.
On passing the feast hall again, he looked in to check on Brynden. When he had left, the young man had looked likely to cause a row. Barristan only hoped his earthly common sense had prevailed.
No rows. No Brynden. People staggering away as the last strands of music faded.
None of my business, Barristan thought, running down the stairs. If Brynden had decided to take out his fury on some random Darry, where was he most likely to go? Trying to think like a Tully hurt his brain.
The laundry courtyard was empty at that time of night. It was wide and sheltered, rows of stone basins along the walls and covered spaces to hang the washing. Barristan stepped in the middle, under the waxing moon. He looked around, then turned to go. Such worries were silly.
"I knew you'd come down here."
Barristan whirled about. He had not noticed Brynden standing against one of the pillars, arms crossed over his silver leaping fish. The dark red and blue of the Tully emblem ran together like the grey and black of his clothes.
"Why?" Barristan asked, more to the gods than to him.
Brynden stepped forward. "We have an unfinished business."
"I beat you, Tully."
"I was not in my best condition. I could have won."
"You were in the condition I had put you in. I beat you twice, first on horseback, then on foot. Let it go."
"Would you have killed me?"
"If you had threatened my life, yes."
"I'm not going to threaten your life now. We stop at first cut. I promise."
"According to you, the first cut might be when you lop off my head! Forget it."
"Are you afraid of me?..."
"Gods, how much have you been drinking?"
"Not a drop. And you?"
"You saw me. I was behind the prince. How in the seven hells could I drink?"
"Then we're evenly matched. First cut, Selmy."
Enough.
Barristan nodded at Brynden, knowing he was breaking his vows even as he did that. All knights swore to defend truth. The Father forgive me, it is for a good cause.
They drew their swords, saluted and started circling each other. Brynden's stance was flawless, his step light and precise. Barristan's esteem of old Ser Ross climbed. If he indeed had been young Tully's teacher. Who had knighted Brynden? Who had stood vigil with him? Had Hoster laid on his shoulders impossible expectations along with his sword, or had he shamed him by handing even that sacred task to another?
Barristan had one advantage. He could almost hear the younger man's patience trickle away like sand in an hourglass. Brynden would attack first - and he did. He charged at the perfect time and the perfect place. Nothing short of perfection was required of Lord Hoster Tully's brother. Just lasting five rounds against one of the seven best knights in Westeros was not acceptable, was it?
Few could bear perfection with the grace of Arthur Dayne. Sad and angry for Brynden, Barristan just shifted his weight from one foot to the other and tripped him.
The younger man's drive sent him sprawling on the cobblestones with an ooof! It would have been over quickly if he had let go of his sword, but no, he was already rolling on his back and trying to scramble to his feet. Dropping his own sword, Barristan tackled him bodily and landed on him with all his weight, grabbing his wrists. Brynden gasped, stunned, and finally the sword fell from his fingers.
"Not cut," he panted.
"I don't need to see your blood, trouthead!" Barristan hissed in his face. "I don't want to see your blood. You're beaten."
"I'm not..."
"Yes, you are. Accept it."
"I could…"
"No, you can't. Not in battle. Even if you were stronger than I am and regained your sword, by now one of my comrades would have killed you. Are you afraid now?"
"Nay."
"You should be."
"Unfair."
Furious, Barristan let go of his wrists and grabbed Brynden's collar. Only a knightly self-control prevented him from slamming his damn Tully head on the stones - and the thought that Lord Mooton would not like a hole in his smooth pavement. "Warisunfair!" he snarled. "We're made for war, not for jousting. Learn to lose, Bryn, learn to be afraid, or you'll kill yourself!"
He almost thought the crazy boy would try to hit him with his bare hands; instead he grabbed Barristan's wrists and tried to say something.
"What? What else? Speak up!"
"... can't breathe."
Barristan loosened the grip on his neck. Brynden gasped again and gulped, looking up at him with uncertain defiance in his eyes. The white knight was not sure he had driven the point home. He let go of Brynden's collar and placed his hands on the sides of the young man's beardless face. "Have you heard a word of what I've said?"
Brynden nodded.
Barristan searched his face for signs of true repentance. The Tullys were not famously beautiful. Girls tended to an angular prettiness. He had met Hoster once; the lord of Riverrun's hatchet profile commanded obedience more than admiration, and his brother was a softer version of him. Brynden lay flat, chest rising and falling fast, eyes wide with confusion, indigo irises circled with bluish white in the moonlight. His distress was unnatural; his lips were cut for smiling.
Barristan blinked. His study of Brynden's face had gone on too long. Some place deep down in his belly agreed.
When had that brief friendship turned into desire? Mutual desire? Surprise and wonder in that raw-boned Tully face, the heat from Brynden's lips almost touching his...
Barristan let go and pushed up. He scrambled to his feet, fearing the younger man would start the fight again. But Brynden just sat there, until he slowly picked himself up and carefully recovered his sword and sheathed it. At first he could not meet Barristan's eyes, then he looked at him directly.
Barristan swallowed. How could he feel so strongly for another man? He sheathed his own sword and something forced him to speak. "If not for myoath," he began.
Brynden shook his head quickly and stopped him with a sharp dismissive gesture.
That was it. His friend did not want to hear. The white knight turned to go.
Brynden reached him, placing one hand against the wall and the other on Barristan's chest. "You don't need to break any oaths," he said, and kissed him hard on the lips.
Barristan felt so weak he could not even think of pushing him away. His hands moved on their own, one encircling Brynden's lanky hips, the other grabbing the back of his head. Weird how much taller young Tully was.
Reason spoke in his mind with a Dayne accent. Stop.
There was no need to. Barristan had barely tasted his mouth that Brynden let go and stepped back, stepped back like he had done during the duel. Once again the white knight felt relief and a terrible loss. That was the moment he had fallen for Brynden Tully: after the tourney, when the crazy young man had proven his strength in mastering himself - if he wished to.
Then Brynden did the worst he could have done. He smiled. "I hope your curiosity is satisfied," he said, and his lips twisted in bitterness. "Good luck for tomorrow, Selmy." He turned and strode away towards the back of the courtyard, heading for his tent.
Indeed, their tourney had spilled out of the lists. What a way to deliver a death blow, Barristan thought, torn between rage and pain, aware that Brynden was sharing the same feelings, and that there was not a single thing either of them could do about it.
THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE
Brynden sat in the stands with Ser Ross, watching the last jousts of the tourney. During the night all his bruises had become sharp pains throbbing through his body whenever he moved. He had a couple of cracked ribs. Nothing to do but wait for them to heal. They were on the side of his heart.
He cheered for Barristan Selmy, quietly glad for his victories, and cursed himself for being idiotically thoughtless one moment, and the next moment reason himself to death about every detail of every thing he had ever done.
His actions of the night before had been stupid, cruel and meaningless.
Wait. Stupid, yes. Cruel, yes. But meaningless?
If a woman pinned him to the ground, straddled his groin, grabbed his face and started whispering about life and war a hairsbreadth from his lips, a sensual response was justified. He would love to meet such a woman.
But a male friend?
Not just that. A hero. A paragon of life. The brother he could not have. The man Brynden was not, would never be, wanted to be at all costs - if it meant turning into him. Possessing him. Taking him inside. Becoming one. Brynden felt a shiver deep down.
But why Barristan? Why not Dayne? Ah, but because in the same situation Arthur Dayne would throw him into a cold washing tub, and Brynden would not feel more than gratitude towards him. Barristan's own desire, instead, had been obvious. Faced with a concrete answer to his dreams, Brynden had lost his mind. For a moment he had been the centre of somebody's world, a feeling he was not used to. He was loved, important, not the eternal second best. It was pathetic, but it had been so good.
And then, moments from kissing him, Barristan had let him go. Brynden had felt cheated. He had not cared about the white knight's torn conscience. The Others take his oath. He had cut him with a kiss, since he was not good enough to do it with his sword.
It was more fitting for a child who discovers that girls are so interestingly complicated. But with girls you cold explain, apologize, make peace if you were lucky. What now? Did Barristan's lips still hurt, like his own?
Brynden slumped morosely on his seat and watched the tourney, flinching every time someone's spear shattered on Barristan's shield.
The white knight defeated all his adversaries, and the same did his sworn brother Arthur Dayne. So it was that in the end Barristan the Bold faced down the Sword of the Morning at the great tourney of Maidenpool. Many lances were broken and much money changed hands among the crowd, but one lucky hit in the perfect spot of his shield unhorsed Ser Arthur in the middle of the field.
The Sword of the Morning conceded defeat, and the two knights embraced, laughing, amid the cheering crowd. Now Brynden was grinning. He wished to be down there, to be at least second best as was usual for him; but he was happy for Barristan. Ser Ross congratulated him on his chivalry towards the knight who had beaten him. Brynden just shrugged and kept smiling vaguely.
Hastily cleaned up, Barristan started his tour of honour. He saluted Prince Aerys, was duly awarded and received the flower crown to present to his Queen of Love and Beauty. Which was a bit awkward, Barristan being a knight of the Kingsguard and sworn to celibacy. The correct way to proceed was to crown the reigning queen, or, in her absence, the lady of the castle.
Barristan looked into the crowd, and Brynden was struck by an awful suspicion.
What a piece of revenge, he thought. What a delightfully wicked way to chastise him for that stolen kiss. Barristan would get away with it - many thought that when one took the white he lost a bit of his mind, or was not wholly sane in the first place - but the young Tully would never live it down. He probably would not live at all, after Hoster got word of it.
Brynden started laughing. He covered his mouth with his hand. His sore muscles just made it worse. Befuddled, Ser Ross elbowed him, luckily where it hurt less. He tried to keep it silent, but in a moment he was sobbing with hilarity. Barristan slowly rode past him, shot him a glance, and his tight lips twisted into a smile. Both young men knew perfectly well what the other was thinking.
Brynden tried to stem his unseemly laughter by lowering his face into his hands. He heard the comments around him - the brave young knight at his first tourney, his pride so sensitive that he cried for his loss. A man tried to cheer him up by admitting he had bet on Barristan. Some lady started sniffling. None of this helped Brynden's composure.
Finally his strength of will allowed him to straighten up, nobly collected, his face feeling like a bad sunburn, jaws aching, mouth only slightly twitching. Barristan was crowning Lady Mooton as his Queen of Love and Beauty, and Brynden said goodbye to his stomach muscles for a long time.
THE PERFECT KNIGHT
That night, on the chiming of the hour, Barristan walked up to the door of Prince Aerys' room to relieve Arthur and his guards. Both white knights wore full armour. They exchanged the correct formalities, then Barristan's guards took their place at the door, and Arthur's filed down the stairs at a nod from the knight.
Barristan looked pale in the light of the torches, dark circles under his eyes. Arthur frowned. He stepped slightly away from the guards. "Have you slept? Barristan? You are wakeful enough to stand guard for the night. I trust. Otherwise, I can summon..."
"I'm fine." Barristan smiled tiredly. "How about you? Did I rattle you too badly today? You look terrible."
Arthur looked away. "The prince hit Mooton's son. After the closing feast."
Barristan stared, aghast. The Sword of the Morning went on. "He is all right. The boy. Aerys made his apologies. Mooton accepted them."
His sworn brother exhaled a relieved breath. "No harm done."
"Not yet," Arthur whispered.
Barristan looked at him impatiently. "He's young. He'll be better when he's king."
"Or worse."
"Arthur, stop it, this is treason," Barristan hissed.
The Sword of the Morning looked at his comrade with quiet sadness. "No. It is common sense. The king has not long to live. Aerys already shows signs of being cruel. And capricious. When he has full power..."
Barristan snorted and crossed his arms, steel lightly clashing on steel. "Very well. What then? What will you do? We've all sworn to stand by him."
Arthur nodded slowly. "I would die for my king. Would you?"
"Of course I would! Why are you even telling me this?"
"Because I am so sorry," Arthur replied, gazing out of the window somewhere above Barristan's shoulder. The hilt of Dawn gleamed softly by his side, at the edge of his vision. "For what I saw tonight. What I saw at other times. It pains me. The pain he will bring. But there is no helping it."
Barristan had to know he was right. Like Arthur, he had taken his vows with eyes fully open. In the face of their young ideals, their hope that Aerys would turn out a good king had overcome their fears that the Targaryen dynasty, so often plagued with madness, was reaching its bloodied end.
"Go to bed, Arthur," Barristan said helplessly.
The Sword of the Morning nodded again and turned to leave.
"Wait." At that word, Arthur stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at Barristan. "Did Aerys... were there other people beside you and the Mootons?"
Arthur shook his head. "No. It was a private quarrel."
"Good. Keep it that way. The Mootons are Tully bannermen. Brynden Tully does not need this worry on top of it all. Damn it, Lord Hoster should have been here, not his little brother. What was he thinking?..."
Arthur smiled. The Sword of the Morning was a good judge of character, and Brynden Tully was far from being a little fish in a big pond. "Do not protect him. Barristan."
"Of course not." Barristan brought his fingers to his visor in a parting gesture to his friend, then slammed the visor down.
The Sword of the Morning started down the stairs with heavy steps.
THE TARGARYEN CHAMPION
"Did you really believe I would crown you as my Queen of Love and Beauty?"
"You had me completely. I was already thinking of shaving my hair off, changing my name and becoming a hedge knight."
"I was sorely tempted. You deserved it."
"I could see it so clearly in my mind." Sitting in his saddle, Brynden started laughing again. He howled, grabbing his stomach. "Gods, it hurts! Make me stop."
May you laugh forever,and without hurt, Barristan thought. Brynden had begun tying his hair in Arthur Dayne's style. Now he also wore his sword behind his back, like Dawn.
He was so young.
That morning Arthur had embraced Brynden like a brother, telling him that should a vacancy come up among the Kingsguard seven, they would remember him. Barristan would never tell the Sword of the Morning about Brynden: Arthur's unfailing answer would be that, no matter what Brynden had done, Barristan had the responsibility of behaving like a true white knight. And after their nightly conversation, he had a strange feeling that there would be no vacancies and no Arthur and no Barristan and no Brynden at the same time, ever.
The Starks kept saying that winter was coming. Where would he stand then?
But the sun was still shining, and they were talking quietly, two young knights on their horses, saying goodbye. Ser Ross and the Tully escort waited by the path that led down to the valley.
"Have a safe return to Riverrun, my friend. I hope you settle things with Hoster."
Barristan was chagrined to see Brynden's mirth fade. The younger man nodded. "I wish you more tourneys and more glory, Barristan."
"I hope you find a good woman."
"I hope..." Brynden lowered his eyes to the ground, and lifted them again.
Barristan tried to smile. "It's all right. I couldn't break my oath anyway."
"If you had broken it," Brynden said easily, "I would not love you as I do."
Love?
Barristan stared. He tried to find an answer, but Brynden just shrugged and smiled. It was commonplace for knights to grasp wrists and even kiss. All Barristan could do was touch Brynden's hair. From a distance it might look like he was pointing to a bruise.
Brynden brushed his fingers on Barristan's, then he turned his horse and spurred to rejoin his master-at-arms. He briefly looked back for one last wave, and they were gone down the hill.
Love.
Barristan's vision misted and shimmered, then cleared. Well done, Tully. If he thought the kiss had been a death stroke, then Brynden's parting shot had shattered his world.
He rubbed his eyes and turned back towards the castle, towards his life, knowing fully well who had won the tourney at Maidenpool.
THE END