A Golden Path: Design 3.3 (ch. 26) (Patreon)

Rickard had considered himself to be a good father. A decent one, at least. He looked to the pampered weak willed children of the South, and even of the North, and he had been proud to see how his children compared. Benjen was young, but dutiful. Lyanna was clever, quick witted, and she would one day grow into a beautiful woman. Eddard was steadfast and reliable. Brandon had been what every father wanted their heir to be -- handsome, clever, and a natural leader. 

But now he looked at the mess that had become his House and he wondered if he had been deluding himself this entire time. 

“The boy looked away from his opponent in the middle of a duel to make some love declaration to the betrothed of the man he was fighting -- he clearly wasn't using his head for much, so what does it matter I took it off his shoulders?” Brandon asked with what could only be willful stupidity. That, or he was acting deliberately obtuse for no reason greater than to drive him into madness. 

In the aftermath of the duel, Rickard all but dragged his son by his ear into their quarters. Already his mind was a mess of plans and ideas how to mitigate the damage done, and while killing some fool boy with delusions well beyond his station was hardly a death blow to the alliance that had been in the making for more than a decade… it was still an issue for Brandon's marriage. A marriage he was content to set ablaze before they even said the vows. 

“It matters,” Rickard uttered with forced patience that he didn't feel. “Because your bride was quite fond of him. They were childhood friends. I don't care what the boy felt for her, but she was fond of him and she just watched you cut his dawned head off!” He snapped, clenching his jaw in an effort to regin in his temper. 

Brandon's reaction was entirely lackluster and in that moment, when his son gave an uninterested shrug, Rickard barely recognized him. The drinking, the anger, the casual disregard for anyone and everything… 

‘I did this,’ Rickard knew. Brandon tried to force his hand to break the alliance, and Rickard countered with an ultimatum -- his bastard child or his brother. It had been necessary, Rickard had told himself. Too much relied on the marriage to indulge Brandon's selfishness. The coming years would define the North's future for decades if not centuries to come. He loved his son, but he was Warden of the North before he was a father. 

Yet, he hadn't expected… this. For Brandon to simply… degrade. For Brandon to be content setting himself on fire so long as he was singed by the flames. 

“Really? I hadn't noticed, especially with all of that shrieking,” Brandon scoffed sarcastically. “They can wail all they like. I didn't do anything wrong.” 

He didn't. That was perhaps the most frustrating thing about the whole affair. Baelish, that stupid boy, had challenged his son to a duel. A boy who ruled over a plot of land smaller than some of the farms in the North challenged the heir of the North, the largest kingdom of the Seven Kingdoms, to a duel over a marriage that was arranged by his betters.

The only fact that mitigated this whole disaster was that this would be every bit as humiliating for Hoster Tully as it would be for him. Baelish had been his ward, he raised him since he was a boy, and he raised a fool that Rickard was going to make damned sure was mocked from the Wall to the Stepstones. 

It had been well within Brandon's right to kill Baelish. The boy had openly declared his intention to fight to the death with no quarter given. Then he really was stupid enough to look away in the duel. 

The issue was how Brandon killed him. It was no question that he was the better fighter between them. Baelish was hardly a threat. But as daft as it had been, regardless of how rightly deserved, Brandon had killed Baelish when he was looking away. It wasn't honorable. 

“Enough, Brandon,” Rickard sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Just… enough.” Brandon hadn't reacted to the ultimatum as Rickard thought he would. He knew that it would hurt his son. Pain him. He would sulk and be irritable and resent him, but Rickard had believed that his son would still do his duty. He would still carry himself like the Heir of the North should. 

“Not happy with how things panned out, hm? Well, that makes two of us,” Brandon snapped, his temper flaring. 

Rickard forced himself to swallow a retort. “Son -- I'm not the one marrying the girl. I'm not the one who will have her as the mother of my children. You are. I'm not mad that you killed that weedy rat of a lord. I'm disappointed that you resent me so damn much you're willing to hurt yourself to spite me.” There was a flicker of emotion in Brandon's eyes at that. He was angry that Rickard wasn't getting angry. 

“A song will be composed,” Rickard continued as he took a seat, feeling a special kind of exhaustion that felt like it was bone deep. “If history remembers Petyr Baelish at all, it will be as a lovestruck fool. Your reputation will be unblemished by the act. But your marriage with Catelyn Tully… I'll be honest with you -- I don't know how you can salvage it. Finding love in an arranged marriage is rare, but it's possible. Most settle into a polite indifference. But this… she is going to hate you, Brandon. Did that never cross your mind?” 

“Of course, it did,” Brandon muttered back at him, his tone sullen and bitter. “But it doesn't really matter, does it? The marriage will take place, regardless of what either of us want. We'll have a child, and then we can live in separate wings of Winterfell and only see each other during celebrations.” 

Rickard supposed it was something that he was at least aware of that, but it was disheartening to see that he had that awareness and committed to the course. 

“A wife is a partner,” Rickard started but he was cut off with a look from Brandon. He really didn't understand how much he needed someone to share the burden of being Lord of the North. Instead, he continued with a sigh. “And then what?”

“That's for us to decide, I think,” Brandon replied curly. “But I do imagine it involves a lot of yelling and cold silences.” He said, his tone flippant. Then he leaned forward and there was a coldness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. That hadn't been there until Rickard delivered that ultimatum. “And any mistakes made are mine to make.” 

Rickard heard the finality in the statement, and he wanted to say something. Do something. To shake him until he saw sense, curse his stupidity and stubbornness, demand to know what it would take for Brandon to go back to the way he was. But, what killed anything he had to say on his tongue was the fact he knew exactly what that was. 

But there was nothing to say. The rift was simply too large to be mended, at least not now. 

Just as Brandon would feel the consequences of his mistakes, Rickard knew that he was feeling the sting from his own choices. He chose to be a lord before a father. 

A sigh escaped him and he shook his head, rising back to his feet. “Make yourself scarce for the next few days. Better that way. As for your bride… have an heir. That's all that matters,” he said, knowing that their marriage was going to be a frosty one. 

“Is that all?” Brandon replied curtly and that was the end of the conversation. 

Rickard wished he could say that improved the following days, but that would be an outright lie. Lysa Tully could be heard weeping and screaming through the castle, seemingly driven mad with grief. When she wasn't crying, she was demanding Brandon's head. 

Hoster Tully, however, was running between fires to put out. Rumors were swirling through the castle that Baelish had seduced the Tully sisters, as in either one of them, or both, depending on the rumor. Their virtue was being called into question -- not publicly, of course, but in quiet whispers. Lysa's reaction was convincing enough that he would be more surprised if Baelish hadn't seduced her. All the while, he was severing any formal attachment he might have had to Baelish as his ward -- his bones were quickly carted off to the Eyrie to whatever crypt his family kept, while he loudly and repeatedly denounced Baelish. 

That being said, things didn't get any worse either. There was a tension in the castle as if everyone was waiting for something to set off the next big fight. It was a tension that never wavered in the following days as they all prepared for the wedding itself. 

…

Brandon had a lot of expectations when it came to his wedding. At first, he imagined another by his side. And when it became increasingly clear those dreams wouldn't come to be, he fully expected his wedding to be a tedious and miserable affair. 

That, at the very least, he was right on the mark. 

Catelyn Tully hadn't said a single word to him, even as she sat next to him in the position of honor in the hall of Riverrun. She hadn't even looked his way. Honestly, it was somewhat impressive -- she was determined to be more miserable than him, and she was doing an admirable job of it. 

There was feasting and dancing as the Riverlands and the North celebrated the union, but it was muted. Not merely because of the tension, but for months on end, they had been feasting, drinking, and dancing in King's Landing. While the whole wedding was a bit rushed, it was still a worthy affair of two Great Houses joining. It was just happening in the aftermath of the most absurdly long and lavish wedding that the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. The people were spent and they wanted to go home, and this wedding was the last barrier to get over. 

So, they made an effort to celebrate, but no one was truly in the mood. Least of all the bride and groom. 

Brandon's own misery was ten fold the others. A pounding headache throbbed between his temples, and he hadn't felt quite right since he purged himself of his drinking. He gave it up for the duel, and decided that he was done with dulling his wits for the sake of it. Yet, alcohol didn't seem done with him as his body seemed to be punishing him for going without for a few days after more than a month of constant indulgence. 

Yet, worse of all… he gazed out at the dance floor where swirling bodies danced to a tune. From the corner of his eye, he could see Lyanna dancing with Paul Atreides under the watchful eye of their father. He saw Ned speaking quietly to a handful of Northern Lords. However, what stole his attention and his breath was her. The woman he thought he would be seated next to when it came time to marry. 

Barbrey Ryswell danced with William Dustin, wearing a polite smile on her face as they moved through the steps along with everyone else on the floor. They were going to be married, Brandon knew. Lord Ryswell wanted the whole affair of an unwelcome pregnancy moved along since it wouldn't result with his blood on the throne of winter. The betrothal was quickly being arranged, the talks already long in the making, as Lord Ryswell went with his second choice as the long shot didn't pan out. 

And there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. 

Maybe one drink wouldn't hurt? 

“I believe it is time for the bedding!” Came a sudden shout that was too quick for it to be a coincidence. Especially when the call came in the middle of a song. His gaze slid to Lord Tully, who wore a fixed smile that didn't reach his eyes as Brandon was forced to withdraw the hand from the pitcher of wine. 

The lords and ladies, if they noticed, didn't care much. That much was proven when both Catelyn and he were assailed by drunk lords and raises who ripped off their clothing as much as they shoved them towards the room where they would consummate the marriage. 

It was a rather unpleasant experience, Brandon decided, feeling someone pinch his arse. He imagined Catelyn was getting the worst of it, however. Thankfully, they didn't need to go far as they were shoved into a room and the door slammed shut and barred behind them. Leaving only he and Catelyn in the room. And likely whoever was peeping somewhere to make sure that the deed was done. 

“Well,” Brandon began, walking to the bed and grabbing a sheet and throwing it to Catelyn. “That was unpleasant,” he said, as Catelyn hastily wrapped the sheet around herself and eyed him with as much venom as she did suspicion. 

“I fear, my lord, there has been a misunderstanding. We are here to consummate the marriage. Covering ourselves seems counter productive,” she said, her tone a frosty politeness. It was a lot of words to call him an idiot, or something along those lines. 

“Maybe,” Brandon admitted, covering his own bits with a blanket. “Perhaps I feel like being unproductive.” 

Her jaw clenched and something about the remark set her off, taking it like it had been an insult. “What was it exactly, my lord, that made you hate me so? Am I so unattractive that you…?” She trailed off when she saw his surprised expression. 

And he was surprised. He knew that his behavior was… unbecoming. That had been the point. But he hadn't known that Catelyn was taking it personally. 

“It isn't you who I have issue with, my lady,” Brandon said, a sigh in his voice. Damn his father -- he had warned him about this, but he hadn't cared because his father said it. “It's…” 

“We are hardly the first nobles who don't wish to be married,” Catelyn replied in a clipped tone. “But we must do our duty to our kingdoms and houses-” 

“I had a child,” Brandon blurted out, cutting her off, and making her eyes widen a fraction. “I don't know if it was going to be a son or daughter. I… there was someone else. I imagine you've heard the rumors.” 

Catelyn hesitated before offering a slow nod, adjusting the sheet she wrapped around herself. “Barbrey Ryswell,” she said the name with no particular inclination. 

“She was pregnant. My father found out and he… gave us a choice. My… behavior these last few weeks, my lady, have very little to do with you. And I'm sorry that I gave you the impression otherwise,” Brandon said, knowing that it was too little too late. Her expression told her as much. 

“I'm afraid that your behavior began before your arrival at my home,” she returned frostily. “Before you killed Petyr.” 

“He didn't give me much of a choice in that, my lady,” Brandon returned. “That… when he challenged me to the duel? Oh, I was wroth enough to kill him then and there. But a few days later? The plan was to bloody his nose, give him a reminder, and the worst injury he'd suffer is his wounded pride.” He sighed, regretting not taking that pitcher of wine with him. “But then he went and opened his mouth.” 

Catelyn's bottom lip quivered ever so slightly but she hid it by looking away, “We weren't- I remain-” She began and he held up a hand. 

“I know," Brandon said. He had been appraised by the maester that her virginity remained intact, as if he gave a damn about something like that. “I believe you.” 

A harsh bark of laughter escaped Catelyn, “You would be the only one that does,” Catelyn said with no small amount of bitterness. “My father, my uncle, my sister-” her jaw clenched as her hands curled into fists. “All of them believe that Petyr and I had… the rumors that people have been saying! As far as everyone can tell, the reason you've been behaving like a petulant child is because you found out you were marrying a- a- a whore!” 

Brandon was aware. “I killed him before he could say any more. My regret, my lady, was that I didn't kill him before he could tarnish your reputation.” Catelyn let out a disbelieving scoff. “I won't defend myself from your accusations. You have the right of it -- I have been a petulant child. What I'm saying is that… you were never the issue. My father was. And I'm sorry that you've suffered because of my actions.” 

Brandon hadn't thought he would mean the words when he had this conversation. In the end, his father was right -- something that frustrated him to no end. End the end, they would be married. They would have at least one child together. The ship had long since sailed for love to grow between them, but he decided to settle for less than outright hatred. 

So, he planned to explain himself a bit and let some of the bad blood out. 

But now that he was looking at her, having the first real conversation with her… 

He felt ashamed. And guilty. 

All the more so when Catelyn swallowed down a sob, “Petyr was my friend. We grew up together. He was my friend, but he was nothing more than that. You killed him, and I can’t even mourn him because it wouldn’t be proper. Because it would just feed the rumors. And… I’m not even sure I could because I’m so angry with him.” She confessed, breathing deeply to calm herself down without much luck. 

Then she looked at him with a venomous glare, “And now I must share a bed with you.” 

“Not tonight,” Brandon offered, making her blink. “I’m a practicing drunk and a prat, but every woman in my bed has been a willing one, and that won’t change today. There's something here I can cut myself on to bleed a bit on the sheets. You and I can sleep on opposite sides of the room, if you like.” 

Of all things, that's what softened her gaze towards him. Just a touch. Not enough to forgive and forget, but enough to take the edge off her anger. She seemed to consider the offer for a very long moment before she slowly shook her head. “No, my lord. I have a duty to my family, and whatever I might feel, I won’t shirk it.” Also not enough to not take a dig at him.  

There wasn’t much left to say, especially when she let the sheet around her drop. Still, as he ever did, he got the last word in. 

“And so begins the first day of the rest of our lives.”