Alan Beesbury
Alan was waiting. It was something he wasn’t accustomed to, doing nothing. During his fosterage he would always be working on something, usually training his strength and skill at arms. If he could, Alan preferred not to waste any time at all.
But Alan couldn’t rely on the servants to properly carry out his orders. They were too soft, too used to the light hand of his father. Yesterday, when he had told one of the maids to bring Barret to him, the woman hadn’t even bowed fully, she had just nodded and continued carrying a pile of sheets instead of going to find his brother. And then, after waiting all afternoon in his room, Alan was told Barret had left Honeyholt right after his lessons with Maester Robert.
It seemed like the old adage was true. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. So, Alan made his way to Honeyholt’s library and, after poking his head in to make sure Barret was there, he stood outside the door and waited.
He had arrived a bit early, but that was probably necessary. A child like Barret would probably try to get out of his lessons early, and then Alan would be there to stop him. But minutes kept passing, and Alan heard no commotion from the library. He had arrived halfway through Barret’s lessons, shouldn’t he have been complaining by now? Most of the other noble children fostered by the Hightowers always made a huge commotion during their lessons, either not listening to the Maester or trying to escape. Alan had always stayed quiet, but that was because of his superior willpower and maturity. Barret had none of those things, so how was it going so well?
Alan thought with a sneer, To confirm, Alan peeked inside the library again, and saw Barret and the Maester talking back and forth, instead of the Maester dictating his knowledge to Barret. There wasn’t even a book open! Alan remembered his own lessons, both with Maester Robert and at the Hightower, and there was never a reason for Alan to talk as much as Barret was. It seems that even Maester Robert had been corrupted by the laxity of Honeyholt, and was not taking Barret’s lessons seriously.
That was just another thing to fix, but his brother came first. So, Alan resolved himself to wait a little longer, and took out a cloth wrapped object. Unraveling it revealed a sandwich, Alan’s newfound favorite food. They were humble and efficient, with no need for plates or silverware. You could eat one while walking, and the Honeyholt kitchens could make all sorts of different ones so you never got bored.
Today, it was a fried egg, bacon, and cheese, all on two toasted slices of good white bread. Alan took a bite and savored how the ingredients mixed together into something greater than the sum of their parts. It was delicious, and Alan closed his eyes for a second to just enjoy the moment.
Then, a voice came from beside him. “Oh, hello Alan. What are you doing in the hallway?”
Alan almost choked, but managed to swallow the bite and recover. Looking down, Barret and Jeyne were standing next to him. Alan wrapped up the rest of the sandwich and straightened his back. “Barret, I am going to train you. Come with me.”
Barret looked puzzled at Alan’s command, but shrugged and nodded. “Sure, let me just drop my book off first.”
“No, no distractions. You,” Alan pointed down the hall to a servant girl who was polishing candleholders, “take this book to Barret’s room.”
The girl made her way over, bowed to Alan, and took the book. Then, Alan turned his attention to Jeyne. “Aren’t you supposed to be learning your needlework?”
Jeyne looked disgusted at the very idea. “That was morning! I wanna come too!”
Alan gave Jeyne a hard look. “The training yard is not for ladies. Go find the septa and she will have something for you to do.”
Jeyne pouted, but Alan ignored her. Instead, he grabbed Barret by the arm and started walking towards the training yard. Barret had to hurry to keep up with Alan’s larger strides, and halfway there he said “Alan, you’re hurting my arm.”
Alan looked down at his soft younger brother, and felt a bit of pity. It wasn’t entirely his fault he hadn’t been training like he should. So Alan loosened his grip slightly and kept walking. They passed a few servants who looked concerned, but Alan prevented any words with a harsh stare.
Finally, they made their way into the courtyard and to the training yard in the center of it. There was a small rack of wooden training weapons next to the roped off dirt square, and Alan grabbed two swords.
Barret had already made his way into the ring and was doing some of those silly movements Alan had seen him do. Alan threw the smaller of the swords at Barrett's feet and took a few practice swings to get used to the heavier practice weapon. Barret raised his sword and took a stance. It was amateurish and stiff, but a recognizable sword stance. Barret was probably just copying what he saw others doing.
Alan took his own stance and spoke. “Barret, we are going to spar so I know what you need to learn. On the count of 3.” Barret straightened up at his words, and Alan started the count. “1, 2, 3!”
Alan let Barret have the first move by not advancing. Barret cautiously approached, his sword waving around as he struggled to keep it raised and steady while moving, and when he was close enough the boy lunged and tried to poke Alan. Alan sidestepped his lunge and tapped him on the calf with his own sword. That wasn’t actually as bad as Alan had expected. Sure, he was worse than most squires Alan had sparred with, but he wasn’t as bad as a peasant. “Again.”
Barret pulled himself up and approached again. This time, he tried to cut at Alan from an overhead swing, which Alan parried and then stabbed Barret lightly in the chest. Alan thought as Barret stood up again,
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On his third approach, Barret lunged for another thrust, but as Alan sidestepped it, Barret dropped and rolled onto his feet and then lunged again. Alan had been moving slowly to match Barret’s pace, and was caught off guard by the sudden strike. It hit him in the back of the leg, and as Alan turned to face Barret, he saw a cocky smile on the boy’s face.
Alan saw red. What right did Barret have of smirking at him? He was a child, and Alan was a lord, a man grown. “Okay, so you hit me once,” Alan said as a smile grew across his face, “But that’s nothing in a real fight. You have to be able to last!.”
As he spoke, Alan moved at his full speed and drove his sword hard at Barret, who only managed to raise his sword to block at the last moment. Alan’s blow still knocked Barret’s sword into his body, and Barret winced at the pain. “Alan, you’re hurting me!” He said, but Alan didn’t stop.
“Of course it hurts. You think fighting is easy?” Alan yelled as he rained blows down on Barret. “There is always going to be someone stronger than you. Faster than you. Better than you!”
Barret was fully on the defensive at this point, desperately trying to stop as many of Alan’s blows as he could. Each one rattled his sword, and with each strike Alan’s anger rose more and more.
“What you have to do is per-” “Se-” “Vere!”
Alan’s last strike sent Barret tumbling to the ground, and Alan finally slowed down. He stood above his younger brother, breathing heavily, more from the anger rather than fatigue, and saw the fear in Barret’s face.
Then, his father’s voice cut through the courtyard.
Lytton Beesbury
Like most days, Lytton was buried in his solar by a mountain of papers. There were letters and reports for him to read, responses to draft, the records of Honeyholt and House Beesbury lands, and most importantly, the accounting of Honeyholt’s treasury. For the first time in Lytton’s reign, more gold was flowing out of the treasury than into it. Most of the time that only happened during a war, or when the current Lord Beesbury had some insane project they wanted to be done, but Lytton was doing neither of those things. At least, he hoped what he was doing wouldn’t be viewed as insane by his descendants, like his great uncle who tried to build a bridge across the Honeywine.
No, Lytton was spending tremendous amounts of gold on improving what had been the source of House Beesbury’s wealth since Ellyn Ever Sweet, their beehives. Alan’s new hiveboxes costed more than the traditional straw skep, but the few beekeepers who had been given them had raved about how useful they were. Not just for the ease of harvesting, but how it let them inspect each hive for problems like diseases and parasites.
The carpenters of Honeytown had been constantly improving the speed and quality of their process, and had gotten it down to about half a dozen a day. The blacksmiths had created a few prototypes of the harvesting machines, and tests were happening daily in Honeyholt’s personal hiveworks to see which one was the best.
All in all, Lytton was happy with the results. It looked like each hive would give about double or triple the amount of honey, and double the amount of wax as well. That was more than they could sell to Oldtown, and all for a few extra stars per hive.
The biggest problem that came up was how a lot of the old skepmakers were out of work, but Lytton allowed the Honeytown hiveworks to hire them, as they would be needing more people to process all the additional honey and wax.
So, even though he was immensely busy, Lytton was having a good day. That is, until his youngest daughter ran into the room almost in tears. “Daaaaddy! Daddy!” Jeyne said as she panted from the climb. “Alan is bullying Barret!”
Lytton quickly picked up his daughter and put her on his knee. “What’s wrong? Just breathe.” Lytton said.
Jeyne eventually calmed down enough and told Lytton what was going on. “Alan is hitting Barret with a sword!”
A sword? Lytton thought back to what Alan was saying, about how Barret needed to learn how to fight. Lytton was going to deal with it, but it seemed like Alan took matters into his own hands.
Lytton put Jeyne down and stood up. He started walking towards the training yard, and as he passed a servant he waved them over. “Find Ser Dack and bring him to the courtyard. And take Jeyne to Lady Beesbury.” The servant nodded and took Jeyne by the hand. It wouldn’t do for her to see what was about to happen.
Moving as quickly as his aging knees could handle, Lytton felt worried. Alan had returned with a lot of ideas and anger. Lytton had wanted to give him some space, letting him calm down and get used to being home again. But if Alan couldn’t contain himself, then Lytton would have to punish him. After all, Alan liked to point out how he was a man now, so Lytton would treat him like one.
Lytton could hear the noises before he reached the courtyard. Sharp cracks and faint yelps of pain. That just made him move even faster, and as he exited into the afternoon sun, what he saw made his blood boil.
Alan was in the middle of the training yard, standing over Barret and hitting him repeatedly with his wooden sword. He had to stop him this instant.
“What are you doing, ?” Lytton yelled, bringing up some of the commanding tone he had once used to order knights and men-at-arms.
Alan stopped and turned to face Lytton. Lytton saw a range of emotions flash across Alan’s face, anger and regret and surprise. But then Alan hardened his expression and stepped back from Barret.
“I was… training Barret, father.” Alan said in a neutral tone.
“That was not training!” Lytton yelled as he helped Barret up from the ground. Blood was trickling from the boy's face. “You were beating him!”
Alan at least had the shame to stay quiet, or maybe he just realized anything he said would just make things worse. Barret was unable to stand properly by himself, so Lytton let him lean on his leg as he turned his attention back to Alan. “You went too far.”
As he spoke, another person stepped into the courtyard. It was Ser Dack, and the older knight seemed to grasp what was happening immediately. “Lord Beesbury, you called for me?”
“Yes, Ser Dack,” Lytton said without breaking eye contact with Alan. “I was going to have Barret squire under you, but it seems Alan wanted to try his hand at teaching. Maybe you could help him learn just like he helped Barret?”
Ser Dack looked down at Barret, then back at Alan. “I don’t know if that would be the most effective thing to do, my Lord.”
Lytton tried to put on a jovial tone. “No, no, Alan is a man now, and he obviously is very proud of his martial skill. We need to decide who is best to train Barret.”
Ser Dack sighed and picked up a training sword. He stepped into the ring and took his stance. “What you did was foolish, Alan.” He said. “But I am sorry for what is about to happen.”
Before they could start, Barret said something in a quiet voice. “No… don’t hurt him. Alan is… confused.”
Lytton reached down and put a hand on Barret’s head. “This is the only way he will learn.”
“Please,” Barret said, staring up at Lytton through his one good eye, “I don’t want my brother to hate me.”
Lytton stared at the fear and sadness in Barret’s face, then sighed. “Stop!” He called out, and Ser Dack lowered his sword.
“Alan, follow me. Ser Dack, help Barret to his room.” Lytton stood up and handed Barret over to the knight. Alan fell into line behind Lytton surprisingly quickly, but as they walked, only one thought filled Lytton’s mind.
