Family; Cat’s red hair, Lysa on his knee, and Edmure failing at target practice. The rivers ran red, flowing locks and spiraling curls, as bright as their breathless, laughing faces. Cheeks and foreheads dappled the same shade, while their eyes glittered, clearer than the sea. Not so much green, but the deepest, brightest blue.
Duty; to stack and stone and brick. For every banner that fluttered in the breeze, not as crimson as the lions on their mountain, not half so azure as the falcons in their vale, but the white was stark and strange. It made his own sigil stand out amongst the fields, in line with every other, blending into the misty mourn, faded and frayed. But it might as well have been a bonfire in an empty field, that lonely, circling Blackfish.
Honor; Riverrun had never been so empty. He never thought he’d say that after Hoster died. Too many angry years, turned bitter on his tongue, to see his brother – old and grey – with barely a glimmer in his depths. The stones underneath that had made him so hard, digging into heel and sole, cold and unforgiving, had been washed away by sickness and regret. Stale air. Something foul made his nose twitch. He didn’t approach the bed, giving the old cod that last respect, to say nothing and pretend. Hoster had bickered little, a pity in his depths.
“You’ll be alone now, little brother.” Brynden had swallowed the grit in his throat. It tasted like the mud he’d swallowed into his lungs as a lad, the first taste he’d had of their river.
“Pretty sure yer trouts’d have a say about that.” Chewed off between his teeth, syllables meshing where they shouldn’t have. He tried to pretend it was his accent peeking through, as telling as that was already, but it was too quiet at the end, raspy in his throat. Hoster had smiled, in that way that he’d never liked. Like he knew something he bloody didn’t, but there was too much sadness in his clear blue orbs.
“You’re not a fool, Brynden.” Dust between his lips, which looked too ancient and frail in his face. He’d looked at him then, really looked, because at a glance he couldn’t recognize him. There was no denying though, by the weight of the brow, and the cut of his cheeks –
“I’ll take Sansa back or nothin’ at all.” Brynden snarled, ignoring the tightness of his ribs against his lungs, how they ached and seemed to want to splinter. “’Course I suppose that’s not yer right, is it, yer grace?” Worse than before, he could barely recognize the words, his brogue ruining them with a roughness he thought he’d abandoned as a boy. Why had he remembered that? Her eyes were still so green. His thoughts weren’t right – now since he’d seen her again. He’d expected the Old Lion, not a woman grown with wildfire sparking in her eyes.
“Still nothin’ more than a lass,” he growled under his breath, teeth grinding, “haven’ learned a damn thing.” Did she expect him to just hand over the Kingslayer? To an outsider, he appeared righteously furious. How dare his enemy send a woman, Queen or no, to treat? But it could never be so far from the truth. What happened when that green flame met water? Rushing, never-ending, like the rivers of his home? Steam, he realized, hotter than any fire. What color would it be? He hoped it would be black. “We’re done here.”
He turned, ready to duck his head, and exit the tent. Be done with the farce, as he rightfully should be, because he refused to play ‘The Game’ – detested, bullshit, lies – with her.
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