Summary: You were tasked with looking after four members of the King's Guard who stumbled into your Lord's keep in the middle of a stormy night. One of them was the Crown Prince in disguise and badly injured. You helped him, and went your separate ways. But what forces brought the two of you together in the first place?
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Shiera Seastar opens the door to Brynden's solar, not bothering to knock, to find the man himself sitting at a small table near the open window, brooding. He'd been doing that a lot lately.
She shuts the door behind her and crosses over the spacious office.
"You were supposed to be at the small council meeting half a candle mark ago," she states plainly, trying to hide her annoyance. Apparently no one had wanted to come and fetch the infamous Master of Whispers and interim Hand of the King, and so some random page had shown up at her door requesting she do it for them.
As she approaches, she can see that he has set the chair back from the open window just enough that he's not in the direct sunlight. He does have his cloak around him, with the hood drawn up. She knows that the bright light can hurt his eye, and give him terrible headaches if he's not careful. He has a gold coin in and is walking it over the backs of his knuckles of his left hand, over and over again. It's a thinking gesture of his that she hasn't seen him do in a long time.
"I'll be down in a bit," he says, eyes still locked on the view outside his window. The tower his solar is in offers a partial view of the sea, looking south. He appears to be staring at the horizon. This isn't the first time she has found him doing this exact thing in the last few weeks.
"Why did you let him go, if you were just going to stew over the decision like this?" she asks.
"I didn't let him go," Brynden huffs. "He was going to go to Dorne, no matter what."
"You told him about her message. If you'd kept your mouth shut he'd have gone no where." She points out, again. This is not the first time they've had this exchange, but she is determined to have it damn well be the last. She does not have the patience for this.
"You don't understand," he says wearily.
Shiera almost storms out. She does not have to put up with this from him at all, there are plenty of other things she could be doing, other people she could be cheerfully doing. But something in her, something she will not name, tugs gently. She takes a deep breath and walks the last couple of feet to the table. She pulls out the chair across from him and sits down.
"Talk to me," she says simply. "Or I swear to all the gods, Brynden, I will not speak to you again until you stop this nonsense."
His lone red eye flicks over to her for a spare moment before going back to the window. It's early, she hadn't really spent a great deal of time on her appearance before leaving her rooms at the behest of the page. Her hair is still back in a long braid rather than down, and she is not wearing her usual necklace of sapphires and emeralds. Thankfully, she knows that she does not have to try very hard to entrance the senses of men and even without her usual and favored accessories and styles she usually can hold Brynden's attention for longer than a second.
"Fine," she bites out and shoves her chair back. "Stare out the window some more, see what it gets you."
"I thought I knew what was going to happen," he says, not looking at her, but talking at least. She nearly ignores him and walks out, but instead she grips the table edge, counts to five and settles back down.
"We both did." She agrees, because it's true and easy to admit.
"He was supposed to die in the trial," Brynden says. "Or on the road to Summerhall. Fainted off his horse, second hit to his head, gone."
"I'm aware," she says again.
"Then why didn't he?" He asks her. Shiera suppresses the urge to sneer at him.
"Because he didn't, Brynden," she says, trying to control her tone. "The weave changes all the time, it's never static, destiny is only the lightest of patterns, a hint, a whisper, a faint metronome to sing the song of your life against. Anything could have changed it, or even nothing at all."
"It was an almost near certainty. You saw the signs too, you had the same dreams."
She shrugs, still not sure where his surprise was coming from.
"I did. But we've been wrong before, and we'll be wrong again. None of this has ever been something you can know absolutely."
He reaches out and sets the coin on the table top, holding it up on the edge with one finger. With his other hand he flicks it, and sets it spinning like a top. With the sunlight falling on the table, it flashes and glitters as it turns.
"He was supposed to die there," Brynden says again, watching the coin spin. "I don't know what it means now that he hasn't. What do I do now? His survival beggars belief, what did I miss?"
"His line isn't -"
"They shouldn't inherit." He interrupts her firmly, much to her annoyance but she lets him continue. "A dark haired Targaryen will never see the return of dragons, their Valyrian blood isn't strong enough." Brynden says somewhat sadly, showing some real emotion for the first time.
Shiera pauses a moment, building her reply with a little more care.
"So you have always said," she begins. "But I would like to point out, again, you are not always right."
"I have seen it. I have seen so many things," he says, his tone back to being exhausted. The coin comes out of its spin to rattle to a stop. Brynden picks it up again and spins it again. "Sometimes," he says watching the coin dance. "I get so tired of everyone else not seeing the forest for the trees. Something is coming, something dark and terrible, and the game board must be set in a very specific way, if the realm is to have a chance at all."
"And this is the only way to set that board?" Shiera asks. "The only way? To take Baelor away from the realm that will desperately need him?"
Brynden gives a shrug of his own. "It would survive the next few decades without him. I have not seen a way yet for the realm to survive the next few hundred years without dragons."
"Survive," Shiera says tersely. "But not thrive."
He doesn't answer, but she can feel his dismissal in it all the same. The coin rolls to a stop again. Again, he picks it up and sets it spinning.
"This is your problem," she says finally, and that makes him look up at her.
"What is?"
"You complain that everyone else can't see the forest. But you, you stopped seeing the trees."
He barks a laugh at her, and she doesn't flinch at it.
"I see the trees," he replies, bitter. "It's just I see the ones that will grow, not the ones growing now."
"Then why did you interfere?" she demands. "I saw it as clearly as you did, if he'd stayed his chances would have been destroyed. Instead you sent him and his sons away."
"Because…" he snaps, but then stops and gods take her, Brynden actually looks, for a split second, so incredibly lost.
"Because what," she presses, she is too frustrated to be gentle.
"I…" He starts, but then the coin comes to a stop, catching his attention again. He picks it up and looks at it, turning it back and forth to look at each side. It's one of their father's minted ones. His old portrait from when he was still a young man is stamped on one side, the seal of the realm on the other.
Shiera takes a deep breath, and tries one last time.
"Let me summarize, then, and you stop me if I get it wrong: I know you have dreams about something dark that is coming. Something terrible and full of magic, and terror, and death. I know because I have those dreams to. I'm fairly certain every Targaryen going back the doom had at least flashes of it. I'd be willing to bet that even Baelor wakes up in a cold sweat every so often from things he can't quite remember, shapes in the dark that don't make sense, just that overwhelming, oppressing feeling of dread."
He stops looking at the coin and looks at her, his red eye unfathomable.
"It's what drives you, isn't it? What pushes you further and further into the study of magic, reworking the weft and weave of time to set your bloody board up, trying to follow whatever faint path destiny has written, so you can thread the needle of a specific future, one where the realm can meet whatever that terrible thing is with dragons and win."
The Bloodraven gives no indication of his mind. She leans forward and taps one fingernail on the table like a punctuation mark for what she has to say next.
"You were content to ride on the coat tails of Baelor's bloody destiny, wait for the gods or fate or magic or whatever to write his ending for you. And then it all changed. Something else, whatever it was, changed it on you. And now you're faced with the reality that if you want him gone, you have to make it happen. And the reason you sit up here, staring out the window, is because you're second guessing your decision to let him live."
Brynden sets the coin on the table and sets it spinning again. He keeps his eye on her though.
"Was it you?" he asks, his voice soft.
"Was what me?" Shiera spits.
"Did you change the pattern? Did you use your magic to counter mine and save him? Did you send the storm?"
"Are you saying you used your magic to nudge his bloody maybe fate into fact?" She counters, offended.
"Just answer the question, Shiera," he demands. "You've always had a soft spot for him."
She scoffs, "Everyone has a soft spot for Baelor, you fool. We all do, even in the days when we were forced to train together, and were at each other's throats constantly."
"Did you rewrite his fate?" Brynden demands, leaning forward too. When he does, he bumps the table and the coin that was slowly spinning down, goes skidding across the surface and falls off the edge. It hits the ground, bounces twice with a chiming ring and then lands on the carpet near Brynden's desk with a thump. The side with their father's image faces up.
Shiera lets a slow breath out through her nose, to help her keep her temper.
"No," she answers firmly. "I did nothing. I have cast nothing for him, and nor will I. Baelor Breakspear will get neither help nor harm from me."
He slumps back in his chair, rubbing at his temple. He's been too close to the bright light of day for too long, she notes.
"Did you use magic to force his death?" she asks. She won't judge him if he has, she knows that the visions of the future weigh on him constantly. She may however, judge him a little for his narrow mindedness, it is so unlike him. Dragons? Gods save her from the Targaryen obsession with fucking dragons.
"It didn't take," Brynden admits quietly.
"But you tried."
"It was to ensure something that was almost guaranteed to happen, happened. I thought the most I was doing was just…making it a sure bet." Brynden's defensive tone tells her everything she needs to know about his feelings on it. He only half believes his own justification.
"And then he lived," Shiera says.
"And then he lived," Brynden agrees, and despite all his whining, he sounds relieved. "He survived something that he wasn't supposed to. I can't ignore that. Dreams or no dreams, him returning to Kings Landing is it's own kind of message. One I'd be stupid to ignore."
"Have your visions of the far future changed?"
"No," he says, and there's a touch of wonder to it. "They are still black and terrifying. But…the future's chances haven't been damaged."
"So you sent him to Dorne with his sons, because if they died, Baelor wouldn't be a king worth saving." Shiera concludes. "And you brood in your solar about what you missed."
He looks away, out the window again towards the sea.
"The pattern changed," he grumbles. "I just wish I knew what changed it. I can't plan for what I can't predict. It's futile, I know," he sighs. "Men plan, gods laugh."
She gets up from her chair, done with this conversation now. If he decides that he's going to continue with this endless sulking about what he, a mortal, couldn't foresee in the gods' design then she really is going to ignore him until he pulls his head out of his ass.
"Then do what you do best, Brynden," she states, shaking her skirts out to make sure they fall correctly around her slim form. She's still annoyed, but willing to placate him a little bit.
"What do I do best?" He asks, looking back at her, curiosity plain on his face.
"Adapt." She states simply, because it's true and easy to admit. They stay there, looking at one another for a long pause.
The bells from the Grand Sept toll the hour, which finally seems to shake him from his mood and sends him to his feet.
"I must get to the small council meeting," he says.
She rolls her eyes at him. He steps over into her space, so he can press a quick kiss to her cheek which she allows. He has, after all, stopped brooding. For now at least, she knows there's no guarantee he won't return to it the next time something runs contrary to how he thinks it should happen.
Brynden then gathers up a leather folio and some extra pages that he stuffs into it. He checks his cloak, makes sure he has his knives (both visible and not), and then goes striding for the door. Once there, however, he pauses with his hand on the handle. He glances back at her, where she still stands, half leaning on his desk arms crossed over her chest.
"Will you marry me?" he asks. His tone is sincere, but there is a lack of expectation, a lack of hope to it. This is not the first time he's asked, her, and she knows it will not be the last. He always does this, almost like he's just double checking that she hasn't changed her mind. If he was doing it with the intention of wearing her down, she'd have cursed off a finger each time he asked - starting with his draw fingers.
"You just accused me of interfering with your plans and sabotaging your efforts to protect the distant future because I am supposedly soft on our nephew." She points out dryly.
"I still would like to marry you," he replies simply, because it's true and easy to admit. He has never bothered hiding his regard for her.
"No," she answers. He sighs, disappointed of course, but nothing beyond that. Sheira will give him this much: he always takes her answer with grace.
"What are you doing for the rest of the day then?" he asks.
"There are some concerning reports out of the lower town," Shiera says, twitching one shoulder. "I'll be meeting with an informant who has more information. Sounds like a new sickness is taking hold."
Brynden grimaces at that unhappy thought, worried. She is too, though she won't show it just yet. After all, they don't know what is coming this year, only that whatever it is does offer some kind danger to the royal family. Their dreams have showed them that much.
"Let me know what you find, immediately."
"You'll be my first stop once I'm back." She replies.
"Be safe." He requests. For this she offers him a smile.
"Always." She promises.
He nods at her, then continues on his way, pulling the door shut behind himself.
Shiera stands still for a moment, feeling the fresh spring breeze steal in through the window, the faint sounds of the keep far below. She looks down and sees the coin he'd been playing with is still on the floor close to her foot.
She bends down and picks it up. She walks it across the knuckles of her left hand, just as Brynden had done. He was the one who taught her how to do it. He taught most of the Great Bastards the trick. Baelor too, come to that. Maekar and Aerys hadn't been interested. Rhaegel had learned but lost interest before he could become good at it.
Shiera has never really had a great gift for foresight, her powers lay in other directions. Secrets, knowledge of the current events, the things, loves, desires that drive people - that's more her domain. People already whisper about her and Brynden and their obsession with the magical arts. Rumors that will only continue to grow she knows. It's useful now, but they will have to be careful. Fear and distrust can turn deadly so very easily.
She wonders if Brynden understands just how much goodwill he has won with Baelor, letting him know about his Dornish healer waiting for him. Probably not, Shiera thinks. He'll figure it out soon however. This year will see a great many changes to House Targaryen, many of them painful. The specifics are not known to her, but she knows a sea change when she feels one.
"Men plan," Shiera says to the empty solar of the Master of Whispers. "Gods laugh," she continues and reaches out to put the coin down on the table with a click. Realm side up.
Dnp are obviously sweeter to each other off camera anyway! So it's not ooc to depict them being cute with each other. They just wouldn't do that in front of us!
[context: anon is replying to my tags on this post where i grumble about this anon message i got lol]
:3 yeah exactly!!! and they already show us so much of their dynamic as a couple (and even did before they were out 😭) so to think what they’re like off camera is sooooo *head in hands* ……i can only imagine how cuddly and cutesy they are orz
The worst thing you can do to piss Punch Up off is call him British. He's Irish and proud of it. A guy he was fighting called him a, "small British bastard," once. That man can no longer have children because of how hard Colm hit him.
