Four figures stood in silence before a large bed, its wooden frame draped in wolf fur, the covers pulled up like a shroud over the tragedy beneath. Their eyes, filled with grief and, for some, guilt, were fixed on two lifeless forms resting in stillness.
The first body belonged to a young maiden, barely twenty name days old. Petite and fragile, she stood no taller than 5'2 (1.55 meters). Her freckled cheeks, delicate lips, and triangular chin gave her an air of innocence, accentuated by her small, light blue eyes. Long, straight blond hair cascaded to her elbows. Her chest, barely developed, and frail frame spoke of her youth, while the bloodstained white nightgown clinging to her hips told the tragic tale of what had transpired. Beside her laid a tiny, stillborn child, a boy, the umbilical cord still connecting mother and son, the final, bond they would ever share.
Among the mourners, the elder figure on the far right stepped forward, the heavy chain around his neck rattling softly as he moved. He was an aged man, perhaps in his early fifties, clad in the dull grey robes representative of his function. His voice trembled with both sorrow and shame as he broke the oppressive silence, "I shall go now and inform your father." His bow was stiff, eyes averted, weighed down by the knowledge that he had failed to save either mother or child.
No one responded. None of them even bothered to acknowledge his presence, except Minisa, the sole woman among the remaining three, who shot him an uneasy glance before quickly looking away. Her gaze then flickered from the man on her right to the one on her left, worry etched into her brow. Her thoughts swirled with unease ; She feared they might leap to rash conclusions about the Maester's failure, and worse, that her husband might begin to wrongly wonder whether the death of their infant sons and the grim scene before them had any connection.
Minisa turned to her husband, Hoster, the towering figure beside her, and whispered with quiet conviction, "I think it's best we leave Brynden to his grief." Her hand gripped his arm, firm but gentle, conveying more than just a suggestion. It was a certainty rooted in deep understanding, a quiet insistence that came from knowing Brynden too well. His need for solitude wasn't just a possibility ; It was undeniable.
Hoster, seeing the vacant, hollow stare in his brother's eyes as he gazed at the pale form of his dead son, knew Minisa was right. There was nothing he could say or do to ease Brynden's pain, no words that could pierce through the thick fog of loss that now surrounded him.
"You are right." He murmured softly, his voice heavy with resignation. Together, they turned and quietly left the room.
As the door clicked shut behind them, Brynden let out a long, shuddering sigh, the kind that seemed to drag the weight of the world along with it. His family had meant well, of course, but their presence had felt like a noose tightening around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. Now, in the silence of his solitude, he finally let the mask slip. The walls he had so carefully constructed crumbled, and with them, the fragile composure he had clung to. Grief, relentless and suffocating, crashed over him like a wave, and this time, he didn't resist.
[Brynden's POV]
From the start, my union with Bethany was a precarious thing, a match forged in duty, not in desire. It was never about love, only about the rise of my House through this alliance. That, above all, was the reason I agreed to wed her. And that reason hung over us like a cloud, smothering any hope for true affection.
As the days passed, it became clear to me that no love would bloom between us. Bethany was fair, cheerful, kind, and surprisingly honest for someone born in the Reach, where deceit flows like wine through the veins of its nobility. But she was also naive. Immature. Insecure. Flaws that quickly wore me thin.
No matter how hard she tried to win my heart, her efforts were wasted. I respected her determination, for it was a trait we both shared. But that was where our similarities ended. She believed that love could be earned, worked for, as if affection was a prize to be won through sheer persistence. It wasn't. Love cannot be forced ; It must grow freely, nurtured by a connection deeper than responsibility or obligation.
Bethany's death does not bring me to tears. Harsh, yes, but it's the truth. She was never the woman I had hoped for, and more often than not, her presence served as a constant reminder of the burdens I carried. Burdens of responsibility, of duty that stretched far beyond my own desires.
And yet, despite my resentment, I cannot deny that her death troubles me. Underneath it all, I am still a man of Tully blood. The words of our House, 'Family, Duty, Honor' are not just words to me ; They are a code, a way of life.
As my wife, Bethany was my responsibility, and I upheld that responsibility as best I could, even if there was no joy in it. I ensured our marriage was consummated to secure an heir and shielded her from the harsher realities of our world, not out of love, but out of duty. Even now, standing at this grim juncture, I feel the weight of that duty, knowing my sense of obligation to her has never wavered, even as my heart did long ago.
But, it is the loss of my son that cuts deepest. Though I entered into this marriage for the sake of alliance, I looked forward to fatherhood. I remember the day she told me she was with child. For the first time in our marriage, Bethany brought a genuine smile to my face. There was hope in that moment, a spark of something I hadn't felt in years. The thought of having a child, of raising a son, filled me with a rare anticipation.
Had I known it would end like this, I would have tempered that hope with caution. I would have prepared myself for the cruel twist of fate that followed, for the pain of losing something I had only just begun to cherish.
This ordeal has only solidified what I have long known ; Marriage is not my path. And as for fatherhood, since I will never stoop to fathering a bastard, I must give up that hope as well.
"Guah…" A sound, faint yet unmistakable, interrupted my thoughts. I dismissed it, chalking it up to the tricks of a weary mind.
"Guah guah…" There it was again. This time, more persistent. I felt compelled to investigate. Looking down at my son, I could have sworn I saw his lips move, though the darkness made it hard to be sure.
I grabbed a candle from the shelf and moved closer, the flame casting a dim glow over his tiny form.
The first thing I noticed was his skin, no longer deathly pale, but tinged with a faint blush. The second was the warmth beneath my fingers as I touched his forehead. The realization hit me like a hammer to the chest.
"Guah guah." He murmured again, his tiny mouth moving, his body wriggling toward my hand. Alive. My son was alive!
"By the Seven!" I wrapped him in a sheet, keeping his small body warm before I rushed from the room. My only thought was to find my father, praying Maester Kym was still nearby.
(Three hours later)
The news of my son's survival spread fast, and the reactions were as I expected. Minisa, bless her heart, cried with joy, embracing the miracle without a second thought. My father and Hoster remained silent but gave welcoming smiles, refraining from voicing any doubts. They wouldn't question what they were given.
But Maester Kym... he was a different matter entirely. Unlike the others, Kym could not simply forget what he had seen. He had been there. He had held my son's lifeless body. His skepticism hung heavy in the air between us.
We were seated in the great hall, opposite each other at the banquet table. My son, quiet as a shadow, suckled at the breast of a young pregnant peasant girl we had summoned to ensure he would not go hungry. Kym, though, was focused on me, his eyes betraying the thoughts he could not openly voice. He wanted me to end my son's life but lacked the courage to state it outright.
"You saw him as I did, Brynden." Kym began, his voice tinged with unease, "He wasn't breathing, his skin was cold and pale, he was..."
I cut him off with a wave of my hand. I had heard enough. Rising from the table, I glanced at the girl to ensure she wouldn't overhear the rest of this conversation.
"Let's continue this elsewhere, Maester." I said, my tone like ice as I led him into the dimly lit corridors of the castle.
(Five minutes later)
Returning to the great hall, I wiped the blood from my hands with practiced precision, careful not to alarm the young peasant girl tending to my son. She looked up from feeding him, offering a bright, innocent smile. She knew nothing of what had just transpired.
Family, Duty, Honor.
Of all the words in the Tully motto, 'family' comes first. Always. And when the choice laid between my son and Maester Kym, a man I had known all my life, the decision was never in doubt. My son's life was paramount, as it should be.
Knowing Kym as I did, there could be no other outcome but his death. Any alternative would have been a risk too great to bear.
Had I allowed him to stay, my son would have lived under the shadow of constant danger. Had I dismissed him quietly, there was no telling what whispers he might spread to the Citadel. And what sort of maester would they have sent after that? No, the threat had to be dealt with. Permanently.
Some nobles are naive enough to think maesters are obedient, loyal to a fault. I'm not one of them. I have seen enough to know that for some, their 'wisdom' and dogma outweigh any oath of service. Kym had decided my son was an abomination. That conviction sealed his fate.
I went to the girl, her smile still bright, oblivious, "Your services are no longer needed." I said, extending my arms to receive the boy, "There's a silver stag on the table."
"Thank you, m'Lord." She beamed, carefully handing him over before collecting her coin, "You're truly blessed, m'Lord. I ain't never seen a babe so peaceful."
'Blessed?' I thought, glancing down at the boy. Indeed, he hadn't made a sound all this time. Not a cry, not a whimper. The silence was almost unsettling.
But not unwelcome. Adjusting my grip, I cradled him close, feeling the weight of responsibility in my arms. His eyes were unfocused, yet they seemed to fix on me with an intensity that caught me off guard.
"I haven't yet given you a name, have I?" I mused, a sudden idea forming, "What do you think of William?"
His small, soft gurgles were hardly a response, but the gleam in his eyes was enough to suggest he liked it.
"Very well. William Tully, son of..." I stopped as his face twisted, his expression shifting from calm to something more volatile.
"OUAH! OUAH!" His sudden cries filled the hall, shattering the peace. Perhaps I had misjudged his earlier silence.