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A Golden Path: Design 3.1 (ch. 24)
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 15:01:45 +0000 UTCThe rest of their time in King's Landing was a blur to Brandon. He barely paid the hours or days that passed any heed, finding that he didn't have the stomach for frivolous frollicking and gossip. The only way he took note of time passing was the occasional celebration he was dragged into attending by his father because his presence was demanded.
Paul Atreides had proved to the Seven Kingdoms that he was the greatest duelist among them as he won the tournament. Then, following that, he won the Archery competition. Brandon had raised his cup to honor the victorious, the expected words flowing from him, recited much like a mummer would a script. Only without either the heart or the passion.
Beyond that? He didn't know or care enough to find out. The Joust came and went, but he had no clue who had won that competition. Nor any of the others that he had once anticipated watching, if not joining in himself. There were speeches that fell on deaf ears, celebrations that he went through the motions but scarcely remembered, and meetings with men that he couldn't be bothered to learn their names.
Then, at long last, after what felt like an eternity, it was time to leave.
And something that he dreaded suddenly loomed overhead like an executioner's blade, making him almost wish that the festivities in Kings Landing went on for even a day more. Yet, the gods were cruel, or they did not care to hear any prayers so far South. The day came that his father instructed them to pack up their things and to set out on the Kingsroad with the rest of the nobility.
The departure was staggered, the Wardens and Lord Paramount being permitted to leave first as the roads would become an absolute slog in their wake. They already were due to the smallfolk peeling off over days and weeks, having either won their coin, lost it, or they were fleeing an apparent pox that swept through the tent cities outside of Kings Landing. The lesser nobility would likely be entrenched in the foul smelling city for weeks more or entombed on the road that would mostly be mud.
That was something of a cold comfort to Brandon. Many of the northern lords left the city with a great deal more than they arrived with. Entire wagons full of goods were added onto the caravan -- until recently, trade caravans or ships didn't bother to venture so far North, so many were using the opportunity to purchase luxuries for themselves without such a steep mark up.
To say nothing of the spoils from the various tournaments. Paul alone had to purchase a wagon to hold the several chests worth of gold dragons from being the victor of competitions. There were also horses and armor from knights that hadn't been able to pay the ransom. It slowed them down dramatically, making the already slow trip much worse, but Brandon savored each day like a man savoring his last breaths.
It was nothing less than heartbreaking when Brandon saw Riverrun looming in the distance. It was a greater castle than most he had seen during their trek back, but it paled in comparison to Winterfell. It sat between two great rivers, larger than the average castle, but still small in comparison. Perfectly sat strategically, however, as it would be nothing less than a slog to take the castle -- Brandon wasn't even sure if it could be taken without a long drawn out siege.
Brandon raised a wineskin to his lips, only to find it wrenched away by his father. His gray eyes were cold, filled with a frost that hadn’t been there before. Brandon didn't mind. It wasn't like his gaze wasn't every bit as cold, and a great deal more besides. “Boy,” His father began, a low growl in his voice. “You won't shame our family and the North by acting the drunken fool.”
“What kind of man would want to be sober for his own wedding?” Brandon questioned as they rode towards the front gate of Riverrun at the head of a long column of the Northern lords.
“Your wedding won't be for a few more days,” his father bit the words out, as if that was an excuse to be sober.
“I find that time moves faster when I'm a sop,” Brandon sneered. “And the last thing I needed are a few days of misery leading up to a lifetime of it.” Oh, that remark struck a nerve. He smiled at how his father's jaw clenched while a fierce scowl was aimed in his direction.
“I told you, boy -- I will not allow you to shame our family,” his father delivered the warning in a low tone. “You don't have to like her, much less love her. But you are my heir. You are a Stark. Do your duty to your family and house, and do it without complaint.” The ‘or else’ was unsaid but not unheard.
In response, Brandon sucked his teeth before spitting out the bitter taste of defeat. He rode off, giving his father a wide berth, else he would find something else to complain about. Though, as they neared the gate, Brandon found himself desperately wishing that he fought harder for the wineskin as the misery struck him full force when they passed through the gate and they were greeted by one of the very last people he wanted to see.
Brynden Tully.
There was a point he would have given his sword arm just to have a conversation with the man -- to hear the stories that he had to tell and how he became a knight of legend. Or, how he managed to convince his brother that he never needed to marry. Yet, now the sight of him made his guts churn and tie themselves into knots.
“Lord Stark,” Brynden welcomed his father with a clasp of forearms. It was then that the older man turned to Brandon -- his Tully red hair was losing its luster with touches of gray near the temples with streaks of it in his beard. His eyes looked like they were made of blue ice when he turned his gaze towards Brandon and reached out with a crushing grip on his hand and a squeeze on his shoulder. “Lord Brandon. It's a shame that we kept missing each other in King's Landing. I would have liked to better know the man marrying my niece.”
Shame that was, but his betrothed never ventured far from Brynden, and Brandon made sure that they were never in the same room.
“Hm. It's a shame,” Brandon replied tartly, uncowed and unimpressed with the petty intimidation. Brynden’s eyes narrowed a fraction, and his lips started to curl up, but he wiped the expression off his face with a polite smile instead. Brynden didn’t like him, and Brandon found that he just didn’t have it in him to give a shit.
Brynden mercifully ended the interaction by giving him a pat on the shoulder that was a little too hard before moving on to his siblings. The siblings, who also gave him a wide berth, were not sure how to deal with the foul mood that clung to him for weeks now. He didn’t blame them. They both tried in their own way, but when nothing worked, they pulled back and gave him space.
They were given bread and salt, welcomed into the Tully ancestral home, and into the great hall, where Hoster Tully sat in his throne. He aged with less grace than his brother, the Lord Paramount’s hair already long since going gray while he was twice the size of his younger brother. Brandon was hardly listening with every word going into one ear and out the other as all the pomp and pageantry that the North scorned the South for was on display.
Though, that did come to a screeching halt when his betrothed was brought out.
Catelyn Tully.
Their eyes met for the first time despite sharing a city, and as he expected, there wasn’t a shred of fondness to be found in her gaze. That was fair. More than fair, really -- if he were in her shoes, he’d blacken his eye, break his nose, and give a quick kick to the balls for good measure. A frosty look was the least that he deserved in her eyes.
But it was also why he didn’t want to marry her.
It wasn’t like she was ugly. From what he heard of her, she was a bit dull but otherwise a perfectly normal southern lady. She just wasn’t the woman that he wanted. The one that he longed for. That woman was in the room, out of sight somewhere behind him. He was aware of her like a hearth in the room, feeling her gaze upon him.
“Lord Brandon,” she greeted him with a curtsy and a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
“Lady Tully,” he returned. He should be charming. Offer a compliment, make a joke -- something. Anything was better than the frigid silence between them that was observed by their parents and lords. Yet, his mouth stayed stubbornly shut.
It was stupid, he knew, even as her lips thinned when it became clear he would say nothing else. Despite all that he did, all his hopes -- this would be the woman that he married. The one he would share his life with. The one who would bare-
The thought was cut off with the feeling of grief crushing his heart.
He was punishing no one but himself with this, Brandon knew. He was making someone who had done nothing to him miserable and his father would get what he wanted, regardless of what he said or did. The alliance would hold with the Riverlands and that was all his father wanted.
“You must be weary from the long road,” Hoster Tully voiced, giving him an excuse with a practiced smile. “Please, recuperate in your quarters -- we have a wing prepared for you all.”
Brandon said nothing, simply turning away from Catelyn and walking away while his father spoke quietly to Hoster. Likely about him. But he didn't care.
His father's opinion once meant everything to him. There felt like there wasn't a thing he wouldn't do for a word of approval. When he imagined himself as Warden of the North, he crafted himself in the image of his father. Yet, now? Now he could barely stand to look at him. His approval tasted like ash and his disappointment was worthless. The worst part was that his father weathered his hatred with the same cold stoicism that he endured everything else.
As he turned around, he caught her eye. Barbrey Ryswell. The woman who had his heart.
His expression was made of granite, but there was pain shining in her eyes in the moment their gazes met. A pain that he couldn't share with her. A pain that he wasn't allowed to share with her.
His throat clogged with emotion and he tore his gaze from her, brushing past the guards and marching down whatever hallway took him away from that room. There was a burning in his eyes while it felt like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He wanted to say something to her -- anything at all, but what could he say? What excuse could he give?
What could he possibly do but suffer the consequences of the choice he made when his father delivered the fateful ultimatum?
…
His father loomed over him like a storm cloud with his wrath every bit as potent. His father had always been a man of cold rage, but his pale skin took an angry red tint while his teeth were bared like a snarling animal. Brandon had feared his father as a boy, as any boy did when it came to punishment -- but never like this.
How could he have found out? Who told him? Had it been one of the maids? A gossiping servant? A noble spying noble with ears where they shouldn't?
“You have a choice to make, Brandon,” his father informed, a deadly edge in his voice. “I will have my alliance with the Riverlands -- but it is your choice which son they'll have.”
“What?” Brandon blurted, fear crawling up from the back of his throat, his father's hands digging into his shoulders.
“You can have this bastard child you sired upon Barbrey Rysewell. I'll allow you to be married, even,” His father said, and for a moment, he felt a flicker of hope ignite in his chest. “But not without cost. You won't be my heir. Ned will inherit the North while you will be left content with whatever holdfast the Ryswells give you. Ned will marry Catelyn Tully in your stead-”
“But- Ashara Dayne. They're courting-” He began to protest, his heart falling through the hole in his stomach.
“I don't give a damn about Dorne! It's a loss, but nothing compared to losing the alliance with the Riverlands!” Father snapped like a crack of lightning and the thunder that followed. “Ned will become my heir and he will marry the girl you have thoughtlessly scorned trying to get your way. Your happiness will cost him his.”
Brandon swallowed a lump in his throat, his mind teaching for alternatives. Losing his status of Heir… it stung. It stung more than be thought it would, but when he and Barbrey decided on this last-ditch plan to force their fathers’ hands… Brandon had prepared himself for the possibility.
Ned would make a good Lord of the North. Better than him, Brandon figured. His brother had the same stillness that their father had, something that was entirely absent in himself. He would do everything that their father would ask for, and more, which was why Brandon knew that Ned would obey their father in marrying the Tully girl.
He would swallow his happiness and his desires and do his duty. Only…
Only Ned was obnoxiously in love with Ashara Dayne. The kind of love that Brandon couldn't even tease him for because it was so earnest it felt like kicking a puppy. Ned loved Ashara like Brandon only thought existed in sappy romances that bards sang about, and he wore it on his sleeve.
If he… he would be taking that from his brother.
“... Or?” Brandon croaked, his gaze finding the floor as his hands curled into fists.
“I've spoken to Lord Ryswell,” his father began without a shred of mercy to be found in his voice. “Barbrey will be given moon tea-” His Father's fingers dug into him like talons when he made to protest. “-as it is still early enough for such a thing. After that… you will do your duty and marry the Tully girl. Barbrey will marry whoever her father decides and you two will never be in the same room again. You will keep your position as my heir… and Ned will be made Lord of the Neck with Ashara as his wife.”
“Damn you…” Brandon heaved, feeling like he had been punched in the gut with his lungs emptying.
“Damn yourself, Brandon. Your foolishness and selfishness caused this. You slept with a girl to get her pregnant to force my damn hand!” His father thundered, “Now -- will you do your duty or will Ned?”
Even as it cleaved his heart in two… Brandon gave his answer.
…
He made his choice then, and he was forced to live with the consequences. What good would it do Barbrey to learn that he chose his brother over her? That he chose his happiness over their own? Their child over their own?
Brandon marched into the gardens, and his gaze searched for a godswood to find a quiet moment with the gods before he remembered the South worshiped the wrong gods. He grit his teeth until it felt like they would crack under the pressure before he simply marched onward to a bench and forced himself to sit down at it. His hands were clenched into fists that trembled with white knuckles at the force of emotion that tore through him like a riptide.
There was a sob lodged in his throat, but he swallowed it down. This was why he preferred being drunk. It made it easier to forget how angry and sad he was all the time now. There were times he regretted his choice. There were times he even resented Ned for it, as if he had any hand in this mess.
“Ahhh… I want to get drunk,” Brandon mourned his wineskin, rubbing his eyes hard enough that he saw streaks of light. He didn’t want to be around anyone, but he hated being alone with his thoughts every bit as much. Though based on the sound of oncoming footsteps, he might get lucky that a servant offered refreshment and everyone else would be wise enough to leave him be to suffer in peace.
No such luck there, Brandon swiftly noted, looking up to see that it wasn’t a servant. Probably. It was a boy with a pinched rattish face, a slender build, and dressed in fine enough clothing to denote some kind of nobility. And, more importantly, rather than a bottle of chilled wine, he carried a gauntlet and a look of utter contempt on his face.
He arrived with a handful of long strides before he promptly threw the gauntlet down upon the ground at his feet and puffed himself up, looking so far down his nose at him, he was practically looking to the sky above.
“You dropped something,” Brandon uttered, giving the gauntlet a kick to the young man. He seemed to be around his age, if a bit younger. Perhaps closer to Ned’s age, then.
“I’m challenging you to a duel,” Ratface answered with no small amount of venom in his voice.
Was this a southern thing? He had never heard of any custom like this, even among southern knights. “I don’t even know who you are,” Brandon remarked as a dangerous edge entered his own voice. Regardless of whether he acted the part of a fool or not, a duel was nothing to take lightly.
“My name is Petyr Baelish,” Ratface answered. “A ward of Lord Tully, and a dear friend of Catelyn Tully, who you have insulted, demeaned, and are utterly unworthy of! I challenge you to a duel to annul this farce of an engagement so she may marry one more worthy of her station!” He snapped at him, and Brandon…
Brandon laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. It was a laugh completely devoid of humor or mirth. It was something that unnerved Ratface because his confidence cracked as Brandon rose to his feet, grabbing the gauntlet as he rose and shoved it into his chest hard enough that he stumbled back a step. There was a glimmer of nervousness in his eyes, but Brandon closed the door to backing out.
“I accept,” he snarled the words out, knowing deep in his gut that it was a poor idea. Not because he would lose…
But because he was going to kill him.
Comments
Vincent Mason
Welp. I guess that's one way to take Petyr out. It also won't endear him to Cat. But whatever.
