Brynden I

Within the expansive godswood of Raventree Hall, Seat of House Blackwood of the Riverlands, everything seemed small compared to it.

The colossus weirwood could be seen for miles, and though it was said to be dead, it seemed as strong as it had ever been. Weirwood didn't rot, like other wood. It was as strong dead as before.

Brynden Rivers found himself in the godswood oft as not. Not for the spirituality one could derive from the holy place, but the peace. The quiet. The lack of the other children and all that came with them.

His sisters were pleasant enough when they were alone. Mya Rivers, dark of hair and eye, was the image of their mother, with a thin streak of silver that fell from the front of her brow. At an age of ten, three years Brynden's elder, he assumed her to be like many a young lady, sewing, singing, and playing court, her dresses never low enough to drag in the mud. When it was just the two of them, she sang to him sweetly and ran her fingers through his thin white hair, especially at nights to help him sleep. Nights were hard for Brynden, and it was a comfort when his eldest sibling could soothe him back after bouts of terror.

His sister Gwenys, who was nine, preferred the mud just inside the tall stone walls to the cobbled paths and slate walkways of the keep, playing more with the boys than the girls, throwing stones at guards and hiding behind the thick brambles of berry bushes near the western wall, snorting like a pig when she laughed. She had dark violet eyes, black in the shadows, and her brown hair was thin and straight like their father's. She had a strong jaw, stood tall and lanky, taller even then most of the boys. She had brought Brynden to the woods once to teach him the bow. Black Aly was her hero, and like all Blackwoods, she had learned archery very young.

After their family was sent from court, their mother did not want her to continue, but she was too bullheaded and willful to listen. When Brynden loosed his first arrow, Gwen said it flew true, but it didn't end up where he aimed. When he pouted, Gwen took him by the chin. "Until you quit, Bryn, you've never missed. For a first shot, at least it flew. Mine didn't even make it passed the notch. It just fell to my feet. Nearly pricked me." She pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocked, and loosed it. The arrow head buried dead center into a tree right in front of them. "We've more arrows, Bryn. Shoot until you've hit it. Only way you've missed is if you quit before you do." Brynden learned the value of practice and dedication that day. He kept loosing arrows until just before nightfall, when he finally hit the tree he meant to. Then, he hit it again to confirm it wasn't luck, and returned to the keep for supper. He was almost five.

But when his sisters were with the others, they weren't as pleasant. Being bastards, the trueborn Blackwoods would never let them forget, least of all Brynden. They were royal bastards, though, and Brynden thought that would matter. It didn't. Lord Ernest's four children, Mace, a boy of twelve, Alyssa, a girl of eleven, Cregan, a boy of eight, and Linda, a girl of seven, and their Uncle Rupert's four, Anabelle, a girl of ten, Brenton, a boy of nine, and the twin boys of eight Edward and Theodore, were always eager to tease them for it.

When they all played together, Brynden was the youngest. Mostly the boys and Gwen were in one group and the other girls were in another, but whenever by chance they were together, he was the baby, even younger than Linda. He didn't play with Linda much, but she would still remind him of the thirty-seven days she was his elder every time. She was a tiny thing, as gaunt as Brynden, but shorter, yet she held those days up as if they made her better. That, and whatever the gods had done to him to look the way he did.

The maesters gave him a word for it. He was albino, like the White Ravens that signified the coming of Winter. Just a lack of pigment, they said.

To the rest of the children, including his sisters when they were all together, he was a dead white tree with a blood raven perched on his shoulder. And it was more fun for them to make him nearly cry, than to do anything else in the world.

Brynden didn't blame them. He had studied the Stages of Human Life by Maester Ossifer, a rudimentary text in understanding each touchstone of a person's growth from infant to elder, which had taught him children often validate their own worth by finding themselves superior to others, as life is a competition after all, and even a child as young as six could know that.

Brynden had learned his letters early, pestering Maester Hopper until teaching him at five. Stages was one of the first he'd practice on, a jape the maester was playing on him Brynden didn't notice until he reached the page that spoke of learning letters. The book said that should begin at seven or eight. He laughed harder with Hopper that day than he had ever with the children. More than he could ever remember anyway.

So, in the godswood, alone with his thoughts or the pages of a book, an ant beneath the behemoth dead tree, its limbs like the arms of the old gods reaching out to the rest of Westeros, he felt happier than he ever could with his kin.

He feared touching it though, and only ever sat near it, not next to it. Its haggard face hauntingly familiar, lacking a life he'd seen on others, its expression neither dead or alive, but still present, as if its dark weeping red eyes followed him as he moved. But despite its appearance, he enjoyed its company. He's like me.

He sat down beside the black pool at its base, opening up the bound pages that were left of Septon Barth's Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History. When Baelor the Blessed ordered the work destroyed, going as far as sending armed envoys to every major house within reach of the capitol to oversee the destruction of all of the written works deemed unsuitable, Lord Horace, Ernest's father and Brynden's grandfather, forbade them to burn the section on Ravens.

"This is Raventree Hall, and if you mean to leave alive, you will not touch anything to do with our house. Not our banners. Not our birds. Not even the words 'bout our birds," he was remembered to have said. It was a nice story, but like the recordings of all history, Brynden imagined it to be a bit of fancy. A Blackwood Lord could say no such thing to a royal envoy and hope to be left unpunished. Most like, he had the pages hidden. When you burn the book of Dragons, no one looks for the Raven parts. He was glad they had saved it. Apparently, Ravens may have been able to talk with the first men.

The books made The First Men, which whom the Blackwoods claimed their own descendance, out to be lesser than Andals. Many works were evidence that they were not, including major structures throughout the realm said to be of First Men construction far superior to anything the Andals ever built, even the Citadel's own origins. Many books labeled the First Men as unlearned, unlettered savages, but according to Barth, they may have spoken with their birds.

I'm of both First Men and Valyrian blood. Not many could make that claim.

Brynden had reached the section where Barth conducted his own experiments, and thought he heard something rustling in the shrubbery behind his shoulder across from the tree. It was not uncommon to hear a critter rustling, so he made nothing of it, until it didn't stop.

Carefully, he placed the pages down, making sure not to fold or soil them. He rested them on the top of a bush, gently wedging the string bound work between two branches to keep a stray wind from sending them away. The pages were too big to carry and do anything with whatever he might find, so for just the moment, he left them, hoping they'd be safe.

When he reached the sound, he was surprised. A crow.

Ravens were much larger than crows, their beaks and bodies slightly different in shape as well. The color was the same, but not much else. But maybe their minds are similar, Brynden thought with a cautious smile.

This crow, though, was injured. Its right wing was crooked, bent away from its body unsettlingly. Brynden had always been curious of the grotesque and misshapen. There was a comfort and a thrill to see the world's oddities. Like me.

But he felt empathy for the bird, and wanted to help it. Like a knight swore, protect the helpless, he thought, taking off his black cloak to hold the bird in it. Without complaint, the bird allowed his aid, permitting Brynden to scoop it up with both hands under the cloak, and raised it up to inspect it.

Brynden wished to become a knight one day, and though his cousins would say it impossible as ugly as he was, he already knew more of knighthood than the lot of them would ever know. Lord Ernest was like as much to just knight them upon their seventeenth nameday out of custom than make them truly earn their spurs. They weren't even that good at swords.

Though the baby, Brynden would never lose in their practice bouts. He was not fast or strong enough to land any strikes of his own, but he was disciplined enough and patient to parry all attempts his cousins made, even from Mace, who found Brynden's tactics infuriating, striking harder and harder each time he was denied. They would all tire before he did, and then he would poke at them through their lazy defenses. That's why Heartless Harry nicknamed him, Ghost. "That's why you're as white as you are. Can't nobody hit a ghost."

Harry Justman, the Master at Arms at Raventree Hall, was of no such heraldry but liked the name and kept it all the same. He might as well have been Harry of the Two Stones East by South East of the last tree of the Wolfswood, for he was not anyone before leaving with Lord Horace to Dorne. But he seemed to be as fine a teacher of the sword as Brynden could ever hope for, and though he was reduced to having to request private lessons after the boys shunned him from regular practice in the yard, he had still advanced exponentially since beginning when he had just turned six.

The bird felt strangely comfortable in his hands, its warm feet heavier than he thought they'd be, shuffling in his palms as he walked to keep its balance. When he was halfway to the maester's chambers, he remembered the book. Gods be good. I can't just leave it there.

The book was too valuable to leave unattended, so he'd have to go back for it. I'll keep the crow in the cages of the Rookery until I can put the book back. One little bird shouldn't do any harm.

Though the ravens protested, cawing and pecking at the bars of their cages as soon as Brynden brought the stranger in, he was in too much of a hurry to pay any mind to it.

When he returned the book to its place in the Library, he quickly returned to the Rookery, hoping to find the bird in no worse shape than he'd found it.

"Come here, little chap," Brynden said to it, hoping a soothing voice would help calm it. While with the other birds, it seemed to have lost a few feathers and some molt around its beak. Whether from pecking at the usual residence through the cage, or something else, he could not tell, but he worried for the bird, and felt it needed immediate tending to.

Maester Hopper was otherwise occupied, teaching the girls history for the next half hour in the Great Hall's annex, and the boys were most like in the yard at this hour, hacking away at each other with their wooden practice swords and padded armor. That meant he had the halls of Raventree to himself, and would not have to worry about their prying eyes finding his new project.

Holding the crow gently in his white fingers, Brynden now comfortable enough to touch the bird with his hands bare, he brought it past the servant's quarters to his private chambers.

His mother, Melissa, or Missy, was as kind and gentle a mother could be, so beautiful he wondered how he could come of her womb, and had come to know his struggles with the other children, so, she had a private room constructed just outside the stables where he could be alone if he wished. Lord Ernest protested the idea at first, claiming it better for the boy to toughen up that to sequester himself, but Ernest would and always had eventually caved to his sister's whims, and had the room built anyway.

It was nothing but a shack, loose wooden construction without as much as mud to fill the cracks, causing any stray breeze to wheeze through like a whisper and any strong wind to scream through like a banshee. At first, Brynden was uncomfortable, imagining the sounds voices from the woods that once were, ghosts of the forest long cleared. Then, he found them a comfort, sometimes going as far as to converse with them, speaking of the mysteries of the world. At least they rarely disagreed with him.

He put housing together for the bird, taking a deep bureau drawer and removing its handle to allow air for the crow to breathe, and turned it upside down, which seemed good enough. He placed the crow down, who seemed oddly calm for the circumstances, and covered him with the drawer.

What does this bird need? He thought, trying to remember a page he'd read in the past that could offer some perspective. The maester feeds the ravens still living things, but the crow feeds upon the already dead. Maybe the butcher has a bone with some scraps. That should cheer up the little chap.

As he walked back from the kitchen with what was left of a boarhide the kitchen crew was preparing for a meal, he pondered the pages of Barth's Their Unnatural History, and the feasibility of testing his theories on his new friend.

After he's fed, mayhaps he'll be in a mood to talk? It would be nice to have someone to talk to that isn't paid by my Lord Uncle.

Though he had a kinship with Maester Hopper, he could sense most of their relationship was a forced kindness. That, or an elaborate experiment on albino bastards and their way in the world. For every time Brynden began to speak with the man about more than their lessons, Hopper would stop him, reminding him, "Focus on the teachings, Brynden. There's time enough for the rest once we're finished." When they would finish though, many times very quickly as Brynden found himself apt at nearly everything he put his mind to, the Maester would have another pressing responsibility to keep them from further fellowship.

When he returned to the room, he lifted the drawer hoping the crow didn't leave him too. It didn't, resting in the down Brynden had pulled from his mattress, curled into itself save its broken wing. Brynden lowered the bones to the bird and smiled to see its glossy black beak begin to peck loose strands of still wet meat and tissue.

"Of course, you'd be here," Brynden heard from behind him and hurriedly rushed the drawer back over his friend.

It was Mace Blackwood, storming through the doorless opening that led to his room. "I've a proposition for you," he said, as Brynden stood and slowly inched away from the drawer on the floor hoping his elder trueborn cousin would not notice it.

Stay quiet, my friend. He's like as much to squash you than to let you recover.

Mace was shorter than a boy should be at twelve, but what he lacked in height he made up for in a bit of weight. He wasn't slovenly, but the boy would never miss a meal and would only miss dessert when none was served. His face was round at the bottom, with a second neck waiting to sprout down from his fleshy chin. His shoulders were broad enough, but what filled out his frame was less muscle than meat, and though he could still run faster than any of the other children at Raventree, it was more likely because of his advanced age than his true speed. Brynden estimated he would be able to catch up to him in a year and four moons, but estimations were not always exact.

Brynden quickly studied his cousin as he stood there waiting for a reply. Half of his body was still dressed in the play armor they wore with Harry, and on his round face, his mouth twisted on the one side in the grin he'd make when he was pleased with himself.

"You're proposing I fight Brenton in the yard and if I win, you'll allow me back?" Brynden guessed, knowing full well if he accepted, some other manner of events would take place to potentially embarrass Brynden and entertain Mace. Once, he accepted, and when he walked into the yard, Cregan was waiting above the entrance with nightsoil to pour on him. That was the first time they tricked Brynden into coming. It was also the last.

"No, you pale idiot," Mace replied. "You've always bested him with your treachery before. I wouldn't trust you in a match with my true cousin."

"Then what brings you to me, Mace?"

"Eddy and Teddy against just you. If you win, you can train with us again."

Two swords to my one, Brynden thought. That's almost good enough odds to potentially trust the honesty of his proposal. Brynden knew Mace wouldn't just offer a chance at training with them without something in return if he were to fail, and Brynden wondered what Mace could want from him.

"And if I lose?"

"If you lose, we get to take turns with our swords on you until you never want to play them again."

"Why would I take this proposal? Surely, as a future Lord, you can understand the idea of value. What value does an uneven match have to me if my punishment for my probable loss to the twins is a bad beating you'll say I agreed to?"

"Because if you do win, you don't have to skulk around in the dark to practice and you can spend more time on the other things weirdos like you do."

"It actually behooves me to practice swords in the dark, for it is harder to read at night with just a tallow candle." And the exertion before it is time to retire helps ease me to sleep, Brynden thought silently.

"You wanna fight or not?" Mace asked, challenging Brynden in a way he knew would provoke him.

Teddy and Eddy are no experts, and it would be a bit of fun to tackle two opponents at once, Brynden thought, trying to piece out the hidden condition Mace had yet to announce. It would be nice to be in the yard with the boys again, even if they japed at me. Though not much the better to hear their mockery, it would be far less lonely. Maybe I could even get them to like me more.

"Fine," Brynden agreed. "I accept, upon the condition that there are no other aspects to this deal that I did not agree to. Upon the Old Gods, promise me your honesty, and I will accept your proposal."

Mace hobbled over to where Brynden had shuffled, paying no mind to the crow and the drawer, and shook Brynden's hand wordlessly. "Come on. The twins are waiting."

Brynden made sure to walk behind Mace as they entered the yard, fearing a potential betrayal from his eldest cousin. Though I made him promise, he is still of dubious honor and might still pull something.

They were all there. Brenton, Cregan, and the twins, who still had their padded armor on. Cregan, who may have liked Brynden the least, was a dark curly haired lanky lad with about as dark a soul. A second son, he cared less for what people would say of him than Mace did, and didn't mind an outward display of cruelty, even in front of the adults.

Speaking of adults, Brynden thought as Cregan approached seemingly innocuously, there seem to be none to witness this. Something is afoot.

"Your armor, cousin. Will you need aid in putting it on?" Cregan asked, too kind to be trusted.

"That is a nice gesture, but unnecessary," Brynden replied, taking the padding and belts from Cregan and beginning to strap them on himself. Cregan was named for the great Stark Lord of lore, yet Brynden was already as tall as his cousin, almost a year and a half younger, and was so much his superior in everything they had ever competed at, wondered if the name a curse more than a tribute. Cregan makes me think that either I can be exceptional with application and effort, or he will be truly ordinary. Or worse.

When he was ready, Mace threw him a practice sword. The leather handle felt comfortable in his grasp, and Brynden felt an unusual joy looking across at the twins. Eddy and Teddy were both smaller than him, dumber than him, and uncoordinated, especially together. Harry Justman privately told Brynden that he would have more use of a stiff wooden stump than both of them at the same time, for at least the stump would take time to cut down motionless. Brynden laughed out loud at that until Harry stopped him saying, "I'm serious, lad. If you face them, don't hurt them too badly. They'll say it's the bastard in you come out."

Mace handed the twins their swords and the rest of the boys cleared out. Teddy and Eddy had their backs to Brynden, who asked, "Can I start?"

"Yes," Mace replied, smiling confidently against the edge of the yard. "Boys, turn and face your cousin."

Teddy and Eddy turned with smiles just as confident as Mace, and as sinister, holding steel practice blades in their hands against his wooden.

"We just got our steel today, Bryn, and thought you'd like to see them."

"We did not agree to this," Brynden replied, his wooden sword at the ready, his eyes focused on the twins not four yards from him with much better weapons.

"My fingers were crossed when we shook hands," Mace admitted, raising his left hand with his index and middle fingers twisted together.

"Then the deal is off," Brynden turned to see the gate to the yard closing, Cregan and Brenten running through with each side of the gate behind them, until it slammed shut, and he heard the lock close.

"Doesn't mean you won't face them," Mace said, pointing to the twins as they stepped toward him, their form remarkably better than the few months it had been since he had been banned from their sessions together.

And Mace was right. He couldn't run from them. If he tried, he'd still have to face them, and he'd look a fool and a coward to have them chase him around the yard.

Brynden readied his stance, raised his wooden weapon, and studied the boys for an opening.

The trap was set perfectly. Mace knew Brynden's strategy was to parry and block his opponents until they would tire. With a wooden sword against steel, that would not work at all.

He needed to take advantage of his own lessons. The strength he had built in his own time with Justman.

Teddy approached to his left, and Eddy to his right, their stupid matching faces slobbering with matching looks, their tongues both out as they did when they concentrated. Teddy raised his sword first, meaning to hack hard at Brynden. Where the boys' weapons were stronger, they were heavier too, and for his first day with a steel sword, Teddy couldn't move faster than a worm. The blade came down in a lazy overhand slash, and Brynden twirled his back foot away, avoiding the blade as Teddy's follow through continued to the ground.

As the steel bounced off of the dirt, Brynden knew he'd have no better chance. The boys didn't wear any type of helms and he was in real danger. Brynden volleyed a vicious barrage of hard strikes to Teddy's head, making sure to hit the hardest part of the skull as to not kill him accidentally. As soon as he fell, Brynden stopped, hoping not to truly injure the boy, and looked for Eddy.

The standing twin's face was almost as white as Brynden's, aghast at what he'd just seen. The heavy steel in his hand limped next to his awkward body, his brown eyes and wide lips trembling. They call me a monster. I'll be the monster.

Brynden twisted his brow, stared deep into Eddy's eyes with his blood red glare, and roared, "Ahhh!," raising his wooden sword and stepping to the boy to scare him away.

It worked, and little Eddy ran screaming in fear. Mace was silent, and Brynden made sure to pick up Teddy's fallen practice sword before turning to address him.

"If you'd like, I'm still fresh enough to face yourself." Though he stood shorter than his elder cousin, Brynden felt huge. Like the White Dead Tree of the Godswood.

Mace turned and climbed out of the yard wall, yelling for an attendant. He would just tattle on Brynden, and try to shift the blame of the situation onto the bastard, as he always did. The only thing that Brynden feared was his mother's reaction.

In truth, though, what else could he do? Steel to wood, he could have been killed. But a monster need not fear children. So, it was a monster he chose to become.