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Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red

Brynden

"Bloody hell," someone murmured.

"Already there," someone else said cynically and sent an arrow ahead.

Maybe next time, we should start shooting fire arrows, Brynden thought and strained to see what lay ahead. It was almost sunset and the light didn't hurt his eyes so much.

We're too far ahead, he now realized. For a moment, a sense of cold foreboding overcame him but he chased it away. No doubt Maekar had sent patrols to try and reach them, consolidate their efforts. The thing was, in this broken ground it was too easy to lose one's sense of distance. The patrols had no doubt tried and failed to get in touch. The darker it got, the more unlikely it became that they would succeed.

Maybe Maekar has better luck than I do, Brynden thought. Somehow, they had gotten themselves surrounded on three sides. Brynden did not have the time to investigate whose wretched fool's fault it was. And it didn't matter anyway. He was the wretched fool who had let it happen. His Raven's Teeth trusted him and only him, followed him everywhere without asking questions and he had brought them into the heart of the bloody hell. He shot an arrow and fell someone far ahead. But it couldn't go on forever. For now, they held their own but what would happen when the sun fully set, when darkness made them miss their target? He shot again and checked Dark Sister on his hip. They are not taking me alive, he thought without too much sentiment. And it wasn't as if he'd be mourned too much – the sorcerer, the marked one, the one with eyes no human should have. His mother was long dead. Maybe Shiera would weep for him for a while before she took another to her bed. He liked to think that she would. He was delusional, of course.

They were retreating little by little. Brynden strained to see who the enemy commander was but he could not see him anywhere. It was not Fireball, though – had Brynden been in the enemy's position, he would have had the Raven's Teeth already massacred, no matter the casualties. The Raven's Teeth were just too strong an enemy to be given a chance to retreat and escape. And Fireball was the one who had taught Brynden.

He was ready to die today if he must, yet he knew it wouldn't happen. The day was coming – the day of the final battle. The day Daemon Blackfyre would die. The day Brynden and Aegor would fight each other to the bitter end. Brynden knew it, felt it in the marrow of his bones. Even the crow felt it.

Not that it was a great comfort right now. He shot again and missed. Cursed. Around him, his archers started muttering as they, too, started missing. The patrols he had sent ahead returned with the news that the charge was led by Lord Sunderland… and that Fireball was dead, shot in front of a tavern this very evening.

"Good," Brynden said. For a moment, he wondered whether it was possible that they had peace now when Fireball was dead. Aegor's influence over Daemon was considerable but Fireball's death had deprived him of an ally. And in the past, Daemon had been quite fond of Daeron, although he had always considered himself his better because of his martial prowess. Brynden shook his head. What, was he turning into Baelor the Blessed now? They were in the eve of a bloody battle. With everyone gathering to help one side or the other. Daemon couldn't turn back, even if he wanted to. And Brynden had one imperative: getting as many of his men alive as he could, so they could enter the fight tomorrow with renewed energy.

"We're retreating," he said. "Hurry up!"

They headed for the only direction that was free. They didn't know where it led, didn't know whether the traitors wouldn't be waiting for them – but they were coming upon them from the three other sides, so they had no other choice. Under the protective shooting of three of his best archers, everyone started to leave. Brynden and Ser Hernaut the Fast waited.

"Come on, Giar," Brynden said when the second archer showed no intention of leaving his place in the tree. There was no time. He could say that there was someone watching them, although he couldn't see them.

"Come on," the Raven's Teeth started.

The young man shook his head. There was blood pouring down his leg from the skirmish earlier this day. An arrow in his chest stuck out ominously. Brynden saw that he needed a maester, urgently. Besides losing too much blood from the leg wound, he would surely die the moment they pulled the arrow out if there wasn't someone who knew how to heal nearby.

"You go," Giar said. The blood glistened black on the light of the rising moon. "I'll stay."

The moon was now giving him a better view. He aimed and shot. Brynden realized that to him, they no longer existed.

"Come on," he said.

As they were retreating under the protective whizzing of the arrows, Brynden tried to remember where Giar had come from. He couldn't come up with anything. Probably, he had never thought to ask, never taken any interest. And now, he might never know, for Giar was a dead man for sure. He stared right ahead and cursed Aegor and Daemon – definitely not under his breath.

They had to die for making the Seven Kingdoms bleed. That was the only way to end this war. The only road to peace.

Far away in the Red Keep, Shiera Seastar closed her eyes and the image in her mirror blurred. She pinched her forehead and thought of making a potion to help her headache. Her restless fingers were itching for yet another task and started working with familiar mastery, yet when she was done and brought the potion to her lips, she frowned at the taste and realized that it was not for drinking. It was the concoction she gave Brynden every night to soothe his sensitive skin that always caught some sun despite his cloak and hood.

She bit her lip. How dejected he had looked in the mirror. How tired. The sun had hurt his skin already. And he had been so close to death. If she knew how, she would make a death spell to Daemon, so it would be over – the threat for Daeron, the threat for the kingdom, the threat for Brynden whom she kept seeing falling down on the battlefield, his face swimming in blood. At this moment, she always cried out and woke up trembling, so she never saw whether he died.

No. She would not think this way. He wouldn't want her to. Instead, she focused on the good moments between the two of them, of the lean arms holding her, the birthmark she loved to lean her cheek against, the red eyes softening for her alone.

"Just a few weeks, a month at most, my love," she whispered. "An eternity, indeed, yet it is so short, almost nothing."

And then, she realized what she had said. Tears came to her eyes and she let them fall. "Oh yes, Brynden Rivers, I do love you. You'll never have cause to doubt it again."