Day 1 – The Mother
"Gentle Mother, font of mercy,
save our sons from war, we pray,
stay the swords and stay the arrows,
let them know a better day."
(Ser Brynden's POV)
The Blackfish hid his impatience beneath classic Tully auburn eyebrows and behind classic Tully blue eyes; a useful skill for one renowned as a stubborn and blunt knight. Being the brother of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands was another nifty gift ... at times. Unlike the Westerlanders he was accompanying from Riverrun, Brynden never had a pavilion to pitch at the end of the day's journey nor breakdown at dawn's kiss.
As their noble guide, he picked the travel route and knew which castles and holdfasts best served his needs, aside from free lodging. Which was why he had initially led young Ser Jaime and his entourage on the indirect arc of the River Road; instead of the straighter, yet displeasing, path through Atranta, Stone Hedge with Lord Bracken's eldest daughter Celia, and the tolerable but issue laden Raventree Hall. His patience would not forebear the tourney interrupted by frequent tirades about petty disputes between his brother's most quarrelsome and tedious banner lords.
Brynden did not need unwanted distractions. Hoster's plans surely didn't need it. These were delicate times, and not just because poor lovestruck Littlefinger had foolishly tried to make a hash of intricate things, not just once, but twice, damn his honorless, selfish soul. 'To think I cared for the boy like he was my own son,' the Blackfish thought bitterly.
"Ha," said the agreeable young voice on horseback beside him, gesturing at the figures scurrying about in the early light outside the modest keep. "To think not six months ago, I would have been doing the likes of that for Lord Crakehall. A squire's work is never done."
Jaime Lannister had not slept beneath a cloth roof either last night, or most of the nights of their journey together.
"As squire or knight, old Lord Druss would have found room for the heir of Casterly Rock," Brynden said equitably.
The youth smirked. "That battleaxe? The dungeon more like. Or perhaps a broom closet, if he's in his cups and cheery."
Brynden laughed at the truth of it, but could not help himself from needling, "Might have found a pretty young something wearing nothing but a layer of a little grime waiting for a strapping lad like yourself in that broom closet, instead you had to share tight chambers with me."
Those piercing Lannister green eyes grew cat wary for a second, there was a reason the lad's uncle Kevan was trailing somewhere behind them and the young knight was just adult enough to realize the why of it. Then suddenly the young lion roared in laughter. "Sumner Crakehall, Seven bless him for all his many lordly gifts, had an amazing capacity to both snore and fart in his sleep. I've slept as if in the Mother's arms with you each night, Ser Brynden. I can do without the pleasures of the broom closet, I assure you."
The Blackfish broke into a grin. "Nay, just another lordly talent which sadly I lack," he disagreed amiably. "You would be wise to hone such useful skills at that before you acquire a squire of your own. It keeps them awake when they've still work aleft; and spares them the rod and embarrassment when you inevitably catch them dozing off when they shouldn't. Ask my Ren, when you see him anon, how black and blue I chastise him for his evening indolences."
Young Ser Jaime shook his head gently in the negative and grinned all the more. "I doubt that's why they call you the Blackfish, Ser Bryden," he japed. "I envy your Ren his service. Surely he has nothing but admiration for you," he continued more seriously.
What sweet danger that. "And I envy your knighting by the Sword of the Morning. Tell me again about Big Belly Ben and the Smiling Knight," he asked the youth, turning the conversation in a safer direction.
The emerald eyes lit with excitement and off Jaime Lannister went describing the efforts that had rooted out the Kingswood Brotherhood. The older knight smiled. He'd heard these tales a dozen times in the last score of days from the lad. A turnabout of affairs from only a year and a half ago, when the heir of Casterly Rock had been unknowingly sent by that same said Sumner Crakehall - at Lord Tywin's secret request no doubt - to see if something like attraction … or at least affection might develop between Jaime and Brynden's niece Lysa.
The squire, to Hoster's vast annoyance, had all but ignored the shy young girl in order to squeeze every possible battle story out of the unknown target's uncle. Odd that a man of Tywin Lannister's repute had let such potential fraught events tend to themselves. Now the iron shoe was nailed to the hoof of the other rider's horse. Yesterday's boy had since accomplished notable feats, passing from squire to knight; but still hot blooded enough to revel in the telling of glorious deeds. Ahhh, to be young and naïve.
There was nothing like Spring after a Winter; even as short a one as had just passed. Pollen filled breezes pushing away the night's chill air with the alluring promise of warmth. Trees budding. Early flowers blooming. Simple mud, neither ice nor slush, to cake the hooves of a knight's mount. The whole of Westeros was uncoiling from its brief hibernation and Ser Brynden enjoyed it a horse immensely. Worries could wait a while.
He had set an easy pace all along from Riverrun in case Ser Kevan lurked not far behind trying to catch up. Now, growing close, even with the rising crowds as paths and roads merged on the main way south towards God's Eye, his party should make it to the wide fields beneath Harrenhal's giant discolored curtain wall no later than noon. Plenty of light left in the day to pitch tents, find a long absent friend or two, and bend the elbow thrice or more times. He cared little for the tag along Westerland lordlings' complaints that all the prime spots would already be taken just a day before the Tourney's official start.
"Toadying lick-spittles," his companion, Lucion Lefford, grumbled; clearly hearing the same low muttered grievances and sharing the Blackfish's thoughts.
"I know not what you mean, my lord," he purposefully prodded with too obvious an innocent tone.
"Ohhhh, ayyyeeeeee, Ser Brynden" drawled the middle aged Lord of Golden Tooth. "The brother of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands never once encountered favor seekers who griped in disappointment at the poor return on their perceived investment of time and sweet meaningless words. Forsooth, the personal insult to their honor that they are not afforded every dignity their large arses and small brains believe them entitled too."
Brynden guffawed at the current titular senior member of the contingent. With lands bordering right on the Riverlands and the River Road, Lord Lucion was the Westerlander noble he happened to know best. Much trade flowed over the pass the man controlled between the two kingdoms. What's more, he liked the gruff, sarcastic whoreson.
"Remember that when I'm dead, Leo," the lord shouted over his shoulder.
"Yes, father," the sullen response came back from one of the pair riding right behind them. Leo lacked his father's flare for insults, just a sour grump of a man. No style or enjoyment to it.
"You too, little peacock," the man added, addressing his younger squire, who road beside his son. The thirteen year old grunted loudly some disinterested response. Lord Lucion continued in only a slightly less loud voice, "Not that Myles stands to inherit anything more than a dungheap. Old Serret is near as bad as even older Frey in propagating. What's the point in it I say? Have done, enjoy your dotage with dignity, and move along nicely to your grave."
Brynden chuckled, dislike of Walder Frey was near universal amongst the worshippers of the Seven. Lucky for the First Men of the North, his soon to be good nephew and family aside, few worshippers of the Old Gods had come down the Neck for the coming nuptials and been forced to enjoy the experience of the Crossing and House Frey's bleak hospitality.
"Keep your chortles to yourself, Ser," Lucion challenged with a wicked grin. "Not spreading your seed at all's as bad as sowing it too wide."
"Fear not for me, see who I choose as my Queen of Love and Beauty when I win the tourney and doubt me. I dare you, my lord," he responded jauntily. This ground was so overly tread it bothered him less than a hangnail.
"Ha. Think you have a chance? Aye, I suppose you do. Not my Leo though. Fierce competition with such oodles of dragons for prize money. The best of the whole Seven Kingdoms, and then some, will be there. Leo'll be lucky to win a single bout." The Lord of Golden Tooth scratched his salt and pepper beard in thought. In a lower voice, he added most leadingly and not for the first time, "Didn't think Lord Walter had the gold for this. Harrenhal never were cheap or lucky."
"King Aerys," Brynden countered blithely, as he had every day when talk of the tourney invariably came up, as did this question.
"Suppose so, suppose so. Oswell's his brother, has the king's ear of course," Lucion grumbled in conspiratorial agreement, as he almost always did in re-joinder to the Blackfish's stock answer. "Ser Jaime!?" he yelled, "What chances think your new spurs will have in the joust."
The young knight stopped talking with his childhood friend who was the older of Lord Lucion's two squires, slowed his mount, and turned the chestnut hunter so he could more directly address the question. "Low to middling at best, my lord, if Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur accompany his Grace."
'Yes, Aerys. A baited trap. But for whom?' Brynden mused for the thousandth time. He and Hoster both feared they knew the answer.
"Many a fine lance shall be present, my lord," chirped in the youth who had been riding beside Ser Jaime, like peas in a pod with the vigor and beauty of warriors in the first bloom of manhood. "I pray the tourney knights Ser Dagonet and Ser Ector attend. They tilted mightily for the championship at Ashemark last year."
"Bah, I thought I had taught you better, young Addam; that ilk are little more than merchants of the joust. The Warrior grant a knight of noble blood and noble spirit win the laurels … and Lord Whent's bulging purse," Lord Lucion declared with an amused snort.
Another debate of who deserved to win, who might likely win, who did and didn't need the prize money, and what happened to the gold if a White Cloak won turned again and again in unanswerable, yet pleasant time passing, circles. Only the lists would eventually winnow the truth from all the supposition.
"Turn back, lest ye pollute yourselves with sinful entertainments," a shrill, hectoring voice floated on the wind.
Lord Lucion squinted ahead up the road towards the bottom of the long hill. "What arse's piles is that?"
"Some begging brother, my lord," Ren piped up.
"Help the Mother protect her daughters from lustful fury!"
"Go to it with a cold eye and firm grasp on your purse lest the whores charge too much," a taunting retort drifted back over the crowd in front of the party from Riverrun.
"This be your last chance to stay to the Seven's true path afore you spy wanton flesh and mammon!"
Some wags passing near the tree upon which the lowly septon perched to preach began singing,
"The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,
and her kisses were warmer than spring.
But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,
and its kiss was a terrible thing.
The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,
in a voice that was sweet as a peach …"
"The Father shall judge you all, ware lest you be found wanting!"
"The likes of him would faint dead of embarrassment if the Maid ever visited his dreams," Brynden commented.
"Or sport a cockstand," Lord Lucion harrumphed in disgust.
Everyone in hearing distance shot looks of surprise at the font of the blasphemy.
"What? You think that one doesn't slack his lusts disguised within the cloak of the Seven? The Father may judge, but Mother protect me from false prophets. The Crone gave me eyes to see with. I'll use them to choose my own path, for good or ill," Lucion Lefford rumbled dangerously, daring any to gainsay his wisdom.
The party, near quiet as Silent Sisters, rode past the rants of the wild eyed, thread bare Holy Brother and up the slope. Harrenhal awaited just the other side.
"For whom the Seven loves they reprove, even as a mother corrects the child in whom she delights. For your sins affect the world. Repent! Impurity, debauchery, adultery, drunkenness, greed, violence, discord; these shall tear the earth asunder and lead you to the deepest of the Seven Hells."
The tide of humans, horses, and carts ground to a near halt by the time the summit was broached. Here travelers paused to catch their first glimpse, perhaps ever, of King Harren's Folly. Though to be fair, Brynden thought, how was the long dead bugger to know that Aegon and his dragons would land on Westeros the year the castle was completed? "Difficult to beat a three headed dragon," he muttered.
Most merchants and gathered smallfolk, view satisfied, would soon enough start down the backside, eager to join the throngs already gathered in a panorama of colors from one shore of the God's Eye, past Harrentown, around the sweep of the mighty walls ravaged by Balerion the Black Dread's fire, and back down to the shore again – a vast multitude.
Off along the sides on the ridge, amongst smatterings of trees and scrub, those wishing to make an impressive arrival in keeping with their status or desire for such, immodestly swapped off dirty and sweat stained travel garments of capes, cloaks, hats, tunics, and trousers for fine linens, precious silks, and shiny steel.
Brynden cared little for such. He was the brother of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands for Seven's sake; anyone who mattered already knew who he was and woe the fool who didn't. Yet he had long ago conceded that the Westerlanders, without their Lord Tywin present, would want to put on the finest face of things. So they wove their way along the ridge to a relatively free spot, with a view of course.
"Urchin, here's a star, move on so your betters may have the vantage of our journey's end," Tomas, a lordling pledged to the Crag demanded haughtily. "Or feel the lash of my whip."
The ragamuffin folded within a faded grey cloak half stood, half sat perched like a rider atop an oddly shaped milk colored stump. The short figure shifted to look towards the threatening voice and the wind caught the hood, flipping it back.
"A skin of wine or a song would suit better; and then I might tell you your true destiny, lord blind eyes," an aged voice cackled.
"A crone and a dwarf!" swore Lord Tomas.
"Witch," others whispered immediately, taken by surprise.
The face was vaguely womanly. Around it billowed wild white hair that must have been as long as her near three foot stature. The skin was pale to match the weirwood, but the eyes were eerily fierce and blood red. "Nay, just a grandmother in search of a last glimmer of the boy who was forever lost," she replied with weary tinged sorrow.
Several of the knights, squires, and men-at-arms fearing ill omens reached for the reassurance of pommels.
"No! Stand down!" roared the young Lion, pushing his mount to the forefront.
Brynden dug his spurs in too. This day would not be spoiled with innocent or cursing blood if he could help it.
"The lesser of two giant brothers comes to protect me. I am honored."
Compassion fell to suspicion and a hint of anger. "You know of Tyrion. Yet you mock him?" he accused. Jaime Lannister had never hidden the affection he held for his misshapen, younger brother.
"In time, always time, a halfman's shadow may stretch longer than a mountain's."
Apparently mollified, Brynden saw the tension ease in the young knight's strong shoulders, though not as quick as it had risen. "Prophecy?" the young knight whispered.
A lop sided grin or grimace revealed few crooked and brown teeth within. "Dreams. My last prophecies died and were reborn another's at Summerhall. Only dreams remain."
Ser Jaime pulled out a skin from a saddle bag. "May the warmth of this suit your old bones better, grandmother," he offered, having maneuvered his mount right up to the stump.
"Kindness from the lion. A path to danger, but I thank you," she accepted and downed a goodly amount.
"Let me take you to your lost kin," Ser Jaime suggested gently.
Another amused cackle. "No, no, child of the Age. Mice nibble for crumbs. He was not the first dragon born in secrecy nor shall he be the last. I have seen what I have come to see. The high place beckons my heart back." With that, she hopped nimbly enough off the stump. And then more miraculously a cane as twisted as the stump appeared in her warped hand.
All the riders, Brynden included, backed off; giving her a wide berth. She began to wobble west along the ridge line, away from the road.
With chills up his back and hackles raised, the Blackfish opened his mouth like a hooked trout. He could not resist. "What other dreams have you had, grandmother?"
The hag stopped, but did not turn back to face them. "The ripple of the bog devil upon the currents shall begin the unravelling of the spider's web. What shall be revealed? Good or ill? Yet more webs? Life or ruin? Only the five great beasts beneath the flower draped sun shall decide."
Possibilities leapt into his mind. He started to …
"Ask me no more. The rising stench sickens me. I gorged on grief enough to fill a thousand years for Jenny's sake. I go to find my song. Many fools will sing it to hear my dreams and sooth me ere my journey ends."
