[b]Just after dawn, belowdecks on the bark [i]Red Star[/i], Bay of Crabs, just off Crackclaw Point[/b]
[i][b]--Raymund Storm--[/b][/i]

"If you fought the way you fuck, Raymund, you'd've had a knighthood long ago." 

It was a grey and numb morn through the porthole; the sky, the shade of iron, appeared to fade formlessly into the gently roiling sea, so that the horizon was listless and imperceptible. A light, misting rain fell, a leitmotif of their voyage since they had cast off at Parchments, escalating its misery to its expected height. 

"Your whore kept the whole ship up last night, you know. Perhaps you should introduce a third party into your couplings--I'm certain another cock in her mouth whilst you ream her from behind would make the all of us sleep a little sounder." [i]As if she would accept a twig like yours when she has Blackfyre itself at hand[/i]. 

Raymund Storm smirked to himself, took a quaff of wine and gnaw of bread, before responding, "My apologies, dear brother, for having disrupted your slumber. Had yourself been abed with a member of the fairer sex last night, mayhaps you would have had worries other than where I was putting my cock. I [i]do[/i] know how much you love your brother, and your affection is most appreciated, but such thoughts border on...[i]obsession[/i]." 

Ser Lyonel "The Laughing Storm" Baratheon had often been called the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms: tall, broad, dark, with luscious sable locks, an effortless smile which would make the Maiden herself to spread her legs, and eyes of molten chestnut which had earned him Lady Lyanna Redfort's maidenhead. Yet in this moment, Raymund thought, he had the look of a jaundiced cabbage. The pleasure of souring Lyonel's countenance had become one which made it easier to wake up in the morning. [i]In truth, he is handsome. But I prefer him like this--truly, it's his natural state.[/i] 

After giving a feigned chuckle and himself taking a swig of his wine, Lyonel riposted, "My apologies, [i]dear brother[/i], but I do not lay with common whores. That, I fear, is a bastard's lot. I'm sure you would know all about it." 

"Oh? Your cock requires a higher premium, then? Perhaps those painted whores, who charge ten gold dragons before they spread their legs, would be more to your liking. After all, who but you would pay so much for a fuck?" 

With a roar, Lyonel took up his fork and leapt across the table, overturning the decanter of wine and pushing a tray of sausages to the rushes. In a lightning motion, he grabbed Raymund by the throat, and, with a satisfied grin, poised the fork above his head. His breathing was heavy, his eyes full of molten fury, and body posed for intent, but Raymund couldn't help but let out a hoarse laugh. 

Still giggling, Raymund managed, "Ah, feisty this morning, are we? You're riled up after only a few prods...I imagine you would've run me through had I gone any further. Come now, Lyonel, I thought you had a thicker skin" Lyonel, in a rage, tightened his hold on Raymund’s throat. "Stop acting like fucking children, the lot of you," Ser Gulian Buckler growled from the other side of the table, clearing away the wanton sausages he'd been showered with from his jerkin, "Look at yourselves, a man of three and twenty and a man of eight and twenty, a knight and squire, aping around like animals. Seven hells, even little Lyonel Selmy would show some more fucking restraint." 

Lyonel, after a few moments of tension, smacked his lips and relaxed his grip around Raymund’s neck, before extricating himself from the tabletop and reclaiming his seat with a dejected thud. [i]Seven hells…[/i]Raymund could barely breathe after Lyonel’s assault, but he did admit that it had given him some satisfaction. [i]Be more careful from now on though, Raymund. He might run you through for true before we reach Gulltown.[/i] “Apologies, Ser Gulian, for my behavior,” Lyonel said, re-adjusting his disheveled hair and calming himself with more wine, “A fortnight aship with my dear brother, it seems, would push any man to his limits.” 

Raymund and Lyonel had never been quite amicable. Then again, Raymund and most of his family had never been on good terms. Corenne, his “mother”, could never reconcile the fact that his father had kept him in the castle—she was of the persuasion entertained by many in the Seven Kingdoms that bastards should be left in the whore’s dens where they were spawned, and treated Raymund accordingly. And despite the fact that his lord father had done everything to change their predilections, she had educated her children with the same prejudice. Between he and his siblings, barring Brandon, there had always been a silent and nearly imperceptible wall, a secret barbican which even behind the warm battlements of Storm’s End composed an atmosphere of coldness and aloofness. 

Amongst themselves and the other courtiers, they laughed, curtsied, made nice, drank, shared meat and bread…yet when Raymund entered into this secret realm, immediately, impulsively, nearly instinctively, the shield walls were raised, and their eyes, previously warm and open, took on the pallor of a cool dullness, questioning, threat—all in a moment, he was thrown from the dais, and was forced to comport himself in the realm of the common folk, even if he had not only the blood of a Baratheon in him, but also the blood of a Tarth. It was not as if he had been the product of a whore or a fishmonger’s wife, a frantic coupling in a cool hollow smelling of mildew in a moment of hunger. He was the son of Lord Rynil Baratheon and the Lady Rayela Tarth, two noble Stormland houses, a product of love, not of lust. His lord father had even desired to name Raymund as his heir, and to make Rayela his lady wife, before Lord Stafford intervened—a match between Baratheon and Swann had been promised, and he was not desirous of the stigma of an oathbreaker. 

Raymund, of course, had never managed to make his siblings understand this, nor had they wished to. And why should they? They trusted their mother, loved their mother…why should they take heed of Raymund? But Brandon understood, as he understood everything…and Gulian had understood, before the sea took him. But of all his siblings, it was Lyonel who bore him the most vehement dislike, from the very beginning. He was Corenne’s darling. And darling boys, all too often, do not learn humility before it is too late. 

He was handsome, he was brave, he was tall, he was charming, he fought like a lion, sang like a nightingale, could quote the histories and the poets…who cared whether or not he gave his bastard brother an ounce of sympathy or not? None but Raymund. He took the tourneys by storm, was a knight before he had reached his seventeenth year, and the next had crowned his first queen of love and beauty. He even earned his own appellative, “The Laughing Storm”, and a great deal of renown for his participation in the notorious Ashford Tourney with Ser Duncan the Tall. And here he was again, off to another tourney, off to achieve new heights of glory, fame, and fortune. [i]Let him have it, the cunt. But only this time, I’ll be there with him.[/i] 

Lyonel had put the castle into a riot when Lord Rynil had told him that Raymund would be squiring for him at the Gulltown Tourney. 

“That imp, my squire?” “Is this a jape?” “I’m in no mood for jests, lord father.” “He fights like he has a cock in his ass.” But Rynil would have none of it, instead dismissing Lyonel without another word. 

That gave Raymund satisfaction, that his lord father had not even entertained the notion of Lyonel’s objection. The deal was simple: Raymund had been training for a long while, and had decided that he desired knighthood—certainly, his lord father could have knighted him, but Lord Rynil being Lord Rynil, he believed that Raymund should earn it rather than have it given to him freely, a perspective which Raymund shared: he intended to make something of himself in the Seven Kingdoms, rather than have something made of him. The simplest way to accomplish this end was before them, as Lyonel was a renowned tourney knight, and a tourney was anon—any squire which won the Squire’s Melee and Joust would receive a knighthood. And whether or not Lyonel liked it, having his squire win in the Squire’s Melee and Joust would only bring him greater glory. 

Of course there was the issue of the difference in their ages: Lyonel was but three and twenty, and Raymund was eight and twenty, a notion which Lyonel loved to point out without cease. In fact, over the weeks of training and preparation for the tourney, Lyonel even came to enjoy having Raymund as his squire, not because it brought him pleasure to educate another in the martial code or because he enjoyed Raymund’s company, but because it was another way to demean him. “You’re exactly where you belong dear brother, pardon my frankness: beneath me.” 

After that, Raymund had leapt upon him, and the two of them went tumbling to the mud, Raymund reaching for a practice sword to beat the Laughing Storm’s face in, and Lyonel jabbing Raymund in the ribs with his gauntlets—it took the efforts of Lynsay Rivers, Ser Gulian, and Ser Paxter to extricate Raymund from atop him. It was a good beginning to what would be a month of hell which was now spilling over into their voyage to Gulltown. Raymund had thought that he had heard every insult leveled at bastards that could be made, and had entertained the notion that he was immune to them, but Lyonel’s creativity surprised him. In a manner of speaking, it was a way for both of them to say the things they had always wanted to say to each other but had never been able to—they were able to express their deepest feelings in the most extravagant and hurtful manner, where previously their abuses had been…crude, malformed, brutish. They were achieving new heights in the unappreciated art of vilification. 

Finally, after their period of preparation, the Gulltown Tourney was nigh. On a bleary dawn, their party departed from Storm’s End to ride to Parchments, where their ship lay in wait. Accompanying them: Ser Gulian Buckler, the sharp-tongued knight (previously a tourney knight like Lyonel, his face had been maimed in an ill-fated joust; he was certainly not pleased with the appointment), Ser Chepton Penrose, the drunk knight, and Ser Albos Trant, the old knight; additionally, Lyonel Selmy, Rynil’s ward, a boy of seven (who had begged for the opportunity to attend the tourney), and Ser Selwys Estermont, Lord Rynil’s councilor, who was acting as his ambassador to the tourney, as Rynil himself was not keen on making the journey (he excused himself under the guise of illness), and Brandon was not keen on tourneys at all. 

Along with their baggage, servants, and a handful of household guards, their party consisted of around three and twenty. The ride to Parchments was without incident, save for occasional altercations between Raymund and Lyonel—upon arrival to Parchments, they feasted with Lord Felix, and the following dawn boarded the [i]Red Star[/i] and girded themselves for the long voyage to Gulltown. In the close confines of the ship, the enmity between Lyonel and Raymund, comparatively in bud previously, burst into bloom. Ser Gulian, Ser Albos, and Ser Selwys took efforts to separate them in order to make the journey a fig less miserable, but eventually it became impossible. 

“You lost your wits off of Dragonstone,” Ser Selwys had said one night, “You’re better than this, Raymund, I know it.” 

In truth, Raymund did know it. But there was something about it…when he saw Lyonel’s face, his mind went blank, replacing rationality with a kind of blind, white hot rage and a creeping mischief. In a manner of speaking, they were obsessed with one another, or rather, with their hatred of one another. They were like lovers whose history was too long, whose fire had been replaced with loathing, who were ceaselessly on the verge of boiling over. 

Thankfully, the journey was almost at its end. It would be a day, maybe two, before they reached Gulltown’s harbor, now that they had entered into the Bay of Crabs. 
“I believe I’ll go abovedecks. Some fresh air would be…beneficial,” Raymund said, draining his wine to the dregs, grabbing a pomegranate and hunk of bred, and excusing himself from the table. 

The waters of the Bay were gentle that morning, and a soft mist lay over the deck. Crewman, being roused much earlier than the party, had already breakfasted and were heavily entrenched in their morning routines: caulking bulkheads, patching sails, wrapping oakum about the beams, mopping the decks, catching a swig of wine where they could. Captain Elrose, a corpulent giant of a man from the Riverlands, was busy at his maps atop the fo’c’s’le. Raymund wrapped his fur mantle more tightly around his shoulders, struck by the penetrating damp of the sea air. 

Growing up at Storm’s End, Raymund was not unaccustomed to the cold—but out at sea and getting farther north as they were, the wet was compounded by the chill, and the incessant rain did nothing to avail them of it. At the railing, he spied Lyonel Selmy in the fur cloak which overwhelmed his form, and elected to join him. 

“Tidings, little lord,” Raymund said, clapping the boy on the shoulder and offering him his pomegranate, which he refused with a nod, “How do you fare this sunny morning?” 

“But Lord Raymund, it’s not sunny,” Lyonel replied, giving Raymund a quizzical look. Already, the boy had the look of his father: the same dark umber locks, rounded nose, black eyes, dark complexion—he was practically Lord Amos in the flesh. Raymund had always liked the boy…he was bright, to be sure, and had a great fascination with knights—he wanted to become one himself one day, he always exclaimed, so that he could be like his father. 

[i]Not something most would aspire to…[/i]Lord Amos was a controversial character in the Stormlands: he had been a bravo in Essos, and after returning home had become something of a rogue, a dandy, cohorting around Dorne and the Reach, wooing maidens (it’s a marvel that Lady Beatrice had not yet wrung his throat) and challenging knights. Such a challenge had ended Lord Trant, and incited Lord Rynil to claim Lyonel as his ward. [i]Two young men, jumped up on wine. Fools, both.[/i] Immediately, he thought of himself and Ser Lyonel. 

However, much he liked little Selmy, his sense of sarcasm needed remedying. “I but jape, little lord. I know of course that it’s not sunny,” Raymund remarked, laughing and mouthing a handful of arils, “But no matter. Your first tourney, eh? Are you excited, Lyonel?” 

At the mention of the tourney, Lyonel’s eyes immediately brightened, “How much longer until we get there, Lord Raymund?” 

“Ah, within a day, maybe two, if the seas get rough. Perhaps even by tonight.” 

“I can’t wait to see Ser Lyonel at the joust. I saw his armor once, at the castle, you know…One day, when I’m a knight, I’ll have armor like that, and my own sword. All the best swords have names, and I’ll name mine [i]Stormbreaker[/i]. Do you like it, Lord Raymund? Ser Lyonel told me it would be a good name for a sword.” [i]Ah, how typical of him. It seems he’s earned himself another indentured servant.[/i] 

Raymund grimaced and put on an affected smile, “Indeed, a fine name for a sword, little lord. It would befit you well.” 

“Lord Raymund, you’re fighting in the tourney, right?” 

“Indeed, I am,” Raymund replied, tossing the empty pomegranate husk into the rolling waters. 

“Are you afraid?” [i]Hmm…[/i] It was a question Raymund had never in truth considered. Though deaths were not uncommon at tourneys, it was not one of his projected outcomes for Gulltown—if Raymund was afraid of anything, it was the shame of losing, and the lash of Lyonel’s tongue. 

However, Raymund gave a nervous laugh, “Maybe a little bit.” Lyonel was quiet for a moment, before asking, “Lord Raymund, do you want to be a knight too?” 

All of a sudden, a wind gusted and howled, shaking the eaves and beams of the ship, sluicing the deck with cold rain, and through the iron cloudbanks the bleary vision of the sun winked. 

Raymund smiled wrly, placing a hand on the pommel of his sword, and said, with a determination all bastards must learn, “More than anything.” 

----
[b]Midnight, A Bedchamber, Storm's End[/b] 
[i][b]--Brandon Baratheon--[/b][/i] 

“Still awake, my love?” 

Her breath was like cool flame in his ear, as liquid as buttercream yet balmy, overripe, smelling of orange blossoms. A moment later, he felt a warm kiss dapple his cheek, and soft hands smooth over his shoulders, then…the fragrance of jasmine, subtle but supple, nestled itself in his nostrils. 

It was warm, that night, unusually so for Storm’s End, though the nigh constant sea breezes, cool off the Narrow Sea, disrupted the lethargy of the heat, not allowing one to forgo one’s cloak. Brandon thought that, from his vantage and on a night as clear as this, if he squinted, he could delineate far on the horizon the distant shores of the isle of Tarth. No cloudbanks crowded the sky, nor did the lamp of the moon dim the coruscating of the stars. Even the waters of Shipbreaker Bay, for eons having convulsed and broken themselves upon the rocks of the cape, were comparatively calm, and further out from the coast they were as quiet and still as if they had been a sheet of glass in which the halos of the stars could be reflected. 

“No, not yet,” Brandon sighed, wetting his lips with a draught of water, “I’ve been in the library.” 

He felt her hands leave his shoulders, and heard soft footfalls, a sigh, the metallic tinkle of silver and the cool rushing of wine. “Ever the maester. Studying the words of old, dead men?” 

Brandon laughed at that. It was what she always said, and perhaps too often, but it gave him peace all the same. He heard her light footsteps come closer once more, before she stepped within his line of sight, leaning against the column of the terrace, cupping a silver goblet to her lips: Lyalla Baratheon, the lady of Yronwood, his wife. 

She had not the look of one of the Dornish marches, but the caramel complexion, teak eyes, and deep chestnut hair which spoke of Rhyonish descent—her lord father, Lord Felix, himself Stony Dornish in looks, had wed a Qorgyle of Sandstone, after all. He had been reluctant to give her up, Lord Felix, as any father would have been—he thought her more deserving of a royal match (the prevailing attitudes of the capital at the moment being Dornish, after all), not “a life of impotence on a storm-blasted crag”. Dowries, however, are expensive business, and House Yronwood, though puissant, was not exactly House Martell—Storm’s End was a powerful ally and neighbor, and charged a much lesser premium than the crown. Fathers only want the best for their daughters, and though it was not a wedding having the pomp and splendor of the Sept of Baelor, Lord Felix, crabby old man that he was, seemed satisfied. 

She was the most beautiful woman Brandon had ever seen: eyes so lustrous that they seemed to take upon lives of their own, a lithe dancer’s body, skin so hot upon touch it radiated the sunlight trapped inside it, a nose which crinkled when she smiled, cheeks which dimpled when she laughed…[i]I cannot believe I’ve been so lucky[/i], Brandon mused, munching on a date, [i]to have married a woman as wonderful as she.[/i] 

“Perhaps, my lord, you should spend more of your time studying young women. I assure you, we are very much alive, and would prove much more interesting than the deeds and travels of Jaehaerys the Conciliator,” she suggested, giggling into her wine. 

“You do Jaehaerys a disservice, my lady. He was a fascinating man. And just how many rebellions have you put down?” Brandon riposted wryly, inciting a high, clear laugh from Lyalla. 

She made her way to the chair where Brandon mused, her white nightgown trailing softly behind her, and kissed his forehead, twining her fingers through his hair. 

“You’re silly, Brandon…you’re so very silly. And you need a haircut.” She began to ruffle his locks, twisting them into loops and smoothing them into spires, humming lightly to herself. 

[i]In this moment…I pounce![/i] In a lighting movement, he seized her around the waist, inciting a surprised squeak, and plopped her on his lap, holding her close to him and whispering, “Now I’ve got you!” 

“Brandon! You beast! You almost made me spill my wine!” 

“Apologies, my love, I simply couldn’t help myself,” he said in affected atonement, taking the goblet from her hands and stealing a sip for himself. 

Their lover’s play, however, was interrupted by the tattoo of three knocks upon the bedchamber door. In a moment, the reverie was broken, and Lyalla let out a dejected sigh, curling her finger in his hair again. 

Irritated, Brandon responded, “You may enter,” as he did his best to extricate himself from the chair. 

It was Redmond Toyne, Lord Rynil’s pageboy, who himself had the look of one who had just risen from bed, his hair disheveled and his jerkin unbuttoned. 

“Good evening, Lord Brandon,” Redmond began, fingering a loop in his belt, “His Lordship summons you to his chambers.” 

“Of course. Father has always loved these midnight rendezvouses. He imagines that it lends them an enigmatic, mysterious atmosphere, but in truth it annoys rather than inspires. Well, did he say anything in regards to the urgency of this summons?” 

“His Lordship has instructed me in the past to inform you that any summons of his should be treated with the appropriate amount of urgency.” 

“Ah, typically vague,” Brandon replied, sighing and rubbing at his eyes, “Very well. A moment, if you would, I must needs dress.” 

Brandon gave Lyalla a backward glance and a light frown, promising, “I’ll return soon.” Previously having only been in a tunic and his smallclothes, Brandon pulled on his breeches, a black velvet doublet, and his tooled leather boots. 

Popping one last date in his mouth, he said, “Come, Redmond, let us away.” 

 [b]***[/b]

“Do you know much of ships, Brandon?” 

Lord Rynil Baratheon’s chambers were housed in the highest atrium of Storm’s End’s single tower, and despite the relative warmth of the season that night, the windows and terrace doors were closed fast, and a fire crackled in the hearth. When Brandon entered, Lord Rynil was in his shirt sleeves, studying a curled piece of parchment with fervor. Though a man of nearly fifty, Rynil looked not a day over five and thirty, though his hair and beard were peppered with fingers of grey—despite this, the grey added rather than diminished his looks. He had also the vivacity of a younger man, always eager, always active, his mind and body ceaselessly busy. 

His “desk”, as he liked to call it, a sprawling teakwood table he had received as a gift from a Lysene tradesman, was covered from end to end with documents, heaps of dusty tomes, candles pooling into wax, quills and bottles of ink and sand, decanters of wine and water…the floor all about was a veritable forest of rejected drafts, bundles of crumbled parchment, and overturned ink wells. It was the way he preferred to work—“Order confounds me. My mind is too messy to keep my workplace clean.” 

Personally, Brandon couldn’t understand it—he himself was lost lest his working area was kept in order. He couldn’t stand the thought of having to wade through a bedlam of papers, most likely overturning inkwells and wine cups in the process, just to find the one he required. It was simply…ridiculous, and more importantly, impractical. [i]But[/i], Brandon supposed, [i]he is the lord of Storm’s End. I figure he can work as pleases him[/i]. 

“I have a passing familiarity, lord father, though certainly I am no connoisseur. Have you summoned me at such an hour to discuss your latest fancy or have you something of real issue? I am deathly tired.” 

“Then perhaps you should retire at an earlier hour, rather than while them away in the confines of the library,” Rynil replied, a wry grin wrinkling his cheeks. 

“Ah, so Lord Rynil 'The Wise' is scolding me for spending too much time in the library?” 

Lord Rynil, without looking up, still studying the parchment, rose from his chair and began to wend his way towards the hearth, “A far wiser man than I once proclaimed, ‘The pith of wisdom lies not at the tip of a pen but in a layman’s palms.’ The synthesis of knowledge and experience. The surfeit of one and the dearth of another does not lead to the path of wisdom—it is their equivalence which grants us clarity. And it is exactly the surfeit of the one and the dearth of the other which is at issue.” 

“Please, lord father, elucidate,” Brandon said, with as much sarcasm as he could stand, clearing off the spilling parchments from a chair and taking a seat. 

“Happily,” Lord Rynil began, “Your brother Lyonel is an accomplished tourney knight. Your brother Leonard, having not yet reached twenty, vies for a position on the Kingsguard. Your sister, Aryelle, is a woman wed. Even Raymund Storm is on his way to making something of himself. Yet yourself…mine own heir…remain a character of mystery.” 

“I can’t help that I inspire such sentiments, lord father. You yourself have taken a liking to—” 

“I’m serious Brandon, and would appreciate it if you acted accordingly,” Rynil snapped, cutting Brandon off, “You can’t remain holed up in there forever. Aye, wisdom is a quality to be admired in a good ruler, but a philosopher king never ruled in his library. You are a man grown, a man [i]wed[/i], and the heir to a Great House, and yet you’ve hardly been outside of these walls, and within them hardly comported yourself. It [i]worries[/i] me, my son. Believe me, I can sympathize with your fervor. But…but…haven’t you ever wanted to travel to the places the books describe? Haven’t you ever wanted to see with your eyes what words cannot express? Experience what words cannot portray? You’re my heir, Brandon. My son—” 

“And why are you telling me all of this, lord father? You speak as if you think I’m some kind of shut in, with no knowledge of anything, like some kind of degenerate. Is that what you believe?” 

Rynil paused, making his way back to the teakwood table, then said, “It is because that is [i]not[/i] what I believe that I’m telling you this. I hold in my hand for you an opportunity. It would not chafe you to listen.” 

Rynil took his seat once more, and levelled his gaze upon Brandon. [i]Seven hells…[/i] 

“Well, then, what is it?” Brandon asked, sighing in capitulation. 

Rynil once again turned his scrutiny to the piece of parchment, and began “An ill-omened raven, I fear, bringing with it the revelation of a most unfortunate turn of events in the capital: it seems that Viserys Velaryon, the venerable Master of Ships, has shuffled off this mortal coil. Choked on a capon bone, the poor devil. An awful way to go.” 

[i]Viserys Velaryon…[/i] It was not a name that grabbed one from ones seat. 

“His many notable achievements include, but are not limited to: sitting on his arse day in and day out, muttering incomprehensible prattle about his noble pedigree, soiling himself whilst the small council was convened, and doing absolutely nothing, [i]absolutely nothing[/i], about the matter of the royal fleet, which, even if you claim to have only passing familiarity with naval affairs, you certainly must know is in shambles. King Daeron has had his eyes elsewhere, and rightly thought it best that he leave the issue of the navy to another time—yet what he did not expect was that this impotent Lord of Tides would leave the fleet to rot in Blackwater Bay, easy wittles for maggots, and a haunt for swallows. The late Lord, rather than being awarded the position on his merits, was given it for his lineage—the Velaryons being the premier naval power in the Crownlands, as you know. Lord Viserys, rather than having any acumen whatsoever in the field of ships, was much more adept at draining cups of wine and whoring around in Flea Bottom. Would that I could have knighted that capon for having done the all of us a favor.” 

Brandon began to drum a tattoo upon the desk top, “That is, as you say, rather unfortunate, lord father, but what does this have to do with me?” 

“Ah, then, you haven’t caught on yet,” Rynil grinned, “I’m certain I have no need to re-familiarize you with my exploits during the Blackfyre Rebellion. For my contribution to the war effort, I was offered a seat on the small council, a position which I refused due to the impotence of my fool of a brother, who would’ve certainly vied for control of Storm’s End in my absence. A certainty which I could not allow for. Despite this, King Daeron promised me that should a seat open up on the council, there was always room for me. Maybe you’re wondering why I don’t vie for the position of Hand of the King—I have no such ambitions. And neither do I have designs for the position of Master of Ships, which so conveniently now stands vacant—never knew much about ships, to be frank. Yet Daeron’s offer remains standing, and—”

 In a lightning moment of lucidity, cool realization had dawned on Brandon, “You intend to have me assume the position of Master of Ships, is that it?” 

Rynil’s smile was broad, his eyes gleaming, “Ah, now it seems you’ve caught wind.” 

“But, as I’ve told you, I’ve very little expertise on the subject of ships, father! Why…I have perhaps as much knowledge of naval affairs as the late Lord Viserys—” 

“Seven hells, Brandon, don’t sell yourself so short. A chicken has more wits than Lord Viserys ever did! And you…you’ve got wits to spare. You don’t know much about ships, certainly, but [i]you can learn[/i]. You’re young, all you have is time—and the use I see yours put to most often is tireless study in the library. Why not learn something new?” 

Brandon sat in pensive silence, fingering the little hairs at the end of his chin. A long moment passed. 

“Have you nothing to say? Nothing to retort?” Rynil inquired, trying to catch his son’s downcast eyes. 

“I’m not sure of this, lord father,” Brandon replied. 

“And what’s not to be sure of? Your capability? You’re one of the most capable men in the Seven Kingdoms, and [i]far[/i] more capable than me, to be sure. You’re the little son who ran away to become a maester, the boy who could name every Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the boy who—” 

“What I’m not sure of, lord father, is wherein your interests lie in this.” 

Lord Rynil was taken aback momentarily, “[i]My[/i] interests? And where do you think my interests lie, Brandon?” 

“I’m not so certain that your ends are entirely altruistic. That would be a fool’s errand.” 

Lord Rynil chuckled dryly, discarding the scrap of parchment to the rushes, “What, then, is it a crime to look out for the best interests of my heir?” 

“Not at all. But it would be foolish to imagine that your sole interests were those best interests. We live in Westeros, lord father, not some conjured utopia. If I am to be your man in King’s Landing, then I would be privy to these motives, ulterior though they are—if I am to go, then I at least deserve that measure of respect, don’t you agree? I and Lyalla both. For the family we’ll raise. The capital is unquestionably a den of vipers.” 

“Unquestionably so.” 

“Then allow me to see them coiled in the grass before they strike.” 

Lord Rynil’s grin was bright and wide, and once more he chuckled to himself before giving his son a look of reassessment, “Very well. Though you’d best prepare an excuse for your wife in the morning. We’ve much to discuss…and the night has barely even begun.” 

 [b]***[/b]

He returned to his chambers just after dawn broke through the drowsy clouds. Lyalla was abed, lost in reverie, breathing lightly. Brandon undressed, having had a night without rest and seemingly without end, collapsed beside her and drowned in a dreamless sleep. 

“Brandon…Brandon…Wake up…Wake up…” 

The same hot whisper in his ear, the same rush, the same fragrance of orange blossoms in their summer bloom. [i]Lyalla[/i]. His eyes fluttered, and gradually the room solidified from dream vapor into waking vision. Her face was directly above his, strands of her chestnut hair tickling his cheek, the canopy overhead. It had to have been well past noon’s height. 

“What is the hour?” he slurred, trying his best to clear the muck from his eyes. He realized he was sweating, and that the room was terribly warm. 

“Brandon…Brandon…” she whispered softly once more. 

His hands reached down to clasp her about the waist, and he kissed her upon the neck, almost instinctively, “Yes, my love?” 

“Brandon,” she giggled, raising her eyes to look into his, “I’m with child.”