King Maegor II's Chambers

"These men taught me vigilance, the hard way, your grace." Brandon admitted. "I should not wish to have a man serving with me who had not learned this lesson already, because it means they are going to have to learn it on my watch." He smiled in spite of himself.

"In any case, I managed to get myself cut down. Even so these men had me six to one, and it wasn't looking good. Clansmen don't wear armor, nor carry castle-forged steel, but they are quick to take an opening, and if they get one your down and they've bludgeoned out your brain before you've time to correct your mistake. Anyway, I slew three of them, but they cut me up properly, and were beginning to press me well, when Aerion gave out such a roar, that one of them soiled himself and was frozen to the spot, and two of the others tripped over themselves trying to get away." Brandon said.

"I think his grace Prince Aegon would approve of the second half of the story. On Aerion's back, I returned the Burley's man back to them, trussled up like a pig of course, but nonetheless unharmed. They were wary of me, after that, but eventually they grew to be fairly warm. They gave me some gifts, like furs and other things, that without which life would have been rather difficult in the mountains, and they gave me fair warning of bad weather and other challenges." Brandon said.

"Had I killed their man, I have no doubt that I would meet my end at the tip of a Burley knife. Dragon or no, Kingsguard or no, they'd have continued to come at me until I was dead to avenge their family, even if it took them a dozen generations. There is a fine line to walk, between provoking a feud of blood which can only end with your death, or appearing weak and an easy target, which also gets you killed. Some how, with the Burleys I found that line." He sighed slightly, thinking back on it.

"But as your grace rightly points out... first... first they must fear the dragon. Respect comes afterwards."

Brandon looked at the peasant girl, and reputed Targaryen bastard and raised an eyebrow.

"I am not a lord, ser is more than sufficient, and it depends," he replied gruffly, "Where exactly are you trying to get to?" He continued to examine the woman out of the corner of his eye. He was a bastard himself, and if her story was true, a big if, but if, then she was his half-sister.Brandon considered that this was not exactly a point in her favor.

"So it has been said," Brandon agreed, "Although just because only Dragonseed can tame a dragon does not mean that all dragonseed can tame a dragon. Likely as not you are going to your death," he added. "Why do you care so much, to prove that you are that man's half-brother?" he asked, the mere fact that he gave voice to the fact made his skin crawl slightly. While Maegor, nor most of the other Targaryens, did not give a wit for such provincial morality, the Stark side of him shuddered to think of it.

"Is that so?" Brandon replied, beginning to wish that he'd been quicker to move on Maegor's first command, "What about my look suggests to you that I do not know pain?" He was genuinely curious. Perhaps he concealed himself better than he gave credit for.

Brandon nodded, no trace of anger in his voice, "As you say," he replied slowly. He had no inclination to prove the woman wrong.

"My dragon's name is Aerion." he said, changing the subject, "I met him when I was twelve at a tourney, where I was squiring for my knight. Half a dozen men tried to mount him, all failed. One man had his leg bitten clean off. That man was a known Dragonseed, named and recognized. His leg came off in Aerion's mouth the way a capon's leg comes off when its been overcooked. He bled out in seconds. I still don't know why he chose not to slay me too, but I know it has nothing to do with Prince Maeron's blood in my veins. Perhaps I have led far too silken of an existence, but I know that even smallfolk without a drop of Targaryen blood prefer being alive to being dead. So I ask again, why risk death for silk sheets."

"Half-brother," he corrected, but he nodded in agreement anyway, "as is his grace," he reminded her sullenly, "And there is no shame in the white cloak," he replied, purposefully misinterpreting her statement, "I am only a bastard, but I serve my brother's family as best I know."

"That's him," Brandon agreed, proud for the moment, "He likes to earn his own keep, dislikes being fed by hand. No different from me in that, I suppose. Dragons are pecuilar beasts. Each one has his own preferences and habits. I do not envy you, approaching one with no experience in handling them. Aerion relatively young when I met him, and there are dragons on the Mont which are ancient in comparison."

"I don't know," Brandon replied truthfully, "I know little and less about dragons than most, truth be told. Aerion trained me to his standards, as much the other way around. All I would say is to try and find a beast whose temperement seems to suit your own. Choosing one because he's the fastest, or the biggest, or the prettiest," he rolled his eyes, "Is a recipe for being cooked like a pig on a spit."

"He simply saw me and stopped in his tracks," Brandon replied. "That's how I recall it anyway. But then, he was relatively young then, as young as I was. Why we could have been born in the same clutch." It might have been a joke, if the Lord Commander joked, which everyone agreed he didn't.

"Prince Maeron demanded I step forward and mount the beast, and so I did. You said something about having no fear, but as I recall I was terrified, so I do not know if that is the secret."

"I should think usually you do not to pay to be let into the comfortable cabins" Brandon replied drolly. "There is a goldcloak stationed at the end of the hallway, ask him to direct to out, and he will do so." the Lord Commander said.