Brynden III

He thought they would grow easier, but as each night would pass into another bleak morning, with the weight of death heavy, the bright light of the sunrise was almost offensive. Harry's loss had shaken him, a man he knew to be just and honorable, cut to ribbons by the foulest of fiends. The hazy orange glow of that night, the smell of burning wood and blood, the shadows that fell and the man he had ended, all haunted his waking thoughts.

His nights were stalked by terrors. Apparitions black and bold, wet and flowing like sludge, clouded by the storm of grief and despair his mind already fought through for shelter, but upon the vast void, there was nothing but more darkness.

Each morning he woke not remembering what he'd seen, but knowing its nature to be wretched and vile. His nursemaid, who was originally assigned to tend to the abrasions he'd received, was more oft set to calm his tremors and provide cool damp linens for a fever the boy developed from sleep, sweating and paler than even his normal white, translucent, as if it wouldn't be hard to see into him.

She was kind, with raven black hair. When he'd wake in the middle of those nights, his vision was blurred, and he imagined her to be his mother. When he woke in the morning, remembering, it only made him miss her all the more, and the sickness he developed, he surmised to be more from his broken heart than anything else.

When he'd leave his chambers, a much larger room than would ever be given him at Raventree Hall, the people of the keep would remark solely on his worst moments. Consoling him for the losses he suffered and praising him for the life he'd taken.

Neither gave him any comfort.

Just more despair.

His sisters, who had always been stronger than he, might have been worse. Mya would tremble as she walked from her chambers to the dining hall and was said to be soiling the bed linens. She had never been one to stomach mud. He expected to see her shaken by fire and blood.

Gwen, though, he thought would have been better than she was. The wild and adventurous girl with the soul of a woman, who would get lost in the brush for hours for the fun of it, who would dare to speak up to their uncle, and who had taught him the bow, seemed gone.

What remained was a shell, vacant and cold. At least for now, she wasn't Gwen. She didn't even stand like she used to. More often than not, she cowered. Brynden's attempts at consoling her felt empty. When their eyes met, she would merely acknowledge his existence. Nothing more.

After a week, he quit counting the days. Darry and all the members of its Household couldn't have been more accommodating and kind, with every one of them, from the servants to the Lord, repeating their unofficial house words, "We're good dragon men," as often as they could.

They meant it as a comfort, but Brynden didn't feel like a dragon.

Dragons never cried.

Brynden and his sisters were given guest's chambers in the Plowman's Keep, and were invited to join the other children in their lessons. Brynden wasn't ready. He read to keep his mind occupied, but all the stories had heroes and all the histories bloodshed. Even the books for children. It was the nature of man.

And as they supped each night, mostly in silence, Brynden surrounded by attendants too meek to break the quiet or his sisters too broken, he would nearly tremble fearing what horror awaited his mind once his eyes closed and his body succumbed to sleep.

He couldn't continue on like that for much longer.

One morning, he woke to the sound of a horn. Fearful of what it meant, he curled into himself in his soft feather bed, covering his weakened body with the linens as if to hide from what approached the castle. Darry was more than fortified enough to ward off mere brigands, but Brynden still feared whatever it was that approached.

He felt ashamed when his nurse maid rustled him out from beneath the sheets. "It's nothing to fear, young Brynden. 'Tis the King's men here to fetch you and your sisters. 'Tis the knights to bring you to the capital."

He was made presentable. All of their clothing had been lost to the road, so he was dressed in a black doublet and breeches seamstresses had been ordered to stitch together for such an occasion. There was nothing opulent or regal about his attire, but the red three headed Dragon of his father's house found its way onto his chest. It still didn't make him feel like a dragon.

Brynden put on his clothes and as much courage as he could muster, and stood sentry to greet the procession on the battlements looking over the walls of Darry. Next to the Lord's nephew, dressed proudly in the brown and black of his house, the young man looked through the crenelations at a sprawling and impressive host. Knights led the procession, fully armored atop their fine horses, while mounted Goldcloaks followed closely. Two white knights of the Kingsguard should have been a shining bright beacon of safety, followed as they were by two impressive looking armored men in matte steel and shining black. He forced a smile on his face, trying to feel hopeful.

But the show of strength was only a reminder of the dangers he and his sisters would soon face, and he wondered if they were ready. Would they ever be?

The heavy gates were opened for the knights, and upon their entry into the inner ward, Brynden was able to get a better look at them. When their horses came to a halt, the knights of renown in the front greeted by horsehands and the stablemaster himself, they dismounted and removed their helms.

The finest of the knights removed his shining black helmet with a wide white smile, his long hair about his face, silver and gold. He shook his head from side to side, his long-tangled locks even more graceful out of place and damp than Brynden would ever be combed, full and wavy, gleaming in the morning light. He was young, but strong, the features of his face like the marble sculptures of the conqueror in the Lord Darry's solar, as if he were the intended subject, or the man from lore incarnate.

"Who's that?" Brynden asked. He lifted his hand to point out the knight he was asking about, but before he could, the Darry already knew.

"That's the King's legitimized bastard, and your half-brother Daemon Blackfyre. He holds the Sword of Kings now, and he's the Lord of his own new house."

Legitimized or not, bastards are always bastards in the eyes of the true born. A name cannot erase the past. This young man even says as much, having to explain it the way he did.

But as Brynden thought on it, he regarded the knight before him with an awe one might look upon a god. Not only did his half-brother look how Brynden wished he could, he had become that which Brynden dreamed of one day being:

Legitimized. With a Targaryen Valyrian sword, no less.

"Can I meet him?" Brynden asked, smiling as the words left his lips. It had been too long since he'd felt like a child. Seeing his glorious brother made him forget about death, if only for the fleeting moment until Brynden heard his own childish voice.

"I don't see any reason you shouldn't. We can make our way to him if he's not too tired. I'm sure he too would love to meet the hero of the Kingsroad."

Hero, Brynden cringed to hear it. Heroes don't cry and sweat at night because of their kills. I'm no hero. Just a coward that shot a bow at a shadow.

Brynden's face soured following the young lordling. He almost wished he hadn't asked.

When they reached where his brother was, the young Darry introduced himself and bowed, showing deference to the younger bastard prince. He never bowed to me like that, but then again, he called him Ser. Is this boy already knighted?

Thanks to his studies of his royal family, he knew his half-brother Daemon to be only five years his elder. At most, Daemon would have just turned thirteen, though from what Brynden remembered, Daena birthed him late in the year, so he was likely twelve.

Twelve! Knighted at twelve? That can't be. He'd be the youngest ever knighted.

"And this must be the brother I've been hearing about." Daemon's voice was changing into a man's, though, as Brynden stood just steps from him, still in his full black dragon plate, he was already more a man than most full grown men he'd seen. Behind him, the morning sun glistened off the smooth sheen of his armor and the fine colors of his hair. At twelve, he filled out his armor as well or more impressively than those around him, an imposing presence, as intimidating as he was immediately welcome and warm to Brynden, a stranger to him.

The seven-year-old bastard began to blush, awkwardly in awe of his half-sibling, but also embarrassed that he looked so vile in comparison. He's like as not to hate me as much as my Blackwood kin, or worse. Look at how perfect he is. How could he ever except an abomination so grotesque?

"I'm Brynden Rivers of Houses Blackwood and Targaryen," Brynden managed to mumble, shyly.

"I'm Ser Daemon Blackfyre, and your elder brother. Well met, Brynden!" The boy within the young man broke through the symmetry of his face with a goofy and immature grin, squatting and hobbling over to Brynden like a jester might, to evoke laughter, with his arms open for an embrace. "Come here, you little man," the knight grabbed his gaunt body with both armored arms and lifted him into the air. "I heard that if it wasn't for your bravery, we'd be less two sisters. I know there's a lot of us with how much work our father put into spreading us about, but that don't mean I wouldn't have missed them any less."

"Doesn't," Brynden corrected. "But that doesn't mean." It was a reflex he couldn't control, and as nervous as he was, the correction blurted out of his mouth unwillingly. Gods, why would I do that? Now he'll surely hate me. Why must I be this way?

"You're right!" Daemon replied, putting Brynden down gently. "I'm a Lord now and I can't be going around talking like some commoner without courtesy. Thanks for the reminder."

What? Is he japing?

"Wouldn't want to embarrass you. You're seven and even you know that. Guess I have a lot to live up to in my younger brother, already the hero of the age."

Hero. The smile his brother's words and gestures created on Brynden almost slipped as soon as he heard it.

"Look at him, Daemon," a red-haired knight jutted in with, stepping into their conversation from behind Daemon. "He's lived it. It's not fucking glorious, you idiot. He's just a boy and it hurts him to remember. Killing ain't no game, Ser Daemon. Right kid?"

Brynden smiled, pleased with himself. "Isn't. Killing isn't a game."

"Seems fine to me!" Daemon said, elbowing hard steel into Brynden's shoulder. "Got 'em good. And don't you even say it. Got him. Got him good."

The brothers shared a laugh, but Brynden knew the red-haired knight's words to be true. "It's good to laugh, young Brynden, but since your father has entrusted your training to me, here's a lesson for the both of you. When you said, "hero," Daemon, the boy shuttered. You've not yet killed a man, so you can't know it, not yet, but the boy don't feel like no hero," He said, staring off as if remembering his own kills, grizzled with the beginnings of a beard, and intense with a stern twist to his strong brow. "A real hero, Daemon, can't hear the cheers from the crowd over the screams of the men he's killed."

The knight knelt down to Brynden's eye level. "Especially the first one. It'll pass, boy. It'll never leave you, but it'll lessen. Just keep going."

Soon, Brynden would have to. Upon the arrival of the party, in accordance with the King's Orders, Darry men would join half of the host and escort he and his sisters the rest of the way to King's Landing. With as many men, there would have to be an entire battalion of enemies to harm them, but were he and his sisters ready to face the road again?

Before meeting Ser Quentyn Ball, the Master at Arms at the Red Keep, he would have said, "No."

Looking back into the sincerity of his fierce and honest eyes, he knew he could. Just keep going. Onward. Forward.

Ball reminded him of Justman, in the best ways, yet still, he spoke even straighter than his previous combat instructor. Where Justman would hint at sympathy, Ball had already given it freely. Where Justman would have insinuated or joked away at the tenderness of Brynden's youth, Ball answered it head on.

Brynden's pain hadn't lessened, but his guilt had. Seeing the look in Ser Ball's eyes as he said what he said, the boy knew Quentyn to be the only one to truly understand what Brynden was going through.

Not many have taken a life as we have.

And as gruff and disheveled as he looked next to Brynden's glorious brother, the boy could tell the man's words to be worth more than the silver and gold looks of his kin. He looked forward to more lessons from Ball. Brynden Rivers thought that of only a few in the known world.

Daemon broke the tense air surrounding them, as if they were the only three in the entire stronghold, "Well, I'm going to the dining hall to see if they'll serve me something that was alive in this calendar year. That salt beef might have been from something Q here killed when he was your age."

"Aye. That's why I give it to you, boy. You think your jaw's shape's from your father. It's not. It's from eating all this leather." Brynden joined in their laughter, yet wasn't yet in that good of spirits to really mean it.

Even in despair, I've only this chance to make my introduction. My new beginning starts with these two. I can only hope to be among their allies and friends.

Brynden felt confident they were the type of men he could trust.

After eating amongst the knights and getting to know the men who'd protect him on the road to his father, he felt more and more comfortable as the "hero" they kept dubbing him. He wasn't ready to talk about it in detail, but instead of shuttering, he would at least nod and smile as Goldcloaks and knights would congratulate him as if he'd won a tournament or something.

"Good work on that brigand, boy. Praise the seven you were there to stop him."

"Well done, lad. And with an arrow, no less. You must have had a good teacher."

"It was a shame to hear about the Master-at-Arms. He died valiantly. A true hero himself."

He had handled them praising his efforts. It was harder to hear about Harry. Heroic as it was, it was still no consolation in how bravely or honorably he met his end. He had died. That was it. Harry bled out, his hand in Brynden's, smiling until the end.

Harry was a hero, and died.

And that's all they've called me since I've arrived.

It wasn't until after dessert was served that he had even gotten the chance to speak to his half-brother since they had met earlier. After bread and salt were served, Daemon was pulled off to speak with this Lord and that uncle. The Darry's were loyal Dragon men, after all, and Daemon was a new kind of Dragon.

Poor brother. As big as you are, you must have been starving from the road.

"That cake was delicious. If I am ever to build a keep of my own, I'm investing most of my money in the baker here. I didn't know a lemon cake could be so good."

"I'm not much of a dessert person," was all Brynden could muster as a reply. The combination of Daemon's charm and energy was difficult for the pale young boy to process.

No one has ever been this kind to me save my mother. Not even my sisters speak to me with excitement.

"Maybe you'd be able to smile more if you tried to be more of one? Did you at least try it?"

"I don't think it would agree with me. My stomach is sensitive to sweets and things," Brynden replied sheepishly.

"That's not just you, its everyone, Bryn. Can I call you Bryn?" He asked, the sugar from the cake speeding up his speech and energy.

"Sure," the boy replied. In fact, Daemon could have called him whatever he wanted.

"Anything that good can't be good for you, otherwise, we'd find a way to eat it every day. You have to try it. You just have to. Stay right there."

Brynden hadn't moved from his seat at the high table with Lord Darry and his wife. Brynden and his sisters had yet to sup in public, like this, and Gwen and Mya were still unwilling to. So, Brynden, proclaimed as the "Hero of The Kingsroad," was given a place at the Darry table, where their daughter, Martha, would sit if she weren't one of Princess Daenerys' ladies in waiting.

He listened, nonetheless, and waited for Daemon to return from the crowd, which grew louder with each round of drinks they poured into their tin mugs. The courteous whispers had already grown to bawdy laughter in the furthest tables from the Lord. It was only a matter of time, as Brynden assumed, until the rest of the tables were laughing as hard and as heartily.

He returned with soft yellow cake in his hands, which would have disturbed Brynden if it wasn't for the genuine smile across his huge half-brother's gleaming face.

"Here," he said to Brynden, holding out the cake like it was plated. "Just take a small bite. For me."

What could it hurt? Brynden thought, enchanted by the innocent passion in Daemon's personality, and his sincere interest in having a relationship with him, even as ugly as Brynden was.

Daemon was right. The cake was soft, moist even, layered with the sweetness of cream and the tart and zest of lemon. The hint of that sour flavoring wasn't near powerful enough to take away from the cake's decadent sweetness, and Brynden couldn't help but reach for the rest of every crumble left in his brother's hand.

"I know, right?" Daemon replied as Brynden's mouth was filled with the rest, leaving him only able to nod as his cheeks were near bursting. "I don't know what they're plowing in those fields, but the Darry's sure serve a fine piece of cake."

Through the smile, Brynden almost frowned. It was sad really. Throughout all his life, even with his mother, he couldn't remember ever having a "friend."

One time, he brought it up to Missy, saying, "A mom's no friend. You have to love me. You don't count."

She said that he had his sisters, but it was never like this. They could be kind and even sweet, but never fun. Never funny.

With a warmth in his heart, warmer than he thought he would ever feel again that morning, he looked at Daemon with the widest smile he could stretch across his face, gulping down the last mouthful of what he'd been given.

"You have to get more!" Brynden said, finally a boy of seven.

"Anything for you, my brother," Daemon said with his own youthful grin.

Both Brynden and Daemon smiled like the boys they deserved to be allowed to be.

Royal bastards, though, never seem to get that chance.