Aegor I

"Come now, Aegor, this is not meant to be a pleasure," Septon Hatten barked from atop his brown steed. The Brackens were horse men, and even the Septon would be atop one most days. Theirs was an ambitious house, always moving, always riding, never stagnant. Their house's words, "Ready for the Charge," were an ever-ready idiom each Lord used until the sentiment properly applied, or explained the phrase in a way it could be.

They wish me to be ready to shovel shit, Aegor thought, a strong boy of nearly eleven, whose punishment for his most recent defiance was to clean the stables, and at Stone Hedge, seat of House Bracken, the stables were the biggest single structure within the stone walls of the keep. I'll be ankle deep in horse shit all day, listening to this bloody Septon. And then I'll have to clean up after the steeds.

"The Father instructs us to obey. It is our duty as servants of the seven to listen to our superiors and heed their requests."

"The Stranger instructs you to die," Aegor said under his breath, as he lifted a pierced pile of hay and dung.

"What was that young man?"

Aegor ignored him. The man was nothing. He was an ass among horses, yammering on about how the gods this and the gods that, always saying the gods almost breathlessly, as if he were to utter the words normally the gods would smite him.

Shoveling shit was always his punishment, and he was always the one punished, for everything his house did. Even when he was just a suckling babe.

If it wasn't for Aegor's grandsire Lord Benedict Bracken, and his actions as Hand, Aegor would have been raised in the Red Keep, with access to his father, who was King.

And if it wasn't for his lecherous Aunt Bethany, Aegor would have been allowed to return.

It was his kin that had betrayed his house, and it seemed it was always him that took the brunt of the punishment.

"Good, now, don't miss the corner," the Septon preached above his head while he mindlessly poked with his pitchfork and threw. Poke and throw. Poke and throw.

He daydreamed about knighthood, about tourneys and maidens, raiders and brigands, a blade and a shield, and the sweet taste of justice.

And for his enemies, the bitter taste of steel.

It was his Aunt Bethany's actions, but more his Lord Grandsire's wishes, to regain royal favor, the lands, and the income that accompanied them.

She was but a maid of six-and-ten, the age it seemed his father preferred, and when she was brought to court, she had left her wits at Stone Hedge.

Those of the keep would say his mother, Barba, had left hers in King's Landing, for back then, the King was not as slovenly, and her love for him was said to be true. When her father's incessant pressing for Barba to become Queen, while the Queen Naerys teetered between life and death, became far too public and far too offensive, the entire house was dismissed from court, and she had never been herself since.

Oft as not, she was so deep in her cups, her words were unintelligible, and of late, she had become fond of Milk of the Poppy for no other reason than its effects, as her pain was not of a physical tangible sort. Her scars still bled from within, and those wounds only opened harsher when her younger sister had caught King Aegon's eye.

Aegor wondered what his mother thought of her sister Bethany's execution. She was in no state to expound upon her feelings herself.

With each poke and throw, he could feel his arms tightening. At least I'll make good use of the time building my strength. 'Tis not a punishment, but necessary training for the yard. Aegor wished upon all the gods and the stars for a Master at Arms at Stone Hedge. Since the execution, they could barely afford to keep Wilson Toppen, their Master of Horses, and barely paid their knew Head of the Guard, Itwick Moss, who might as well have been a farmer for all his experience. He wasn't even a knight, but he was all they could afford.

Lord Hawthorne was too old to teach Aegor combat, and of all the other men of House Bracken, only Declin, a boy of twelve, Lord Hawthorne's sister's grandson, was even interested.

Once, Aegor had approached the boy, for they were kept apart for most of their days, and asked to train with him. "There's practice swords we could use, and I promise not to hurt you none."

The older boy scowled at Aegor, a look he too often received, and replied simply, "I'm not to be congregating with a bastard like you."

Aegor took to training himself, doing whatever it was he could to improve.

"You're missing the spots, there, and there," the Septon ordered, pointing his pathetically bony fingers to the spots he meant for Aegor to revisit. "You must not be focusing on the task at hand. The Smith instructs us to remain within the task, as to give it it's proper due."

"How's this proper doo?" Aegor couldn't control himself. Some called it the bastard in him, but he poked and threw a hunking heap of shit at the Septon. It covered his robes and nearly shook his horse into a rear, but once the horse's legs stopped prancing in place, Aegor was able to revel in the browned face of Septon Hatten.

Hatten's unkempt brow furrowed in fury, flexing the only defined muscles of the man's entire form. His dark round eyes almost reddened, squinting and seething through the caked shit on his face. He hesitated to speak, likely fearing a mouthful of shit, and Aegor couldn't contain his amusement.

He laughed, Oh Gods is this funny!

He laughed harder than he should have, thinking of the thoughts that weighed him down each day, the sins of his kin, the state of his birth, Bastard, Bastard, BASTARD!

He was but nearly eleven, still a boy of ten until two moons turn. I've done nothing but pranks and outbursts! I'm not the cause of our House's woe!

He began to cry, uncontrollably. Aegor dropped the pitchfork, sobbing, and struggled to say, "Septon, I'm sorry!" He approached the Septon, clawing at some of the caked on dung he'd just thrown, trying to undo what he had done. It was funny, but it was done in anger. In pain.

He was just a boy of nearly eleven.

Every moment of his life was a punishment. Even when he was being good. He found it hard to continue to "be good" when it only ever led to the same chastising, neglect, blaming, and hatred eventually.

They were all just waiting for the bastard to come out.

And as a boy of nearly eleven, it always did, eventually.

"I just want to train in the yard, and grow up like all the other boys. I want to be a knight and do good. I don't want to be bad. I'm sorry Septon."

As Aegor tried to clean him, Hatten kicked him away. "Enough of your mummer's show to fool me, young man. I know your kind and I know their tricks. You throw . . . that," the Septon nearly cussed, which almost brought a smile back to Aegor's sullen face, "at me and then wish for instant absolution. Lies, deceit. Just more treachery!"

Aegor was thankful only that the Septon refused to call him a bastard. He always referred to him as a young man, and that was the only shred of dignity Aegor Rivers was allotted in Stone Hedge.

But every word after Aegor's breakdown was more weight on the young boy's shoulders. He was just a boy of nearly eleven, but he could never be sorry. Even when he was, he was accused of being false.

The boy straightened his face, swallowing his pain with a bitter gulp, knowing he would never be afforded the chance at sorrow or weakness.

"I was sorry, for that pile," he said, forcing a wicked smile to his face. "But not for this one," he heaved another hunk, fleeing from the enraged Septon to his horse in its stall, mounting her bareback, and riding away as fast as he could. He didn't want the Septon to see him crying again.

He knew not how bad his punishment would be, but it couldn't be much worse than all the others. Lord Bracken wouldn't sentence him to die, and if he had him whipped or punished corprally, the King could have his head or hands for the beating. He sank his chest down into Freedom's mane, the tickling coarse black hairs flowing by him in the wind as she galloped. Aegor named her for the feeling he felt when he sat her, whether in her saddle, or even just on her bare back, as the two had become accustomed to each other to allow.

She must have felt his needs, and ran wildly through the fields to the main gate. It would be open for midday, for there was no need to have them closed with no wars and no brigands on the roads of late.

So, he let his horse take him away. From the punishment of shoveling shit for his House, and the weight his nearly eleven-year-old shoulders found hard to continue to bear.

Itwick Moss was waiting for him at the gate, upon his own brown and black stot, a worthless patched horse they could not sell easily to one lord or another, except maybe to the Darkwoods or Darrys to carry wares for a squire. He means to send me back to the stables with Hatten's shit and the horses.

Let's give him and that horse of his a good workout, for once. Let him earn his keep.

Instead of reigning Freedom into a halt, he tugged at her mane gently to pull her into a rear, pivoting back to where he'd came.

"Rivers!," Itwick shouted atop his horse. "Cease this." Moss was a man of fewer words than most, but "Rivers" was consistently shouted from his mouth as if it were his call to arms.

Within the walls of Stone Hedge, the lands and keep were meager at best, but there was still room enough to lose the likes of Moss, and if he took care in the route he chose, maybe he could pull enough of what little guards they had away from the gate to escape.

He kicked into Freedom, feeling her gait shift from slow run to a gallop, and he leaned into her as they picked up speed, vaulting over the small fences that separated the turnip plants from the flowers, trampling over as little as possible, while still keeping Itwick in their trail of dirt and dust.

Servants and attendants fled from their raging path. They probably are remarking, "There goes the bastard again. What has he done this time?"

But for once, he did not care of their thoughts. He did not care of his punishment. He just wanted to feel the air through his dark hair, the wind's kiss against his face, and his horse's rhythmic motion under him as they fled from the new guard and his mismatched stot.

There's no way he can catch you, girl. Not with his seat. Not with that horse.

Though his name would ever be Rivers, Aegor rode like a Bracken, and Itwick, like moss.

The Septon had trailed him, shit still caked on some of his face, and began to follow in the chase, though, he looked as if he would more likely fall off than catch them. Aegor looked back after Freedom leapt over a bramble of berry bushes, and made his way back to where the stable was on the property. There, we'll have room to run.

The air was brisk in the wind, like the coolness of a breeze off the water, and Aegor found himself lost in his imaginings. If they send me to the wall, I'll be a ranger, fighting back the wildling scourge as they encroach upon the kingdom. Aegor pretended a sword was in his grasp, Itwick and the Septon his less savory brothers of the Watch, and in front of him, the Giant's King atop his mammoth.

He charged, fearing nothing in his mind's world, for Ser Aegor Rivers was a knight of great esteem, and a general of the Kingdoms under his Royal Father's Rule.

He sat straight on the horse's back, the great imaginary sword in his hand, Valyrian Steel made just for him, Dragon's Hoof, for he was just making it up then, and he slashed through the mammoth's leg, toppling the great beast onto the Giant King and saving the realm from the true monster.

Aegor regained his seat, almost losing it and landing on his back when he swung his arm, but felt exhilarated by the rush from the near fall. Behind him, he could hear Itwick yelling, "Stop!"

"Stop, Bastard!"

If you asked nicely, you big twit, maybe I would have. Now. . . . now, I'm not going to ever stop.

He charged the Dornish. With only the Septon Knight and Ser Buffoon behind him, it was an unlikely victory, but against a sea of Dornish atop the sand and their sand steeds, a whole battalion of them, dark skinned and snarling beneath their twisted beards with sharpened fangs, he knew he could not flee. We Brackens are Ready for the Charge!

"For Westeros!" He chanted aloud raising Dragon's Hoof to the gods to summon the charge. He wondered what his pursuers thought of his game, but quickly returned to it, not really caring.

Slashing back and forth, he cut his way through the Dornish like Aemon the Dragonknight, striking down even a few scorpions on the way. "Back, I say!" he ordered to them as they leapt from the sand, but when he looked up, the green grass before him ended in a fence too tall for Freedom to jump. He returned in his mind to Stone Hedge, and pulled Freedom left.

When he turned, Itwick and the Septon looked to be charging him.

Turncloaks, eh? For the Realm!

It was no surprise to see the Septon Knight switch sides, for Aegor always mistrusted the faith, but for Moss to have turned? He didn't respect the skill of the Buffoon, but he hadn't taken him for an oath breaker.

No matter. I'll take them both down with Dragon's Hoof.

He charged again, the imaginary sword poised in his hand.

"Young Man! Stop it. Stop it now!" The Septon screeched, veering away almost instantly in fear of crashing his horse into Freedom.

Itwick was not so easily moved.

"What are you doing, Bastard. Stop. Stop," Itwick ordered, still without ever pulling his sword from its sheath.

Pity, Itwick. It would be dishonorable to cut down an unarmed man. But this is war.

For the Realm!

Aegor kept Freedom's line, nearly crashing headlong into Itwick's stot, the brown and black darting away just enough at the last moment, as Aegor swung Dragon's Hoof across at the turncloak.

Freedom nearly stumbled, as each horse brushed against the others' hip, and the slight jolt rocked Aegor from his horse's bareback to the mud floor of the outer ward that bordered the stables. He fell and sunk with a thunk. It didn't hurt as bad as he thought it would, falling in fear and sadness, but the mud was thick, and caked around him, leaving him feeling like the Septon must have.

At least it isn't shit. The mud was cool and calm, and he just stayed in it, still and patient for his punishment.

When Itwick slid down from his horse, he mumbled, "Fucking bastard," to himself, thinking Aegor couldn't hear. The man was as dull as he was inexperienced, and Aegor held back every tear, despite how bad the word hurt him.

Aegor had to be strong. Though he was only a boy of nearly eleven, he had to be grown. There was no room for weakness in the heart of a bastard, and there would be no one there to comfort him.

For it was only himself that he had in this world.

"Why must I bathe and dress before another punishment?" Aegor asked Nestor Hobbspott, the eldest servant of House Bracken's paltry staff.

"You think I'm told of why I'm summoned to say the things I say? I know not what most of these nitwits' names are since Lord Bosston died before the war with Dorne." When she smiled, Aegor drank it in. The Brackens thought it a punishment to the mouthy old hag to force the bastard upon her, hoping she would resign her lifelong position, as no one had the heart to send her away, but no one had the stomach to stand her.

Aegor did, though. He enjoyed her.

"I'd say the bathing and the dressing and the show of it all part of the punishment. Better you just shut your mouth a year or two and they might forget you're here and leave you be for once."

Aegor felt it best to start that instant. He sealed his lips and hoped he'd never have to open them.

"Is it true you threw horse shit at the Septon?" she asked, her face as bright with a smile as her skin was spotted by age.

This would be worth opening them, though. "Yes. Twice," he held back his laugh but couldn't hide his grin.

"Well," she said, laying out the breeches and tunic he was to wear on his cot. "That man's so full of it already, I don't see what the issue is with a little more."

They laughed together, and for a moment, Aegor smiled true.

When he was dressed, Itwick Moss accompanied him to the Main Hall, where Lord Benedict was holding an impromptu court, inviting the family that was there to witness his sentence. The Septon was notably absent, which was odd, as Hatten would usually take ten to forty minutes for a structured sermon on Aegor's behavior and how it could further teach the value of The Seven in their lives.

He looked around and all were there. His mother. His cousins. His aunt, the living one anyway. Even Declin.

The Hall was draped with Banners, the Red Stallion rearing proudly, which was unusual with no public event. Lord Benedict sat atop the Saddle, the Seat of the Great Hall of Stone Hedge, and was dressed far better than would be expected of a simple punishment, even if it was public.

They must be really cross with me.

When Itwick reached the Saddle steps, he turned and faced Aegor, standing sentry at the foot of his Lord. He was big enough for a guard, but blundering, clumsy, and visibly unfit for his duty. If Aegor attacked him in that moment, he would be too slow to respond, hoping only to overpower the nearly eleven-year-old with his size. He wore a sword, but Aegor had never seen him hold it.

And for all his gruff and growling snarls, he seemed harmless, even to a young boy like Aegor.

"Master Aegor," Lord Benedict began. He sounded official, speaking in his serious voice. He only used his serious voice in front of company. They must be really really cross. Aegor was nervous. Would they send me away? To Old Town or The Watch?

"House Bracken has been hit with tough times, maybe the toughest in the long line of our Noble House. As descendants of River Kings of Old, Masters of the Horse, and Sovereign over All The Lands in our domain, we have a long and proud history we must needs restore to its former glory."

Aegor knew not what any of what Lord Benedict said had to do with throwing shit at the Septon. He was but a boy of nearly eleven, and understood not about the dealings of Lords in court. He was confused, but listened on edge to every word, waiting in increasing fear of his punishment.

Going on like this, he may indeed kill me.

"As both a descendant of our Noble house, and blood of the King himself, it is you, Aegor Rivers, that is in a unique position. A unique position indeed. Do you know why it is we have treated you so harshly? Do you understand the importance of your proper grooming?"

What grooming? You've only ever used me to excise the guilt of your wrong doings.

His grandsire continued in his serious voice, "Do you Aegor?"

"No. Why?" he said angrily.

"Because we always knew this day would come. It is far too late, but it has come all the same."

"And what day is that?" Aegor asked, growing equally afraid as he was becoming impatient.

"What we ask of our family, of the members of House Bracken, is that we stay 'Ready for the Charge.' For you, my grandson," he never called me that before, "I ask, are you ready?"

"Ready for what, my Lord?"

He paused, as if to add more to the performance. Aegor knew not what was happening, but every bit of his nearly eleven-year-old body wished it would end immediately. "King Aegon IV has called all of his children to court. House Bracken's day in the sun may finally again be upon us. With all that has transpired, we are due a boon, and if you are able to behave and rise in service of the King, mayhaps we can once again be restored to the full glory of our great house."

The weight of his house was once thrust upon his mother's teats. Then, later, on his aunt's honor.

That weight was too much for each.

It would be up to Aegor now, a boy of nearly eleven, to shoulder that weight too much for his forebearers.

"You've wide shoulders," his mother would sometimes remark in her stupor.

Lord Benedict would butt in when he heard, "Yes. Indeed. Bracken shoulders."

But mine aren't Bracken broad. They'd crumble.

I'm Targaryen, and I'll handle the weight.