A Golden Path: Design 3.2 (ch. 25) (Patreon)

Brandon was not doing well, Ned knew. They all saw it. Each of them did what they could to bring him out of the melancholy that gripped him, only for each and every attempt to be met with scorn and failure. He couldn't help but feel responsible, but in the days that followed, he didn't know what he could actually do to pull his brother from his downward spiral. 

Then his father pulled him to the side, telling them that he had done enough, and Brandon would sink or swim on his own. That at some point, you had to realize that you couldn’t help someone who had no desire to be helped. Ned had chosen to listen to his father in the days that followed, pulling back and watching from afar as Brandon drank endlessly with a determination to spend every waking hour drunk. Their father was furious, but he held himself apart from it. 

A mistake, Ned realized in hindsight. 

“No,” Their father growled, looming over Brandon like an executioner's blade, his expression a frozen storm of emotion. It contrasted harshly to Brandon's almost playful smile, a cutting amusement in his eyes as he found a way to anger their father. 

“I'm not sure what you're telling me that for -- I'm the one that was challenged,” Brandon replied, a slight smile tugging at his lips as if he heard a jest only he could understand. “Unless you're saying I should have refused the duel, but what would that say about the North and House Stark? That the Heir to the largest kingdom in the Seven Kingdoms was afraid and quivering in his boots to duel a lanky half wit from some worthless holdings in the Vale?” 

Then his brow furrowed, “Actually, what in the hells is that twit even doing here anyway? He's a Vale lordling, isn't he?” 

“That twit,” Their father growled, clenching his jaw, “is Lord Hoster's ward. He has been since the lad was a boy. Something you would damn well know if you had an ounce of sense in your head and actually spoke to your betrothed.” 

“Suppose that explains it,” Brandon replied, unbothered by their father's rising anger. “Still, the point remains, doesn't it? How exactly do you expect me to refuse the duel without appearing to be a coward? This feels like a conversation best had with the man who challenged me to annul this marriage, hm?” 

The worst part about it, the thing that sucked out every breath of air in the room as it was squeezed out by the tension… Brandon was right. He had been challenged in a rash manner by a man that was intersecting himself into the betrothal between two Great Houses. Lord Baelish was likely receiving a similar talking to, one far more deserved if Ned was being perfectly honest. However, it wasn't the duel itself that had roused their father's anger. It was Brandon and his behavior. 

“There will be no duel,” Their father stated in no uncertain terms. 

“Oh? Decided that too, did you?” There was something dark and ugly in Brandon's voice that didn't at all match the smile on his face. “It's not your decision to make. The lord of the fingers issued the challenge -- can't say that I rightly know what was going through his head, but he made it. Only he can rescind the challenge, and given that he is the type to challenge the heir to the North… well, I don't think it's likely he could be talked out of it.” 

“And when you lose?” Their father asked, his voice cold as winter itself. 

“Me? Lose to that two legged rat? I'm becoming something of a drunkard, father, but I'd need to be blind, deaf, drunk, and have both hands tied behind my back to lose that fight,” Brandon said with a severe sneer. Far more severe that would raise his anger at the thought of him losing the duel. Ned stood to the side, quietly realizing that he was missing context, but he was unsure what. “It's not as if either you or lord Tully would be amenable to ending the betrothal, even should I lose, anyhow? No, that's just the poor boy's delusion.” 

Then he snorted, “Perhaps I was too harsh on Catelyn -- I can only imagine the cunt that made a man so foolish-” Brandon was cut off when their father struck him. A slap across the face that struck with enough to turn his brother's head to the side, filling the room with the harsh sound. Brandon rolled his jaw and visibly swallowed down his anger but he said nothing when he turned to glare at their father. 

“I've done everything in my power to turn you into a man, Brandon. To prepare you for the duties that you will one day hold, and the sacrifices that you will have to make as Lord of the North,” their father stated in a softer voice, the anger bleeding out of him, leaving him sounding… sad. Sad and exhausted. “But you insist upon behaving like a spoiled child. A boy who has never known the harshness of winter.” 

Their father turned away, pausing for just a moment before he scoffed and marched out of the room. The tension didn't leave with him, and Ned found himself keenly aware of his brother's presence. He didn't know what to say. Or what to do. Not even when Brandon approached him. 

“No need to fret, little brother,” Brandon assured him, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “I know I've been worrying you a bit, yeah? But this has nothing to do with you. Instead… just live your life and be happy, yeah? At least one of us should,” he said, escorting Ned to the door and ushering him through it with a pat on the back. 

Ned looked back at him, a knot of worry tightening in his chest as the truth was lodged in his throat. “Brandon…” he couldn't bring himself to make the confession, just as he failed every time before. “I… I love you, you know that, right? You're my brother, and I…” he trailed off, not even sure what he was trying to say. 

Brandon seemed to hear it, however. The coldness and anger in his eyes was smothered ever so slightly, and some of the tension bled out of him. It was then that Ned saw how utterly exhausted his brother looked. How haggard. 

“I know, Ned. I know,” Brandon told him before closing the door. 

Ned lingered outside of it, wanting to do more, but an odd powerlessness possessed him. What could he do? Kick down the door and force Brandon to return to his old self? Was such a thing even possible at this point? 

Instead, with practiced ease, he swallowed the lump in his throat and turned away. 

At the end of the hall, Ned spied Lyanna and offered her a wane smile. “Eavesdropping?” 

“I hardly needed to. Father and Brandon were hardly quiet,” Lyanna replied in a low murmur, reaching out and clutching his hand as they walked away. “Father… he's not going to…” Ned knew what she was trying to ask as she had likely overheard the same rumors he did.

That their father would disinherit Brandon. 

“No. He would never,” Ned assured her as they walked the halls, having no idea if the words that just left his lips were a lie or not. “They're both angry with each other, but their ire will pass. Brandon will go back to being his old self soon enough. He just… needs things to settle first.” He hoped, earning a wane smile from Lyanna that told him that he had no more convinced her than he did himself, but she gave a small squeeze to his hand to show that she was thankful for the attempt. 

“Will there really be a duel?” She asked, and that seemed like a foregone conclusion by this point.  

At least, it felt that way until they walked the ramparts and found the ‘Finger Lord’ upon them, speaking quietly to Paul. At a poor time too, as Petyr's eyes snapped up to the open door and the embers of rage flared the moment he saw them. It was hardly the first time someone had disliked him because of his family, but never had it felt so personal. 

Whatever they had been talking about, it was brought to an abrupt end when Lord Baelish turned on his heel and marched away with hunched shoulders and clenched fists. 

“Lord Atreides!” Lyanna said, letting go of his hand to approach Paul, who put on a polite smile when he turned to face her. “Forgive us, it seems we arrived at an inopportune time.” Ned had to fight the urge to not roll his eyes -- the only time she spoke in that tone was when she was trying to convince their father of something, or playing the part of the dignified lady. Why she would use it with Paul was a question, and he wasn't entirely comfortable with the answer. 

“More to witness a failure on my part, Lady Lyanna.” Paul replied before he looked to him and offered a shallow nod, “Ned.” He greeted a touch more warmly. 

At that, Ned looked off where Lord Baelish had stormed off to. “You were trying your hand at convincing him to drop the duel?” 

Paul nodded, “To no avail. I'm afraid that reason and logic have little appeal to a man convinced he's in love." 

“... ah,” Ned summarized his thoughts rather efficiently. That would explain a few things. It was still undeniably foolish. Even should he win the duel… “What exactly is his aim here?” 

“As far as I can tell, the scenario he imagines is that he will defeat your brother, Lady Tully will fall in love with him out of gratitude, and her lord father will be forced to make a match between them once Lord Brandon is out of the way,” Paul replied, a hint in his tone what he thought of that drivel. Part of him was insulted by Lord Baelish, taking offense on behalf of his brother. 

Another part just felt bad for the young lord who was so terribly in over his head. 

This bout of stubbornness had likely cost him everything, even if he didn't yet realize it. Even should he win, there would be no such marriage. More than that, he would likely all but exiled from the Riverlands, forced to return to the Vale, and he would never see either Lady Tully again. He would return to his meager holdings in the Fingers, and likely never heard from again. 

“That's so… romantic. And sad,” Lyanna muttered, her lips pursing, thinking differently on the subject. “Does… is his affection returned?” She asked, sounding uncertain if she wanted the answer. For that matter, neither did Ned. 

This whole mess made it so very clear to him how absurdly lucky he was that he and Ashara cared for one another. That their betrothal was built on mutual affection. He couldn't imagine how awful that Brandon or Lady Catelyn felt. 

“No,” Paul assured without a trace of hesitation. “No, it is not. A friend is all he is to her, but Lord Baelish has convinced himself that love can be purchased with action, whether she wishes it or not.” 

“Oh. I imagine that this must be quite humiliating for Lady Catelyn,” Lyanna realized. “I can only imagine what rumors are being spoken behind her back!” Ned didn't have to imagine. As far as the North was concerned, Lord Baelish and Catelyn Tully were lovers. It was a story that would never wash away, no matter how thoroughly expunged. 

A look of determination passed over her face, “I should be there for her,” Lyanna decided, and as she often did, there was no dissuading her once she got an idea in her head. Ned watched her go, not sure of the outcome, but thinking that things could hardly get worse.

Once she was gone, a long sigh escaped Ned and he leaned on the rampart walls and gazed out towards the massive river that the castle was built between. “Do you think he stands a chance?” 

“None at all,” Paul answered with a sense of finality. It was something that used to trouble him about the lord, but now he found comfort in it. It was an assurance that the worst wouldn't come to pass. “Westerosi weddings are quite complicated affairs, it seems. Will your wedding be this dramatic?” 

That startled a bark of laughter out of Ned at the mere thought, “Gods, I hope not.” Then he cast a nervous glance over at Paul, really considering the possibility, “Do you think it will?” 

That earned him a rare half smile, “Who knows?” 

…

As Brandon and Paul predicted, Lord Baelish was unwilling to withdraw his challenge, which was how he and many others found themselves looking down into the courtyard. 

“As the challenger does not possess armor, Lord Stark has agreed to go without to meet his challenger on equal ground,” Brynden Tully announced, one of the three people in the dulling ring.  There was a smattering of laughter at Lord Baelish's expense, and a few cheers for Brandon as he was being generous. It was a foolish thing to do, but it was an honorable one. 

There was a steadiness in Brandon that he hadn't seen in weeks. His gaze was focused on his opponent, who had an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck at the jeers, but that only seemed to fuel his ire. 

“Both have agreed to the terms of the duel -- until one yields… or until death,” Brynden continued, his lips thinning at the last part. “Are both contestants prepared?” 

“I am!” Lord Baelish replied, lifting his chin and glowering at Brandon. 

“Aye,” Brandon replied with a single curt nod. 

Lord Brynden spared one glance at Lord Baelish, almost pleading with his gaze to reconsider, but the young lord remained firm. He visibly swallowed a sigh before making a gesture, “Begin.” 

Lord Baelish drew his blade with flourish, his expression one of controlled anger. Brandon drew his blade as well, his expression blank. Ned found his hands curling into fists, every muscle taut as if he were participating in the duel itself. 

“I'm impressed you managed to sober up,” Lord Baelish goaded, circling to the side. “It's more than I expected from you. A sop. A fool. A barbarian of the North that should stay where he belongs.” He said with a sneer, trying to rile Brandon. He failed there, but he succeeded in insulting the Northern lords that watched the duel. 

Brandon didn't say a word and there was a flicker of unease in Lord Baelish's expression. Just as Paul said, he concocted a scenario in his head, and he was nervous when reality wasn't complying. Petyr adjusted his grip on his blade, licking his lips, and Ned saw the swing coming seconds before he delivered it. He lunged with his blade, only for it to be batted away by Brandon's before his brother stepped in and drove the pommel of his sword into Petyr's diaphragm. 

Petyr folded over, gasping for breath and waving his sword madly to drive Brandon away. Brandon obliged, stepping out of his range and took no action when Petyr struggled to catch his breath. 

“You really are a special kind of fool,” Brandon told him, his voice flat. “You’ve been trained, I'll give you that. But you're not exactly good with a blade, are you?” He noted, making a furious expression flicker across Petyr's face as he gripped the sword with both hands and fought against his rebellious lungs. “No, what I've been told about you rings true -- you're too clever for your own good and you convinced yourself with your own cleverness that there is a way for you to win this.” 

There was something cold in Brandon's eyes. A coldness that seemed entirely unlike him. “I could have killed you just now, do you realize that? I didn't only because I imagine it would rather sour the mood between my betrothed if I killed her childhood friend. Well… sour things further. I don't exactly need your help making a mess of things,” he admitted and there was a shuffling amongst the lords. 

Ned found his gaze flickering to Lady Catelyn, who wore a cold expression but her hands tightly clenched into fists in her lap revealed how she felt. 

“So, this is your one chance, little lord,” Brandon continued, unbothered by their loud silence. “Toss away your blade, apologize, and withdraw your challenge.” 

“I'd rather die!” Petyr suddenly roared, spit flying from his mouth as he grasped at his belt. He yanked it off and threw it out of the courtyard, and there was a quiet gasp at the action. To get rid of one's sheath was a declaration of intent. There would be no yielding. “I'd rather die than see her in your brutish hands! I said it once, and I'll say it again- and I'll keep repeating myself until I'm blue in the face! She deserves better than a mangy mut from the North! She deserves better than a drunken fool! She deserves someone who cares for her, who sees her, someone-” 

“Like yourself?” Brandon interjected softly. 

Petyr scowled at him, but then he looked to Lady Catelyn. He seemed to summon his courage, standing a bit straighter and looking directly at her so there could be no misunderstanding. “Ye-” 

Brandon moved, his blade slashing out and caught Petyr in the neck. The beheading was so clean that, for a second, Ned started to think that Brandon had somehow missed with his swing. But then his head tipped forward while his legs gave out from underneath him. His severed head rolled away, continuing until it reached the view box of House Tully. 

“What in the gods name are you doing looking away in a duel?” Brandon asked his defeated enemy, and this… 

Ned wasn't sure if that was an honorable kill. 

“PETYR!” Lysa Tully, the second daughter of Hoster Tully shrieked, stumbling forward and lunging for the head, only to be held back by her father. A shrill sound of grief escaped the young woman and it chilled Ned's blood -- the sound that escaped her barely sounded human. The girl collapsed in her father's arms, sobbing and screaming from one breath to the next. 

Lady Catelyn's reaction was the opposite. Her face was completely bloodless but her eyes were full with venom as she slowly stood up from her chair and approached Brandon. Ned couldn't see his face from where he stood, but Brandon waited for her approach, even when what she intended was obvious from the beginning. 

The slap that she delivered echoed throughout the courtyard, and there were furious tears gathering in Lady Catelyn's eyes. Ned saw Brandon's jaw move, saying something to her. Whatever it was, it was enough for the tears to begin to fall before she turned and marched away. 

“Did Brandon…?” Lyanna questioned, and Ned knew what she was trying to ask. 

“No,” their father answered for them, staring hard in Brandon's direction as everyone was uncertain if they should celebrate the victory or not. At least until someone began to clap first, which had the other Northerners joining in. “The boy declared it to be a duel to the death then he was stupid enough to look away. Brandon met him without armor. He gave him courtesy enough.” 

All factually true, Ned thought as he forced himself to clap for his brother, relieved and disturbed in equal measures. 

But he had a feeling that House Tully wouldn't see it that way, as the family gathered around the grief stricken Lysa.