Brynden II
"This is not the way of House Blackwood, and as the bastard, you must choose if you want to remain part of this House, for without our name, it is our decency that has kept you here. And it will be your own decency that continues to earn your place."
It was an empty threat, which even at seven Brynden knew, but it still hurt to hear, as Lord Ernest looked down on him from his high seat and Mace pantomimed his lord father's words as he spoke them standing off to his side.
Brynden was just, as Harry tried to explain. Though Mace had presented the match and outcome as the bastard's doing, the trueborn Blackwood boy could not explain away the discrepancy in their weaponry.
"My Lord, 'tis Mace trying to make a fool of the boy, and maim him. Them swords aren't sharp, but they're hard. Two to his one? Steel to his wood? This don't sound like it was his idea. Sounds like the trick was on him."
Brynden had never smiled more. He held it back, as if to give his Lord Uncle the respect he was born to. Ernest Blackwood may not have earned Brynden's respect, but by the customs of the Kingdom of Westeros, his respect was due. So, the boy held his face the best he could, but he felt pride well within him, and knew regardless the outcome, he had the right of it.
His cousin Mace replied, feeling the argument shifting. "He's always bested the twins, that's why he let them use the steel. Its unnatural that he can beat us the way he does. It was sorcery. Treachery. It was the bastard, and it was as it has always been."
"Silence, Mace. Regardless of how all this began," Lord Ernest said, refusing to address the ridiculousness of his son's accusations, "it is how this situation ended that is the concern. Boys will play and fight and do all manner of things with their cousins, and that is not the issue. The issue, is the savage nature that you, Brynden," he said his name with a venom Brynden hadn't ever heard from his uncle. "Attacked the boy. Ser Rupert wished you sent away, as this is not the first time you've hurt him."
Brynden had once defended himself from a surprise attack in the halls. Three of them, the twins and Cregan, snuck behind him while he was reading and walking, a pastime Maester Hopper warned against, fearing the boy would be unawares. He was right. Cregan and Edward were holding Brynden's arms, and they were going to let Teddy punish Brynden for the beating he gave the twin in the yard that morning. Brynden kicked the boy's front knee on its side, bending it in a way unnatural, and it left the boy hobbling for weeks. After Brynden hurt Teddy, the three of them left, abandoning their attack knowing the punishment dealt by their father and uncle would be far more severe than the beating they would be able to administer themselves.
"I am sorry, my Lord. I was frightened and wanted the threat to be stopped as quickly as I could to avoid serious harm." As Brynden spoke, he felt hot, like the eyes of his uncle were burning him. A cold sweat began to bead on his brow, and he wondered if he was more nervous than he realized.
"You were so frightened you managed to scream Edward away without another swing of your sword. That doesn't sound like a boy who's frightened to me," Lord Ernest continued. "If you are to be a member of this House, and live in this Hall, you will . . .," he began to say before being interrupted.
Maester Hopper burst into the Great Hall, pulling up his gray robe as he made his way quickly to the dais Lord Ernest sat. "My Lord," he announced as he approached.
"What is it, Maester?"
"The Ravens," he began.
Brynden felt another rush of sudden heat in his head, then a cool. He began to sweat from his arms and the back of his neck, and his head began to pound like Teddy's must have.
"What is it, man?" Lord Ernest asked as the maester caught his breath, their Lord visibly impatient and likely ornery from both the matter that was interrupted and the interruption itself.
"The Ravens have all dropped dead. They're all dead."
Brynden grew even hotter, and colder. He knew what had happened. "My Lord," he whispered, his voice dampened by the guilt.
Lord Ernest was flustered to the point that spittle sprayed from his mouth as he screamed, "What is it, lad?!"
"There was a crow," Brynden began, both frightful of his uncle's reaction and suddenly oddly ill.
"A crow?" the maester asked puzzled, cocking his head like the birds would.
"Its wing had broke. It was in the godswood. I had Barth's History, and I needed to return it," Brynden began babbling, trying to explain what he had just puzzled out to the adults. A strange warmth flowed over his mind and a stinging pain sunk deep into him as he imagined his role in the death of the birds, all from an act of kindness.
"What are you saying boy?"
"I left the crow in the Rookery when I returned the book to the Library. I put the book back and got the bird and brought it to my shack to heal."
"Crows are filthy disgusting creatures, boy. You know the difference between ravens and crows. What were you thinking bringing a thing like that to the Rookery?" the maester said with contempt, likely mourning for the birds he so cared for, and taking his despair out on the seven-year-old.
"I . . . I . . .," Brynden stammered, succumbing to the overwhelming emotions and the sudden fever. "I just wanted to help it."
Brynden's lower lip trembled, his white face flushed paler, and he saw his vision fade to white. The faint buzz of a bell rang as he slipped further from white to black.
Brynden couldn't see it clearly, but he could feel its thick cool presence swilling around him as his chest rose and fell with his breath. When he raised his arm, ripples reflected the dim white light of a distant flicker, just enough for him to see the vastness of the still water that filled the black.
The water itself, as vast as any sea, but as still as death, was blacker than a crow, and thicker than blood.
It was up to his ribs, cool, gentle. He could feel his nervous heart pulse inside him. He could hear it. Its rhythm equally calming and terrifying, like the slow drip he began to hear in the distance, but couldn't see.
He gazed upon himself, his skin blank white, though it was a smoke gray in the darkness. His black cloak floated in the water like it had life of its own, like the vast void gave it meaning. It flowed despite the liquid's stillness, a phantasm, a shadow, a presence.
Brynden let it slip, and the cloak floated to the top of the water. Its shoulders grew feathers, black, thin feathers. They were sharp, to look at them, like needles and blades, wet with a thick viscous sludge that shaped the cloak further fouler.
It balled into itself, flapping and cawing. The crow.
Its molt continued after he had left it to the drawer. Its wing looked further bent, snapping up and down once it was formed. The breaking of its bones echoed in the vast void, and the darkness was that much the more foreboding. An eerie silence followed each echo, and it was as if the nature of the world was suspended.
The crow gathered itself, standing atop the water as if it were thick enough to climb. It cocked its head and looked into Brynden. It spoke, saying
Are you the crow?
A horrible rumble from beneath the black pool's silt bottom sent shivers from Brynden's toes to his spine. The boy tried to run, but the silt sucked him down, as if it had life of its own, and a will.
The shakes trembled stronger, and from beneath him sprouted a great white tree. A brightness spread from the cracks in the ground, and the crow took flight.
Brynden looked down.
He was the tree. He was sure a crimson raven was perched on his shoulder, leaving the smear of its blood shadow on his cheek and neck.
A face etched into his bark, grotesque, ghastly, a root protruding from its weeping red eye. Its mouth opened, its bark frayed, and its roots became all a tangle with the form of its carved face.
"A crow . . . aye, once," the face in his bark replied.
Light flashed his vision, and the world beneath became an orb.
The vast pool became a vast expanse, speckled only by the shining diamonds that twinkled to help him see. A burning and a cold he could barely fathom fought for control of his skin, while his eyes were fixed on the orb that rushed up at him, faster than even a diving falcon.
The Known World rose to meet him, as if he were naught but the sky, and he imagined seeing all manner of things as he plummeted in a way one could never quantify with the words of mortals. Everything and nothing was all around, even within, and it seemed if for but that moment, that long, cold, hot moment, Brynden was more than man.
White.
Black.
An old woman, older than he thought could still live, needled. Click clack, click clack. She wove her web of yarn, and her aged face warned with a fervor, "Don't listen to it. Crows are all liars."
The crow swooped through the air of his sight, and what he saw vanished like it was mere vapor, dissipating in the rush of the beating wings of the black bird.
It pecked at him, as he began to fall again.
Are you a crow?
Everywhere was once again below, as the black cold void around him rushed by. His face was tight in the whipping air, pushed against his skull, his eyes squinting from the speed he fell, full of tears.
He was as frightened as he had ever been.
Will you fly?
"Boy, look at me!" Maester Hopper screamed. Brynden opened his sore eyes, his body hurting from deep within, both frigid and burning, damp with sweat, and desperate.
He tried to respond, but his mouth was as dry as sand, and his throat stung when it moved.
"You must drink this, you're in a fit. Relax now boy. The crow is gone. We won't kill you," he reached out a spoon of some elixir, and Brynden struggled to swallow it through the pain in his neck. "You're not falling, boy. You're here. All's well, Brynden. You must recover."
He stood up and walked quickly to the godswood. He stood before the tree, that big beautifully disgusting tree. Its face, like the face that grew into his bark. Familiar, hauntingly familiar.
A false bravado filled him, urging his arm towards it. His white hand could feel a pulsing from within it.
It lives.
And he wanted to embrace his likeness. He wanted to feel the smooth white bark, hard and cold.
It isn't dead.
Is it?
Its red eyes wept thick black sap. More from the eye with the branch in it. When his fingertips reached it, he felt the rush of a horrible knowledge, and an instant fear flew threw him. Black like the dark wings of a crow.
He jerked away, as if to run, but the tree would not allow it. Thin, hairlike vines sprouted up from the ground and out from its bark, slowly slithering up and around him. The hard, cold, tips of its roots ran up his legs and coiled around the hand that touched it, firmly planted against its bark and held in place with an impossible force. They grew, spread, circled him until he was naught but an eye and a mouth to speak.
The crow landed on the branch from his eye.
"Are you a crow?"
No.
Brynden thought helplessly.
I'm a Raven.
It cawed, and lunged to peck at his one eye.
He woke, again sweating, but less sore. Less warm. Less cold.
His fever broke.
"You're awake," his mother exclaimed softly. In her whisper, there was a sincere excitement. His hand was in hers, as he still laid in the bed in his shack. A stiff breeze whistled through. A smooth-sounding gale sung sweetly. He was glad to be rid of the dream.
His sisters were already on their way down the Kingsroad to the capitol, as all of Aegon IV's bastards had been officially called to court. His mother was saddened, wishing it appropriate to join them, and although she had done nothing to bring ill favor towards her or her house from the king, it didn't mean she was still in his favor, so she was instructed to remain at Raventree Hall.
Brynden's sickness kept him from departing with his sisters and their escort, but that was only three days ago, and he and another rider could reach the party if they were to make their way with haste. Brynden was natural atop a horse, and thought it could be fun to race through the remnants of the wood, running from the rest of the wretched Blackwood brood and towards a hopeful future. It does mean something to be a royal bastard after all. Brynden only wished that his mother could join them. He had never been a day without her to comfort him.
Heartless Harry stayed to wait for Brynden. "I knew he'd wake up. A day later than I thought, but we'll reach the party before Ivy Inn. A few hard days of riding and we'll rest in a bed. Maybe I'll let the lad have a sip of my ale."
They'd travel past the Gods Eye on the Kingsroad, but not near enough to see it or Harrenhal, the infamous sight of the Conqueror's Wrath atop Balerion the Black Dread, a sight Brynden had always wanted to see. It was the current seat of House Lothson, though the castle had changed hands so many times since the ending of Harren's line, it was as much history's as it was any Lord's.
When they saddled up their horses and prepared to set off, Missy broke down and wept. Brynden slipped from his saddle, and ran to her, embracing and reassuring her with a whisper, "I'll see you soon, mother. I'll make them send me back to see you."
"You'll do no such thing, Bryn," she commanded, her eyes wet and red with sadness, holding her face firm enough to show support. "Use this to become the man you want to be. Here, I fear, you'd only ever be what the current lord would allow, whether my brother or his portly heir, I don't think neither would suit you. You are special, Brynden Rivers. You are sweet but strong, your smart but obedient, and though they argued it, I know you're good. You should not have hit that boy, better to run than to hurt your kin. Theodore was already suffering from thickheadedness, you bashing it in won't help him any." She appeared as if she kept within the rebuke, yet Brynden knew from her red eyes what she meant. She couldn't say it aloud, but he was happy to surmise she knew he was just as well.
For hers was the most important opinion.
"But there's nothing here for you."
"Mother, you are here. And you are my everything."
"Well, that's not true. Not since you could walk. I love you as well, my son, but there's so much more for you. Your books, and your swords, and the bow, and the horse. With the king's favor, Bryn, you could be a knight. You could be a maester. You can be so much more," she said, smiling through the evident pain in her eyes.
As she nearly finished, Brynden did for her, sighing as he interrupted, "Than a bastard."
Missy rubbed a tear from the boy's eye and embraced him. "Bastard or not, you will always be my son. A son of House Blackwood and a son of House Targaryen. Ernest's boys have Bushy blood."
They laughed. It sounded funny enough. But their eyes were still both filled with tears.
"Go, Brynden. Become who you would be. For the world is yours, now. Don't let anything stop you from your dreams."
Dreams. He thought. Gods. Hopefully I don't have them anymore.
"Ser Justman?" Brynden asked, trotting behind him on his stot. He was light enough to ride their worst horse. Lord Ernest hoped it would die on the return and avoid having to keep feeding.
"What boy? You've nothing but questions." Heartless Harry was right. To pass the time, Brynden continued to pester him about the path they took, the ways of the knight, or even the types of trees they were passing, and what woodland creatures might inhabit them.
"Can we ride by Harrenhal?"
"No, son." Harry said. Though Harry was no father to Brynden, he liked to hear him say it. It made them feel closer, even if they were truly not. Harry was heartless after all, and his kindnesses were evident but hard to read.
"I've always wanted to see it."
"You're Targaryen. Hatch a fuckin' dragon and ride one there. You'll have time. You're but seven, Master Brynden. We need to make haste and catch the party. It's not safe on these roads."
"We haven't heard of any brigands for a long time, Ser Justman. The roads are safe, aren't they?"
"Good brigands, Brynden, don't get heard about. They kill everyone they come upon and leave no one to talk about it."
Brynden became immediately frightened, surrounded by the thin trees left of the forest, darkness waiting to prey upon them like a shadow cat before dusk, the sun hovering above the horizon over their shoulders, and the beautiful purple and pink sunset a harbinger for dark danger.
If some manner of trouble were to be found by he and Justman, it would be unfair to assume the knight would be able to handle the threat alone, so, as Brynden contemplated the chance of an attack, he began to understand if it were to happen, he'd need to help defend against it.
Brynden was good enough with the bow, but he was seven. He could kill a rabbit. He could kill a deer even. Could I kill a man?
He did not know.
"Don't think about it. Ride. No one's out here, its just my job to think there is." Justman's gruff voice called to him through the fog of his dread. "Don't be worrying that thinking head of yours. Better to keep asking me them questions you could probably already answer better yourself, than get lost in there thinking about brigands."
When Brynden felt the courage enough to respond, Harry had already pulled back, so they could travel side by side, and he interrupted his attempt with words of his own, "Ever tell you of the time I fought with your father in Dorne?"
As the darkness rose and fell, covering them in what Brynden imagined a cloak, protecting them more than harming them, Justman went on about the Young Dragon's conquest and the battles the old knight had been a part of. They were all victories, which always confused Brynden. How could the Dornish have always defeated the Dragons when they did nothing but lose and lose?
"Your sire," Justman preached, recalling his former glories and announcing them like a prayer to the old gods among them, reaching the part Brynden was most curious about, since no one at Raventree Hall kept the King in a high enough opinion to say anything other than his faults. "Was as tall and as strong a warrior could be, swinging his longsword through the drecks of Dorne like a scythe through the field, reaping such a bloody harvest, his black plate was a glistening wet red."
Brynden imagined the King as a young man, pleased with an image other than the fat walrus he'd been described as every other story before. He imagined himself in plate armor as well, wondering if he would grow to be as impressive as Justman explained his father to have been.
"There was this one man, a mountain Dornishman, with a nasal helm of beaten bronze, his face painted black so that all you saw were the striking white of his eyes and the deep darkness in his Dornish soul. He wore armor that must've been stolen from all their previous raidings, for none of it matched, and he swung a ball and chain, whipping that thing around like it was a ball of hay," he yelled back to an attentive Brynden. "And it wasn't. I saw it crush three men's heads in front of me while I was fending off a blonde one, and I was barely holding on. I feared the beast would be on me next, the treacherous whir of the chain louder and louder as he kept advancing. I woulda shit myself if it were just me and him. I ain't even a half helm, it was barely a bucket when it rained enough to get a sip."
The fear of brigands had turned into the day dream of Justman's stories, as the air sank from dusk to nightfall. There was a peace in the breezes and rustles as they rode, but the foe in the story reminded him of the ever-present threats on the road. And my protector is describing his own fear of battle. Brynden smirked wishing he could explain his humor to Heartless Harry. It wouldn't be worth the time.
"Then, your father, all red and black, bowled into me like a battering ram, knocking me from my feet as he slayed the man I was fighting against. He turned to face the mountain Dornish, and as the beast heaved the ball at him, he braced into his shield, absorbing a crushing blow, the whole mountain pass felt as if it trembled beneath us, and your father stopped it like the wall a wildling spear. Absorbing that blow gave your father enough time to push his sword through that mismatched armor, and it was as easy a thing as you could imagine. But no one among us, maybe not even the Dragonknight, would have let that ball hit them like that. I got back up to my feet and thought I could kill anyone."
Brynden wondered if he'd have the courage to stand against a larger more powerful foe. I will one day.
"That's when I met your grandsire. Lord Horace was near the back at the start of the battle on those paths, loosing arrows away from the fray. He's a Blackwood, so of course he would be good with the bow. But once the shit starts, lad, there's nowhere to hide. In a battle, even the archers need to look men in the eye as they kill them to survive."
"I had just gotten through another raggedy mountain man, barely dressed in clothes, much less armor, so it was easy enough to finish him, and I saw Lord Horace and the trouble he faced, feverishly pulling at his quiver for another arrow as a man was bearing down on him. I charged, and caught up to the man just in time to spare your grandsire the trouble of pulling his steel, and he suggested I stay by him for the remainder of the battle to keep him safe. I agreed, and I've served your house since."
Dorne had been so long ago, yet Justman spoke of it like it had been only days. He kept singing his songs of glory through the night as they rode, and for the first night, at least, they were exciting enough to keep Brynden awake. He had slept enough with his bout of fever from the crow. The first night was no trouble at all.
What was left of the Wolfswood was naught but a few trees and clear choppy plains of grass and short growth, but once they reached the River Road, they mostly followed the Red Fork, which would lead to the King's Road at the Trident and was as open as a road could be in the Riverlands. Harry seemed uneasy, for once they passed Stone Hedge, there would be no honest riders on the roads in the middle of the night. It was a blessing they didn't have to battle through a forest, though it was such a thick darkness it felt like slipping through brush as they followed the light of their torches.
"You all right?" Justman kept asking, looking back at Brynden as he led.
"Yes, ser." Brynden replied each time. "I'll be fine."
A few hours before dawn, Harry stopped in the middle of a story about how thirsty he'd been once. He trailed off, and Brynden could see him sway in his seat, as they had slowed their horses down to a walk, and the Master-at-Arms was gathering what little rest a man on a mission could.
Brynden was glad to see the light, gladder still he'd last a night without dreams. He had always woken in bouts of fear, tortured by the bliss of the night, yet before the crow, he'd never remembered what stirred in his slumber to frighten him so. He just rose, afraid, and cold.
Though it made little sense, he remembered his fever dream. Vividly. Like it was as real as the ride before him. What he could still see in his mind confused him, haunted him, as if it were a knowledge he would one day learn more than something he already knew. Yet he knew it all the same, and in the darkness, without Harry's stories, it felt heavy, like the cold dead feet of a crow on his shoulder, chilling him with the phantom presence of a long dead carrion.
Day meant he could see the ravens.
As the sun rose before their eyes, traveling east on the River Road, its long shining glare startled Justman awake. "You all right?" he asked, as if he had been awake for the hours Brynden was lost in the flocks of the traveling birds. They migrated in response to changes in the climate, as the shift from summer to autumn was noticed earliest in the movement of their like. Clusters of them, black and glistening, danced in the air like it was play, the hundreds of them moving nearly in unison, forming a pulsing pattern of black in the dark dawn.
"Yes, ser. I'll be fine."
They stopped on the second day for Justman to stretch for about an hour, and Harry sent Brynden to the river to fish. Brynden was not confident that he would catch anything, for the hook and line he would be using would do nothing in the fast current of the Red Fork, but it was relaxing to hear the calm rhythm of the moving water, and there was a serenity in waiting for a fish. Brynden felt unshackled by Raventree Hall for the first time.
It was also good to get out of the saddle. His whole arse was sore and burning.
"Catch anything?" Harry called, arching his back to stretch it one last time before getting back onto his horse.
"Nothing."
"Good. I didn't wanna start a damn fire. That flint stone's about as useful as a feather pen in a quarrel."
When dusk approached, Brynden's eyes were nearly glazed with a fog that had naught to do with the river. It had been since his fever he had rested, and he began to fear what closing his eyes might mean.
An ominous cloud hung over him as each blink of his eyes gained weight, and every nod of his head dropped harder downward.
"You all right?"
Brynden thought to respond but his mouth failed to.
"I'll let you rest if you need."
No.
You all right, it said
Its beak looked sharp and hard, glistening in the blackness, and it cocked its head and stared into him. Its eyes were as black as the void
You all right?
His head jolted up, and Brynden shook it hard, fighting himself awake.
"No," the boy replied. "Let's run. Better we catch them then fall further behind."
Better to stay awake.
Brynden rode hard, hoping his stot intuitive enough to avoid a fall. He followed the bouncing orange glow of Justman's torch, who cursed at each flick at the flint stone to light it, the breeze stiff enough as they trotted to keep him from slipping asleep.
He thought of why he feared it. Why would one fear sleep? It isn't something that can harm you. Dreams are said by Maester Ystantine in his work "What Makes a Dream" to be the minds way of repair, mixing thoughts with imaginings and shuffling them back into their starting place, allowing for a fresh mind in the morn.
Dreams aren't real.
But the fear was.
Every time Brynden's head would nod, he gasped as he rushed himself awake, the horse's movement rough enough to throw him from his seat if he drifted. As dawn approached, the night as hard and as long as any in Brynden's young life, he felt there was almost nothing more he could do. Harry's stories sounded as if they were repeating, and the grizzled knight's gruff voice was almost soothing enough in its coarseness to send him asleep despite the horse.
"You all right?"
"Yes, ser. I'll be fine." He replied, though his voice was as weak as his body.
"We'll stop for a moment, lad. Here, off by the bank. There's a spot there you can rest a bit. I need a stretch and a leak meself."
As soon as Brynden climbed down from his horse, he could feel the immense weight of his exhausted head nearly pull his whole body down. It took every muscle in his legs to commit to holding him up and walking down to the soft grass that looked out over a drop off to the beginnings of the pebble coast of the river. It was a soft inviting green, thin blades in a thick growth, likely plush enough to be comfortable.
His fear of sleep was only overcome by his weariness, for as soon as he felt himself lower to the grass, completely unaware of anything but that square foot of earth, he curled instantly into himself, and released.
He woke drooling. The sun was high above him, beaming directly into his eyes, and as he rolled back and forth, he realized he dreamt nothing. His fear was shaken off, and he allowed himself to smile with a sigh.
Justman was sitting up, but his head and shoulders were hunched into himself, sleeping as soundly as an old knight could be, propped up only by the stiff edge of his leather jerkin at the breast, for the leather of his jerkin was as tough as he was.
Brynden allowed him to rest, if but a bit longer, as he focused on the moving water of the river. Rivers, he thought, like me. Then he pondered what it meant to identify with the things of nature more than his fellow man and kin.
Justman woke in a grumble. He caught his breath, nearly choking on a snore, and instinctively asked the boy, "You all right?"
"Yes, ser. I'll be fine."
They traveled into that night as fast as they could, pretending to race each other to keep up their pace. The stot looked worse for all the wear, but as Lord Ernest had said, he was not concerned with its health as he should have been. Brynden was, though, and had been feeding it some of his share of the food. Brynden could spare it.
Harry had run out of stories of Dorne, and he didn't bring up any of the brigands for fear of summoning them, or so he said, so he then began with other conquests.
"Ser Justman," Brynden whimpered uncomfortably. "I'm not at an age to be hearing of these types of tales."
"You're a man, ain't ya? Half of warring is whoring. For what's there to fight for one day at a time if not for a woman at night?"
Brynden rolled his young eyes knowing better than most of a whoring man. It was who his father had always been to him, as no Blackwood would speak of his name without mentioning it. Even when it would visibly hurt his mother, no member of his house would ever for a moment let anyone forget it.
"I am more concerned with the laws of nature than the lusts of men, Ser Justman. I'm but a boy and care not for your whores."
"Aye, lad. That is fair. Sometimes I forget how old you are. You're like a miniature man, white haired and solemn, smarter than anyone, and more wellspoken than any lord. I'll leave it be." As Heartless as Harry could be, Brynden's own warmed. Things like that were as close as a compliment as the man could give.
When dusk approached, creeping in behind another breathtakingly beautiful sunset, casting indigo and skin pink from the setting sun behind them across the vast open cloudless sky, the fear of sleep came creeping in with it.
"You all right?"
"Yes, ser. I'll be fine."
He fought the urge for rest again, like a valiant and dedicated warrior against the dread of what might come of it. Though the previous night had been his life's hardest, he feared this night would be worse. He hoped with all hope they would reach the party soon. He knew not if he could continue without sleep much longer.
"We can stop, or ride hard for another few hours and likely be on them. What would you prefer master Brynden?"
I'd prefer to sleep if it wasn't so horrible.
"Let's catch them. I'm sick of riding."
Though they sped up, kicking into their unwilling horses for one last run they hoped, Brynden could not shake away the urge to sleep.
His head began nodding back and forth, passing out, and waking up almost as consistently as he drew breath. Once, he had even dropped the reigns, and was lucky to have stayed in the saddle, but he woke again, jolted awake by fear, and grabbed at them.
He felt silly. All of a sudden, he wondered what about the crow was so fearful? Was it the shame of it? Was it the guilt?
For the crow in his dreams didn't seem to be the crow he had saved, and he wasn't sad in the dream, he was frightened. As he tried to recall why, he realized he couldn't remember anything about the dream anymore
Except the crow.
"Harry," Brynden called out. "Harry!" They were riding quickly, but the world around them was still enough that the man should have heard. "Harry!"
Brynden kicked into his horse to catch up. The stot clopped beneath him, faster, and faster until his trot turned to a gallop and he started to gain on Justman. "Ser Justman!"
Brynden had only wanted to ask to stop riding and rest. It was silly to fear sleep, he surmised, and didn't need to withstand the pains of staying awake just for the sake of missing a nightmare. He decided, in the Red Keep, he would become a new boy, nay, a man, and how could he if he feared sleep as he did in Raventree Hall?
Yet, as he continued to gain on Justman and the Master-at-Arms failed to reply each time, something else struck fear back into his heart, and he knew not what was wrong with his protector.
He felt eyes, hundreds, a thousand eyes, and they all saw him. He looked around, he couldn't see the eyes, but he felt them, a thousand eyes, all open, fixed, and staring at him. It made him feel uneasy, and he tried to focus on catching Harry.
Their horses sped faster and faster, and he knew not why, but it seemed Harry could not be caught. His horse was far inferior, but if Justman was asleep, how did his horse pick up speed? Is it spooked? Something was wrong, he knew, but his brain struggled to puzzle out what or why.
"Ser Harry!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and desperate, shrieking through the wind and dust from the horse's hooves, and still the old knight failed to as much as gesture back to him.
Brynden kicked into the stot, kicking and kicking, as it gave the last of its effort to catch up. He pulled alongside Harry to the left. As he reached him, the horses at full speed racing through the darkness, Brynden looked to his right at Harry, who had the hood of his cloak up, covering his head and face.
"Ser Harry!"
Brynden reached out to grab Justman. When his wrist gripped the knight's forearm, Justman's hooded frame jolted and Brynden jumped back, nearly falling from the speeding horse. Justman's head turned to look at Brynden, and when the boy looked into the hood, he saw a yellow skull, mottled with fresh pink meat, as if it had just been picked by the crows.
Its empty sockets stared into him, it's jaws of yellowed bone and teeth clasped together like a trap, until it flapped open to cackle.
Fire! Fire! Fire!
Brynden woke shrieking what the skull screamed in the dream. Cold damp sweat trickled down his forehead. "Fire! Fire! Fire!" he continued out of control of his mind and mouth.
"What is it, boy?" Justman yelled back, nearly pulling his horse into a rear. He slowed to let Brynden catch him, and as soon as the horrified boy saw Harry's face, still dressed in skin and beard, he began to calm and come back.
"I must have fallen asleep."
"You were yelling 'bout fire. Did you see one? We'll be coming up on the party soon. Did you see anything?"
"No, ser. It was just a dream."
Brynden felt his face to make sure he wasn't still asleep. Did we stop and I'm still dreaming?
He realized he was awake again, and with the bout of fear, he could feel his heart still pumping. At least I'll be able to stay awake for a while longer.
As they continued to trot down the road, Brynden tried with everything not to think of the dream. He hadn't forgotten it yet, and wished to.
But as they rode in the darkness, he looked to the moon. In the spots that covered its face, he started to see the skull and it began to scream at him once again.
"Ser Justman?" he called, hoping with all hope the old knight would answer immediately.
"Yes, boy. What is it?" Justman answered almost as if he were happy for the question, whatever it was to be.
"Do you think I can become a knight?"
"I don't see a reason you couldn't. Cregan will end up being a ser, why not you?"
"They said people won't want to be saved by someone as ugly as me. They said I'd scare them too much for it to be kindness. They only let heroes be knights, not monsters."
"Some of the worst monsters were knights, Brynden, and some of the greatest heroes weren't. It don't mean shit to earn your spurs. It matters what you do with 'em."
"I don't think I'm brave, Ser Justman," Brynden admitted, oddly vulnerable in his exhaustion.
"I think you are. Any other one of those brats at The Hall were out here they woulda been bitching to camp out every time it turned to dusk. You, my boy, a lad of seven, rode for nearly three days straight. Most men aren't brave enough to do that. You're also the way you are, and that's the truth of it. You look as you do, which is what you'll live with, but I don't see it really stopping you none. You read. You train. You play. And though it mighta been a thing that led to bad, you're good. Tried to save a wounded bird, I heard."
"Yes, ser," Brynden replied, still shameful of his mistake and its consequences.
"I woulda done the same thing. And you didn't lose the book neither. A shame what happened, but bad comes of good, sometimes. Just don't let that keep you from doing what's right. That's what makes a knight. Doing good when its hard. Doing good when it starts to get bad."
Justman turned his head back to the road, flaring his nostrils and inhaling deeply. "Is that?" he mumbled, squinting his eyes is if to try to see through the thick darkness of the night. The moon was near full, and its dim blue shine only lit so much, mostly flickering off the running river, and something must have caught Harry's attention.
"Can't be," he said, jostling his roll on the horse's back and managing to find his sword.
"What is it, ser?"
"Stay close. You were right."
As they neared, Brynden keeping pace with Harry, the boy began to smell what Justman had.
Smoke.
Then, they could see the light from it, nearly a mile away, burning orange and growing.
"Ride hard and when I tell you, get off your horse and get off the road. Don't forget your bow and as many arrows as you have," Justman ordered as they galloped towards the danger. "I'll settle this, whatever this is. Don't get involved in nothing, you hear me?"
"Yes, ser," Brynden replied in fear. It's a fire. What does that mean?
Harry had his sword in his hand, thwapping his horse's hips to urge it forward with the flat broad steel blade. When the scene came into view, the orange glow of the flames not enough to see it all, as the fire had likely just started, Justman signaled to the right side of the road, and Brynden pulled his stot off, as instructed. He slipped out of his saddle, and crouched over closer to see what was happening.
There were three horse drawn carts, and the lead one began to burn. Thick plumes of funneling black smoke spun and rose off the wooden frame like the breath of a dragon, twisting in the breeze off the river and ascending into the night. Frantically, the occupants and their attendants fled the flames and tried to free the horses, as the carts behind almost toppled when the horses that pulled them reacted to what was in front of them.
He tried to see who the people were, and he thought he recognized the weird stumbling gait of Jeffey Tittles, one of the Blackwood Guardsmen, and it had to be him. My sisters!
He scanned, finding who he assumed were Mya and Gwen, and they were safely away from the flames, but out in the open.
Then, Brynden found Harry, riding in and ordering to those that would listen. It seemed he wanted to organize some formation focusing his gruff commands on the guards, and pointing to the woods with his sword.
Brynden's sisters were closer to him, as he began to creep towards the scene, since Justman had instructed him to veer off further on foot from the flames. He stayed off of the road, but crept closer and closer not knowing why.
The commotion of the orders and the family's attendants trying to salvage the remaining carts was loud and chaotic, but seemed a murmur compared to what came.
A group of screaming men with torches and swords rushed in from the riverbank, climbing up over the shallow cliff and charging the party. Justman was atop his horse and ordered his men to charge them, but he and the four guards were outnumbered by at least double, and the men were on the party in one harsh beat of Brynden's heart.
Uma Thurgood had Mya and Gwen under her arms, ushering the girls away from the sudden clash of steel and screams. The fire spread through the cart, burning orange and red into a clearer view. The orange was from the burning wood, the red was from the blood that spilled.
Brigands slashed through what little staff House Blackwood sent with their group, and it was just chance his sisters weren't already dead. By then, Brynden felt his legs running, towards the horror, and pulled an arrow out of his quiver. The main carnage was out of his range, but his sisters weren't, and if someone approached, he knew only he could save them.
Through the crackle of the cart as it shattered and fell flaming, Brynden heard Justman's harsh cries through the fray. Steel clashed and screeched, and the high ding of the swords was followed with a wet horrible noise that chilled Brynden's blood cold. His white face almost felt feverish again, as he heard death more than he saw it.
Black smoke covered the battle, and Brynden fought hard to focus on his sisters. "Girls!" He shouted, as they came within earshot, and he raced to catch them. Brynden half expected Gwen to be fighting his bow away, he almost hoped she would, as she was the better shot by far if it came to it. But her face was as pale as his, and her eyes were as wide as a doe's. She's even more frightened than me. He thought, trembling.
I guess it's up to me, now.
"Stay close," he called to them, his voice sounded softer than he had hoped. He should have tried to order to them in a man's tone, but as he heard it, he sounded more mouse, and they ignored him, running frantically away.
He turned to chase them, fearing another group of brigands somewhere else. They kept to the middle of the road, which was also dangerous, and he summoned something strong within him, forcing his voice out with a shout, "Stop!"
They did. "Listen," they began to. "My stot is off the road there, let's get it and stay together." Even Uma looked at him with the respect due a lord. He felt his back straighter, then. His chest wider. His shoulders broader. Through the fear, there was pride, though it was fleeting, as he heard the crunch of the beaten road behind him, again and again, louder and louder with each running step.
He turned to see a shadow, for it was too dark to appear as anything else. All it was to Brynden was a shadow, racing towards him with a pointed edge on its right, swinging back and forth as it neared.
His arm lifted the bow and nocked his arrow. Brynden fought the tremble shaking all of him, as he pulled the arrow and loosed it. Miss.
He nocked another. He pulled back, and loosed. The arrow flew true, and it hit the racing shadow. It stopped him, for a moment, then he began again, closer. Closer.
You haven't missed until you quit, Brynden heard his sister say.
Or if you die, said the voice of the crow in his head.
Brynden shook the voices out, thinking only of the shadow and his bow. The tip of his arrow and his target.
Nocked. Pulled. Loosed.
The arrow stopped and so did the shadow. First, it fell to its knees, and then to its face, twenty or thirty yards from where they stood. Behind it, another shadow came racing atop a horse. It was Justman, and he was on Brynden faster than he could imagine, for the boy's thoughts were hard, harsh, and heavy.
As heavy as the weight of the world.
He mumbled to himself as Harry jumped down from his horse to comfort him. Brynden looked up, catching a flickering glare from the flames before them and seeing the smeared red streaks covering Harry's face and garb. "I killed him," the boy said, soft and unassured, as if it were a question when it was simply a solemn fact.
"You had to, son."
"But, I . . . I didn't want anyone to die."
"It was him or you and your sisters. No one should have to make that choice at seven, but now you've made it, you should know you had the right of it."
Brynden struggled to temper the overwhelming emotions from clouding the logic of his mind. When it started, he wasn't thinking. He acted, seeing the attacker, knowing what it meant, and knowing how to solve the problem, his mind, and his trembling body knew what to do.
When the arrow hit its mark the first time, the man continued, so Brynden did as well.
When it hit the second, he was still waiting to see if the man would stop.
When he did, and fell, Brynden anticipated feeling something. He thought he'd feel successful. He thought he'd feel relieved. He thought, for the slightest of moments, he'd feel proud. He had saved his sisters after all, and what is more noble or exciting than that?
What he didn't anticipate, is how guilty he felt. The shadow was a man. A man that was alive.
He was now dead because of Brynden. All the boy felt was the same shame and guilt he'd felt before with the crow.
Bad comes of good.
"Come, boy," Justman ordered with a rasp. "They'll be time later for this. You and Mya take my horse. Gwen and Uma, take the stot. I'm going to lead you away, I'm not sure how many are left, but you'll take these straight to the capitol. Ride hard and fast, harder and faster than even we did, and you'll make it. All of you."
Brynden didn't know what to do, so Harry just pulled him out of his feelings and pushed him onto his horse. He walked them, his sword drawn, and took them past the carnage through the smoke to what they hoped would be freedom.
The bow was away around Brynden's back, and he sat in front of his sister, whose tight grip around him was nearly taking his breath away. He shimmied his shoulders as if to free himself, unable to speak as he hoped not to draw attention to them as they crept through the thick gray smoke, but his sister Mya refused to relent, squeezing even harder. Brynden could feel her whole frame quake and realized he could handle the embrace for just a bit longer. He hoped he wouldn't need the bow, though.
The smoke grew thicker and thicker the closer they crept, and the scene was mostly quiet. A few distant shouts every moment or so, followed by the clash of a few more swords, eventually quieted down to the haunting crackle of the flames they neared.
When they cleared it, Justman led them back towards the center of the road, his eyes back on the carnage, but with the orange flames almost dwindling, there was more smoke than light, and the night was dark beneath the clouds of new smoke above them, blocking out the blue of the moon.
"There they are!" a voice shouted from the dark, its shape naught but a black shadow against the flame as it ran nearer. Four men were left, it seemed, and they all ran to meet them, following the call from the voice, their swords drawn, their dark faces cloaked in harm and violence.
"Mya, off!" Brynden shouted, freeing the bow from his back and his sister's embrace.
Heartless Harry grabbed the boy's arm and gripped it tightly, softly looking into Brynden's tired red eyes. "No, son. You've done enough. Now's my turn. Kick this horse and go," Justman commanded politely.
"No. No, ser." Brynden fought Justman to get out of the saddle. But the man's grip was ferocious, and before the knight let go, he slapped the horse with his sword, sending it into a mad dash away. Brynden watched as he did the same to the stot, and the skinny thing ran from him as fast as it could. Harry turned and charged the four as Brynden fought to rein in the horse from retreat.
When he managed to stop it, he jumped down, nearly falling onto his face, but catching himself, the wet road beneath him damp, the near morning dew cool on his fingertips. He rubbed his hands dry and began running into range to help Harry.
In the dying glow of the flames, black shapes in the background of orange, he followed the fight the best he could. At first, Harry caught every attempt, and cut down two nearly instantly. The remaining two seemed fierce, but Harry fiercer, and the shadows danced in the glare, flickering like the dwindling flames that lit the scene. Slashes began landing against all standing, and the stiff hard stances looked weaker and weaker the closer Brynden ran.
They became a mess of swinging shapes, and it was hard for Brynden to tell who from who, so he kept running. The bow around his shoulder and five arrows left in the quiver.
He was close enough to see the whites in their eyes, and he saw Justman drop down to one knee. "No!"
Brynden pulled the bow like it was part of him, sending three arrows in quick succession, saving the man on his knees from further attack. The two men didn't fall, but ran, and evaporated into the smoke, disappearing from view.
Justman fell from his knees to his back.
Brynden ran as fast as he could, his eyes full of hot tears, his vision blurred from the wetness, smoke, and glare of the orange embers still smoldering.
When he reached Harry, he struggled to breathe. He had run so far and done so much, but that wasn't at all on his mind.
Heartless Harry laid there, his face nearly still, his brow half bent, but his eyes squinting from the burning smoke and flare.
All Brynden could say, of all the things one could think of, "You all right?" he managed to whimper, holding the old knight's wet red hand tightly in his small white ones.
"Yes, lad. I'll be fine," Justman gurgled, his chest struggling to breathe more air than blood. His body was covered in gashes and slashes, scrapes and cuts, and his mouth dripped spittle and blood like a leaking wineskin. He smiled, his teeth red with his blood, and he winked at Brynden.
Brynden squeezed even harder when he felt the knight's grip fail. Harry's heavy bleeding head fell limp, and the little boy could do nothing but cry.
A/N
Thank you for reading! Hopefully you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed bringing it to you. The things I'm doing (alongside some great assistance and perspective from the Silent Sister) in this work are a bit ambitious, and I would greatly appreciate whatever feedback you have.
As much as I put into these chapters and all my works, its hard to step back and unbiasedly judge the effectiveness of the things I'm trying to do, so as the target, let me know if I've hit my mark, if you don't mind.
I hope you enjoy and continue to enjoy the work. Don't forget to fave, follow, and comment. I will most likely be able to bring you the next chapter next week. And I will say, continued engagement helps fuel me to keep writing.
Until next time.