AYLWARD

Bitterbridge was the sort of castle which was often overlooked. It was small, though not plain. The Caswells of old had spared no expense in the stonework. But it wasn't the castle's beauty that made it special. It was its location. Situated at the point where the Roseroad crossed the Mander, Bitterbridge had the unique privilege of controlling what went into and out of the Reach. Certainly, there were other ways to travel. But no route was as quick and straightforward as the bitter bridge.

Long ago the bridge was simply known as the stone bridge, as it was one of a kind that far north on the Mander. That had changed when Maegor the Cruel had clashed on the bridge with the Faith Militant. The water had run red for twenty leagues after, or at least that was what the stories said. But that was not the only incident that made the bridge bitter. It was on that same bridge that the infant Prince Maelor was torn apart by a mob during the Dance of the Dragons. And it was on that bridge that Aylward Caswell had last seen his father, the day he'd been banished from his home for falling in love with a bastard.

Many years had passed since Aylward had left Bitterbridge, and still the sight of it lived up to his name. He could find no better word to describe the feeling of seeing his father's castle – no, it was his brother's now – rise along the horizon.

Much had changed since he'd left. Aylward was hardly the same lovesick lordling who'd thrown away his father's dream to forge his own path. Life had seen to it that his naivete had been well and truly wiped away. He had duties now, not those of a lord or a husband, but duty to his King, and now to his Queen.

"This must be uncomfortable for you," Loras murmured beside him. It was rare that the young knight was not at Renly's side. But, the King had bannermen to entertain, and Loras had fallen a few strides behind. "But we'll be on our way shortly."

Aylward raised an eyebrow. They both knew shortly was a frame of time which Renly had not yet grasped. At the pace they'd been traveling through the Reach, a fortnight at Bitterbridge would be quick. More like, they would be there for two. Maybe longer if Lord Caswell wished to put on a show. Knowing his little brother, Lorent would put on a spectacle.

"The King is going in," Loras pointed out. Aylward had been watching like a hawk the moment Lorent Caswell had greeted the King at the gate. "Are you coming?"

"Go without me," Aylward murmured. At Loras's disapproving look, the older knight shook his head. "I'll only be a moment."

Aylward walked to the railing of the bridge and overlooked the water below. The water was calm here, pleasant. As a child, he'd played in these very waters with his little brother, but that was before the war. Before their elder brothers had been killed at the Tower of Joy, before Aylward and Lorent's lives had changed irreparably.

At the far end of the bridge, the King and his party had disappeared into the keep. Aylward walked toward it slowly. Trying not to linger on the memory of his father coming down into the courtyard that day. With a grave expression he'd called Aylward over, and calmly informed him his brothers were dead. It was their fault. King Robert had sent Eddard Stark to free the Lady Lyanna from the Prince, but Cleyton Caswell had it in his head that he could do it himself. And wherever Cleyton went, Armond followed.

At the time, Aylward had taken it in stride. His brothers were older, distant. Preoccupied with women and wars. They had little time for younger siblings. It was only in the days after that he began to realize why his father had told him first. Why he'd left Lorent to play in the river. Aylward Caswell was heir to Bitterbridge, and in that moment his life had ceased to be his own.

But that was a lifetime ago. His father was dead, his brother was lord, and Aylward Caswell was a banished knight who served a king. The knight took the remaining steps toward the door and crossed the threshold into his old home. Under his breath, Aylward whispered a prayer to the Seven that Renly would tire of Lorent Caswell quickly.

A fortnight came and went, and still Renly showed no interest in leaving Bitterbridge. Their lands had little to offer, but Lord Caswell would bleed his stores dry if it meant earning his King's favor. Lorent had always been a lickspittle.

On this night a large feast had been arranged, complete with music and even dancing. Aylward felt the urge to remind everyone that they were in the midst of a war, but choked it down along with a swig of ale.

The knight swept his eyes across the room, taking in the revelry. There was something so exhausting about it all, the near constant movement. They weren't fighting, they were barely training – save for the tournaments Renly was fond of. But still, he was tired. Tired of the court politics that had become a part of his life since leaving for King's Landing. Tired of pretending that he cared, that he didn't notice every look of pity cast his way.

Aylward's gaze fell on Lorent. His brother was looking back. The Lord turned back to his companion, and after a brief exchange, abandoned the girl at the fringes of the dancers. Aylward knew what he was in for before Lorent even began to move in his direction.

The knight searched in vain for someone, anyone. Ser Emmon was dancing, and Ser Parmen was attempting to out drink a younger knight. Loras and Renly were absorbed in conversation on the dais. Even Queen Margaery looked to be amused by her conversation with a cousin, leaving Aylward no opportunity to stage a rescue.

The hand that clapped him on the shoulder made him freeze. "They said you'd gone with Renly to the capital but I hardly believed it." Aylward turned to look at his little brother. Lorent had a crow's beak of a nose, and dull hair the color of sawdust. He looked like their father, without the muscle. It gave him the look of a child playing dress up.

"It was years ago," Aylward muttered. "Not that I'd expect you to check in on me, little brother."

"Oh, come now. Isn't that all water under the bridge?" Lorent asked. From his tone, he seemed to genuinely believe it. As if Aylward could just forget his father giving him an ultimatum, love or family. "Father is dead. In case you weren't aware." Aylward raised an eyebrow. "Well, you weren't at the funeral, and King's Landing is so far away."

"Not so far that I haven't heard stories about you," the knight said with a sigh. "I'm surprised you declared for Renly at all. We both know you never had much love for the Tyrells." As they'd grown older, Aylward had grown close to their liege lords. His father pressured him to make connections; the Tyrells, the Hightowers, the Oakhearts. But all Lorent saw was a line of lordlings between himself and his brother. He only saw himself being left behind.

"Yes, well, we Lords must do what's right for our subjects," Lorent said. As if Aylward couldn't possibly understand what pressures his brother was under. As if he hadn't nearly stood in Lorent's shoes. "And what's best is allowing Renly Baratheon to cross this bridge."

"And tomorrow, if the tide turns against our King..." Aylward trailed off. "I suppose you'd spare no thought to throwing your support behind another."

To Lorent's credit, he didn't deny it. "Aylward, I am sorry. You may not believe me, and I'd understand if you didn't. But not a day goes by that I don't remember what I did to you, that Wylla..."

He trailed off, but not before her name stung Aylward like a knife to the heart. Lorent let out a slow breath, realizing his mistake. "Wylla is dead because our father prevented Lord Crane from sending help." The knight's voice came out stilted. "All because the request was signed with my name."

"If Lady Oakheart–"

"Arwyn Oakheart was dying," Aylward reminded him. "So was her eldest son, and half of Old Oak, and her bastard granddaughter, my wife. What if the maester from Highgarden hadn't arrived in time? What if Lady Oakheart had died?"

"Father didn't know," Lorent said quietly. The brothers looked at each other in silence before Lord Caswell spoke again. "I burnt the letter. I was still a boy, still so foolish and naïve. I thought...I thought that if the Oakhearts died, you would come home. You would have to come home."

"You burned my letter," Aylward repeated incredulously.

"Wylla was never meant to die." Desperation had seeped into Lorent's tone, but Aylward wasn't listening. "I thought she'd come home with you. Father would have to allow it. Where else would you go? I was wrong, and I will never forgive myself for it."

Lorent put out a hand, as if to reach for Aylward. But the knight shrunk away, disgusted. "Neither will I."