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Mirror Image Masked in Mist

The Burden

He had only been two when they had left King's Landing, so he didn't remember anything of their life there. But he was sure Mya and Gwenys didn't remember all this much either. It was all just talk. He was barely four when he announced that their tales of King's Landing sounded a lot like the stories the septa told all of them. They had blushed and denied, of course, but even at this tender age, he could say they were lying.

His mother certainly remembered all about King's Landing but she didn't like to talk about that. From time to time, news arrived and although those weren't discussed in front of the children, Brynden noticed how they made her sadder, more pensive. More scared.

"Would you have him if he decides to come back to you?" he once heard his grandmother ask.

His mother laughed. It was not a merry laugh. "It isn't as if I'd have a choice, is it?" she replied. "But he won't. When leaving people behind, he truly leaves them behind."

Lady Blackwood's embroidery fell in her lap. "He returned to that Bracken," she said.

"It was a different one." Melissa's voice was strained.

"Ah yes. I forgot."

"I won't forget," Melissa whispered. "Because it cost the realm a man far better than Aegon Targaryen could ever hope to be – if he hopes that at all. But if he decides that he wants me back – which he won't – I'll go to him, of course, or our House will pay. And I have children who has next to none prospects here. Yes, I will go."

"Hush!" her mother said abruptly. "Brynden, he's listening."

How had she known? He had been so careful! He kept playing battle with his wooden men-at-arms but inwardly, he was more disturbed than he wanted to show. So his mother was ready to do something she truly didn't want to, just because of them?

As a whole, his life in Blackwood was a happy one. He had most of his whims satisfied, either by his elders or, as it happened more often, by his own resourcefulness. He had his sisters and cousins who were about his own age, so they accepted him as one of their own, no different from them. In the beginning, he was stunned and stung to see that newcomers to Raventree Hall startled at the sight of him but later, he started deriving amusement from popping up where he wasn't expected and scaring them. After nightfall, in the yard, was the perfect time. Into the faintly lit corners where they didn't understand immediately that what they were seeing was a mortal boy and not something the old gods sent to them from the nearby godswood.

He was about seven when he realized that just showing to people for the merest shadow of a moment and then disappearing, keeping them insecure of their own sight and mind was something that gave him power over them. He stashed away this knowledge, the same way he did with his many wooden men-at-arms, to take it out when he needed it. No, not a bad life at all.

And still there were those moments when he acutely realized what he was behind the wits Maester Arval so praised. A liability. A burden.

"We'll find him a parcel of land, and a good one," his grandfather promised. "Or a place in Jonor's service. He'll be taken care of."

I can take care of myself, Brynden thought, but the truth was, he couldn't. Not yet. And while growing up, he resented the downing realization that all he'd have would be what his mother's family would give him. What they wanted to give him, because he had nothing of his own.

"I never know what to expect," his mother once said to her brother, extremely agitated. "Aegon sends me enough for the children's upkeep, but it varies from great indulgence to the merest necessities. I can make no plans… and I have to think of their future. Perhaps with decent dowries…"

Jonor Blackwood didn't reply. Brynden already knew that there was nothing that could be said. A bastard, even a royal one, would need more than a decent dowry to make a good match. And they needed even two… before starting to think about his own future. Once again, he felt anger and helplessness at the realization what a burden they were to their mother. She couldn't even wed, not while that King lived.

The man of straw approached the archway, hesitated, stumbled, started to fall back but managed to straighten himself and kept his awkward progression to the safety of the practice storages.

Daeron Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, chuckled and craned his neck in an attempt to see better from the covered colonnade. The harsh rain was obscuring his view somewhat but just like he expected, when the dummy reached the archway, the person pushing it from behind became visible to Daeron. His youngest son, quite unrecognizable from all the falls in the mud he had taken during the trip. Of course, with all the water it had soaked, the straw dummy had become at least twice as heavy. Maekar looked ridiculous, with all the might of his six years and reaching all but the chest of the scarecrow. There wasn't a strand of hair that was still silver on his head – all of him was evenly brown. The sight made Daeron smile – his first smile of this day, as he wasn't wont to those when he got letters from his father.

"Maekar!" he yelled and when his son looked up, he motioned him upstairs.

Maekar carefully propped the dummy against the wall and ran up the steps.

"Leave him where he is," Daeron said. "He's so soaked it that they'll never get him dried up. He's practically useless now. Do you understand?"

Maekar nodded but only a minute later, the straw man started his way again. As stubborn as his mother, Daeron thought with another smile. But he stopped smiling when the boy emerged from the armoury with his little bow and a quiver of arrows. The rain was getting colder, the storm was approaching. His face became even more concerned when his son headed for a side gate quite alone. "Go back!" he yelled. "And wash yourself! Else we'll have to cut your hair off if it dries off like this."

A moment too late, he realized that he should not have said the latter, perhaps. Maekar would love to have his hair cut off. He hated combs.

When he saw that his son was on the way back to his rooms, Daeron headed for the practice gallery. As he expected for a rainy day, it was full of boys working on their technique in the safety of a dry space. He nodded at the master-at-arms who left Baelor's side immediately and hurried to him.

"Have you left this gallery for the last hour?" Daeron asked without losing time for small talk and comments on the children's progress.

Winstan looked at him with surprise. "No, Your Grace. Why are you asking?"

"Maekar was taking the dummy back to the storage. I thought he had had a practice outside. I can see it was so… but he was on his own. Just before I came here, I had to stop him from going out with his bow. Out of the castle, alone! In the coming storm! What should I think?"

The man went white. "But Your Grace… He told me that you had allowed him to continue his practice for some extra hours outdoors… That he could go out whenever he chose. He's so well-behaved, I never thought…"

Daeron shook his head, disbelieving.

"That's nonsense," Baelor said, appearing all of a sudden at his father's side. "Maekar doesn't lie."

Yes, that was it. Maekar never lied. Even when he spoke untruths, they were a product of a child's imagination, not something he said knowing to be false.

That conversation. That time last week when Maekar had approached him with a plea. Daeron had been so busy preparing for the meeting with the Marcher lords that he had said, "Yes, yes," before he could hear what the boy wanted. He had intended to ask later. He had forgotten. Like many other times, he trusted his son's judgment when this time, he really shouldn't have. As reliable as Maekar was, he was still six.

"Mother, am I going to be a burden?" Maekar asked a few weeks later.

The Princess of Dragonstone looked up from the pot of red flowers that she was inspecting. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Because people say I will be."

"Who?" she asked, surprised. The general consensus in the castle was that her youngest was the best child Dragonstone had seen, not giving anyone a moment of trouble. Even Baelor hadn't been this well-mannered at this age, nor so prone to be left to his own devices.

"Everyone. When they think I can't hear. They say Baelor will be King and Aerys his Hand while I'll only be the one they must make accommodations for."

Mariah slowly turned, the pots of flowers that had just arrived from the Reach as a gift from Lady Hightower completely forgotten. "Baelor will be King, yes," she confirmed. "But he'll choose his Hand by merits. It will have to be someone deserving. Not Aerys, necessarily. And we'll make accommodations for all of you."

She realized her mistake a moment too late. With Aerys, such words would have been reassuring; with Rhaegel, they would have been unneeded because he never doubted that he would be loved and cared for. But Maekar? Since he was a tiny toddler, he'd throw a tantrum each time anyone tried to help him with anything. He was so intent on achieving things on his own.

"I don't want anyone to give anything to me!" he exclaimed now. "I can win it on my own. When I become the greatest knight in the realm…"

You'll still be your brother's subject, Mariah thought but she was not about to explain it to a child so young. Children needed to believe in tales and songs, and that they could be anything they wanted. Life would teach them otherwise soon enough. If there is a throne at all when you come of age. Because what could be Aegon's purpose in promulgating those disgusting rumours about his late wife if not an attempt to make Daeron's position more unstable? Last thing she had heard was that he had started showing extreme favour to Daena's boy. What could be the purpose of that? Mariah was afraid that she knew.

"Mother," Maekar said, louder, interrupting her thoughts, "are you listening?"

"Yes, of course," she replied, her eyes going back to the flowers. It was a good thing that they had been able to form some ties with the Tyrell. She had put an extra effort in this, feeling that her being Mariah Martell only impeded Daeron's relationship with them.

"Mother!" Now, there was rare anger in her son's voice. "Are you listening?"

"I am," she replied, realizing that she had no idea what he had been talking about a mere moment ago. "Listen," she suggested, "do you want to help me come up with places for those pots? There are so many of them, I can't come up with all the ideas on my own."

He immediately brightened up. "By colour!" he suggested immediately. "Let's make this hall the Blue Hall!"

Mariah smiled. "The Blue Hall it is, then," she agreed. It's been so long since she's had a longer moment with him. "Should we make a Sun one, what do you think?"

They had barely chosen the flowers for it when a handmaiden came in a hurry. "Your Grace…" she said breathlessly.

Mariah bit her lip. "Where is he now?" she asked. It could be anything, from running naked out into the storm from locking himself up in his bedchamber. One could never tell with Rhaegel.

"In the Painted Hall."

She was already circling the pots. Looking at her youngest, she felt how Maekar's mother disappeared to make room for Rhaegel's. "I'll come find you as soon as I can," she promised. "We'll go on with the pots later."

"Yes," he agreed. To her relief, there was no anger in his voice.

For a moment, he stared at her retreating frame and then headed for the opposite door. He could go to the library and read this book on strategy that he had had in mind for a while. He already knew that his mother wouldn't come back today and by the time they next saw each other, she would have forgotten already. If he was about to become the greatest warrior in the realm, he'd better start now. And when he did, everyone would see him and not forget about him the moment something more important appeared, making him feel like he already was the burden people whispered about.