Part 10 – Repercussions
Barristan (VI) - November 20.
Ser Barristan sat by himself in a corner of the Small Council room, uncomfortably with where his thoughts took him. The chatter of Lords Renly and Stark, the conspiratorial mutterings of too sly Baelish and toadying Slynt, failed to intrude on his memories of service to the last king; ultimately a mad man, Aerys 'the Burner.' Summerhall had supposedly darkened the handsome, teenaged prince, but on joining the Kingsguard in the brief reign of Aerys' father, Ser Barristan had always found the younger man charming enough. And perhaps in Aerys' first decade on the Iron Throne, which ever cruelly seemed to slice his Grace each time he took seat upon it, the King proved a little quicker to anger than was necessary. Yet he treated his sister wife cordially, if not affectionately, at least until Duskendale. Oh Duskendale. Everything changed after Duskendale. Guilt swelled in Ser Barristan's breast that he now rued his crowning moment as a Kingsguard, sneaking through the dark into the large square keep of the Dun Fort and rescuing his Grace; a king hiding the madman within. Everything changed after Duskendale.
Oh the accolades. Oh the torment to soon be unleashed! As Ser Barristan bathed in the light of the Seven Kingdom's adoration, Aerys sank almost gleefully into the venom set free by his half year long imprisonment. And throughout, Ser Barristan kept truth with his vows, but not without effort. Burying deeply both his questions about the rightness of his King and his feelings for the newly come lady in waiting, Ashara Dayne. He had remained chaste, despite his fantasies otherwise. Not as if she had offered herself to him, he acknowledged. But if Ashara had? What did he know of the bed chamber except from standing outside the King's door? By then, Aerys could only perform his marital duty with the smell of a burning to enflame his passion, and that then performed brutally upon pretty, cheerless Queen Rhaella. A tragically flawed man setting tragically flawed examples. Everything changed after Duskendale.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard sighed softly. Everything changed after Duskendale. And now another King of his, the Stag, a valiant knight, but a horribly weak ruler, drifted into madness, executing his Queen, placing the Seven Kingdoms on the brink of war. Ser Barristan shed no tears for Cersei, the noblest thought he could muster for her was she loved her children near as much as she loved herself ... and apparently her brother. How had he been so blind to the Kingslayer and Cersie? He whose sole duties were to observe and protect? But what did he know of love and loving? A pledge forty years past to a cousin he could scarcely conjure an image of? Ashara? Ashara, lady in waiting to Princess Elia and sister to his Kingsguard brother, Arthur Dayne, a vision of raven hair and violet eyes. Love? Barristan snorted, more like puppy dog devotion. Everything changed after Duskendale. Love never graced Robert's marriage, and kindness infrequently, still, no call for the Queen's cruel crimes or her brutal punishment. And now the children, branded as bastards. The King, a generous victor in battle, but a poor father, broken hearted. I should have intervened. Who protects the Stag from himself? Is this his Duskendale? Or is it mine?
The door opened; and the soft sigh of slippers on marble and the gentle swish of silken robes announced the entrance of the Master of Whisperers. Ser Barristan carefully smoothed any agitation marring his features before standing to take his place at the council table. With the quorum established, though absent a mourning and drunk monarch, the others disengaged from their petty conversations to address the needs of the Kingdom.
"Varys, have ravens gone to Dragonstone yet?" asked the Hand, raising the first order of business.
The Spider smiled pleasantly and bobbed his head in agreement. "Yes, the King's command that Lord Stannis return now flitters on ebon wings over Blackwater Bay. And birds as well to the Citadel, asking for a new Grand Maester."
"And who runs the rookery?" Lord Renly inquired.
"Maester Denys is kindly managing the avian menagerie."
"Is he trustworthy?" Littlefinger sharply questioned.
Varys delicately shrugged his soft shoulders while saying in a purr of amusement, "You have yet to buy him Lord Baelish, so perhaps he is."
"Enough," directed the Hand in a strong, firm voice. "When will the ravens Pycelle released yesterday reach Casterly Rock? A week?"
"Oh, I should imagine only three or four more days. If your lady wife's kidnapping of Lord Tyrion stirred Lord Tywin to call his bannermen, milord Hand; just imagine what Pycelle's message will provoke him to do?" the Spider asked rhetorically in his silky, effeminate voice.
"War," Ser Barristan stated resolutely.
"I am not so sure of that," declared Littlefinger. "Where is the advantage in it for him?"
"Advantage?!" choked Lord Renly incredulously. "His daughter is dead. His honor demands … "
"That he destroy his entire house? Tsk, tsk. I think not," Littlefinger cut in with a superior smirk.
"Lord Baelish may have the right of it, my Lords," Varys agree. "The Westerlands cannot hope to stand alone against the might of the other six kingdoms."
"And when Robert demands Jaime Lannister's head?" countered Lord Renly.
"The Westerlands already make war. Tywin Lannister has called for his bannermen. They raid into the Riverlands, burning out and killing the smallfolk," the Hand pronounced grimly.
"A slight over-reaction by a zealous father, misguided in his search of a favorite son lost, temporarily no doubt, to him," explained Varys in an oily tone of paternal understanding.
"The Imp? Ha!" barked Lord Renly.
"Nothing the Lannisters have done so far they couldn't make amends for, surely," Littlefinger pragmatically suggested. "Perhaps at the price of a few pawns, say Gregor Clegane for starts." The Spider shivered in an exaggerated pose of dread at mention of the man known as 'The Mountain.'
"Those pawns, if you haven't yet realized Baelish, can just as easily be redirected towards us," affirmed the King's brother.
"We must call Robert's banners," Lord Stark declared with all the authority of the Office of the Hand. "If for no other reason than to prepare should Tywin Lannister choose the course of folly and false honor."
A vicious smile swept Lord Renly's face, "The Stormlands will enjoy wiping the red cloaked menace from the Seven Kingdoms."
"And the Riverlands are surely already mustering their hosts," interjected Ser Barristan.
"Not just those," commanded the Hand. "The Crownlands, for a certainty, as well as the Vale and the North. Ten thousand men each."
Lord Renly smacked his hands together in delight. "And the Reach? Mace Tyrell wouldn't mind scrapping some gold out of Tywin's sour hide."
Littlefinger rolled his eyes, "At least you're not asking about Dorne."
Varys tittered. "Best to let sleeping vipers lay undisturbed."
"Yes," agreed the Hand. "I do not want the Martell's anywhere they could have the opportunity to stab us in the back. And neither do I trust the Tyrells."
"Oh, with the right incentive, I think the Reach can be readily persuaded to join with Robert," Lord Renly announced.
A dark cloud engulfed Lord Stark's face and he burst, "Lord Renly, I will not have you or anyone buttock brokering a match for the King right now!"
Lord Renly's youthful laugh matched the Hand's ire. "Who said anything about Margaery Tyrell. But I will say that thanks to Jaime Lannister's terrible violation of his vows, the Kingsguard is currently down a member. So why not offer the position to the Knight of Flowers?" he asked agreeably. Littlefinger and Varys hid their surprise well, but smirks still peeked through at the suggestion.
"Loras Tyrell? Hmmmn, well I'm not sure," the Hand thought out loud, rubbing callused fingers against his chin beard.
"A clever stroke with which to bind the Tyrells, milord Renly. And such a puissant young lord too," the Spider nearly giggled.
"And he wields a mighty lance," agreed Littlefinger.
"I can see the possible benefit of your scheme, Lord Renly. But it also places him a blade length from your brother." The Hand's statement elicited a snort from the Master of Coin. "The idea seems too clever by half. Do we want another son of a Great House so close to the King? Ser Barristan, you've seen more of the Tyrell boy in the lists. What is your opinion of him?"
At the proposal of the Knight of Flowers, the Lord Commander had immediately started to spin through his memories of the lad in action to see whether they matched his initial reaction to the idea of him as a Kingsguard. Jousts. Melees. Practice in the Outer Yard. Graciousness and knightly demeanor at court, particularly well liked by the ladies. "Skilled as a knight, without question. Quite good with the sword, but not so strong as his older brother Garlan. However the lance, yes the lance, very good, very good indeed. He hides it well with a pleasing deportment, but there is a brashness to him, too certain of his own skills. Though truthfully his presence would not discredit the current swords of the Kingsguard," Ser Barristan finished somewhat grumpily.
The Hand nodded. "Yes, the current state of the guard. Very well, the Small Council is dismissed for today. I will now go see the King to get his sigil on these orders I already had drafted summoning ten thousand bannermen from the North, the Vale, and the Stormlands." He prodded some scrolls in front of him. "I will raise the idea of Loras, and a summons for the Reach, to his Grace as well." The Hand stood slowly from the table, still limited by his plaster bound leg. "Ser Barristan, kindly walk with me to Maegor's Holdfast. I would appreciate your company."
As they stepped out of the Small Council's Hall, the sun reflected brilliantly off of Ser Barristan's spotless white armor, causing Lord Stark to turn his head slightly away as they began to slowly pass across the Outer Yard, bound for the Dragontail Stair and Maegor's Holdfast. The Hand had specifically requested the Lord Commanders attendance on his way to see the King, but then maintained a stony silence with that certain set, which Ser Barristan now recognized, to his tough northern features. After more than two months near daily interaction with the man, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard knew when the Hand gathered his thoughts before delivering unwanted, but hard truths to the King.
"Hail, Ser Barristan." "Ave!" "Ave!"
The cheerful cries of many Romans greeted his leisurely progress with the Hand. A hundred or more of them practiced in the ample expanse of the Outer Yard with their deadly, slender short swords; the blades singing as they wacked on their brothers' oversized shields. At least another hundred of the sellswords avidly watched several knights tilt from horse at ring posts. Publius Postumius had apparently liberated a barrel of pikes from the armory, and now the Watch Commander drilled three rows of eight men each in making a hedge.
"War hangs on the choice of Tywin Lannister," Lord Stark stated ominously, finally breaking his silence.
"Yes," Ser Barristan tersely agreed.
"If he comes at us, it will be hard and fast."
"You worry the Great Houses will not muster quickly enough; and that the King must need rely on these Roman sellswords," stated the old knight.
The Hand paused his shuffling steps to watch the strangely armored men train. "Yes," he exhaled, releasing a growing tension.
"A pack of half drunken squires could ride through their so-called horse; too small mounts, hardly any armor, no lances, and under strength bows. But rest assured, milord Hand, the foot will stand well against any foeman. Any." Ser Barristan nodded his head in agreement at his own words, before adding, "Though more mail for arms and legs, and some time to train with pikes would not be misspent. See there, Publius Postumius already grasps the truth of it and trains the first of his men. As clever and doughty a warrior you will ever meet."
"Yes, Robert has already told me as much," the Hand answered in a tired voice. "But they're sellswords, Ser Barristan, can we trust them? Trust is a coin I find rare here in the South, and one I fear Lannister gold can purchase too readily."
The old knight shrugged his shoulders, "For better or for worse, they are men. Many no doubt will be stupid or craven or even backstabbing scum. But they are more than soldiers who practice the craft of war every day, they have a spirit about them, like a tested army has. A pride and a stubbornness to meet the expectations placed on them." Ser Barristan then chuckled. "I think there is little to worry about milord Hand, you forget, the King has already charmed them with that magic he has for turning foes into friends. They already have their own nickname for him, Rex Hercules. That bodes well I think."
A smile flitted across Eddard Stark's face, clearly remembering some of the times he had personally witnessed Robert Baratheon's Seven granted charisma. At last he bobbed his head to show agreement to Ser Barristan's explanation and resumed his slow pace. "At least no one in the Small Council suggested trying to enlist the Krakens in all this," the Hand muttered.
Ser Barristan worked hard to keep his eyes from bugging out at the idea of asking the Greyjoys to arm the Iron Born for the good of the Seven Kingdoms. He cleared his throat, and warbled, "Quite."
The two passed through the inner wall into the Middle Bailey, skirting close to the kennels to avoid a mixed group of Romans and gold cloaks training together, in order to approach the Dragontail Stair. The too slick Allar Deem screamed at his clearly frustrated City Watch and the solid Centurion Titus Sidonius tongue lashed any legionnaire who allowed a blade past his large rectangular curved shield. Again they paused to watch the demonstration.
"The sellswords will think less of us if they only spar against the likes of these … dregs," the Hand scowled.
"The nearest of the Crownland Lords should start to arrive in a fortnight. They will provide more worthy competition," the old knight postulated. "Though we must give thought where to place the mustering host, and the Romans too. The Tourney grounds I suppose."
"Ser Barristan, I fear once even a modicum of an army begins to bloom, Robert will charge off in an ill advised hunt for the Kingslayer. His Baratheon pride has been too deeply wounded. We need a clear headed King and I will be too busy to watch over him enough. Resist his more foolhardy commands, please," the Hand begged.
At the suggestion he disobey the King, an unease swelled in the pit of Ser Barristan's stomach. "The Kingsguard is sworn to protect the King ..."
"… even from himself. I know, this is a hard thing, but unfortunately I have yet something even harder still to ask you, Barristan the Bold. May I?"
The old knights eyes' narrowed to studiously gaze at Eddard Stark; a serious man, an honorable man, and the Hand of the King. "Of course, milord."
"Will the Kingsguard protect the King?"
The question struck Ser Barristan Selmy's pride a hard blow. His hand clutched the pommel of his sword, wanting to draw it against the insulting, unknightly question. "If you question my fitness for duty, I will gladly meet you, or any champion of yours, with sword or lance. Name the place," the Lord Commander huffed, full of indignation at the implication of the query.
"Ser Barristan, Ser Barristan," the Hand crooned softly. "The realm needs you more than ever to guard Robert. Your name is a paragon through the land. But does the Kingsguard need or trust the likes of Boros Blount? The Kingslayer rotted the Kingsguard from within for seventeen years. Where else have the Lannisters' left behind the stench of their corruption? Through no fault of your own, this is not the guard of Ser Gerold Hightower. I ask you boldly, Ser Barristan, to be honest, could there be another 'Kingslayer' hidden amongst you."
The fire in his veins chilled quickly to ice at the idea of one of his 'brothers' committing the ultimate oath breaking ... again. Besides himself, only Arys Oakheart, merely a solid blade and lance most days, embodied the noble spirit of the sacred Kingsguard. And with the Lannister gone, the second best sword now lay with Mandon Moore, who would not have disgraced himself in battle against his glorious predecessors. But who knew what Ser Mandon believed in or what motivated him? Or any of the rest of his lackluster brethren, for that matter. "I … will ponder your words, milord Hand."
The rest of the deliberate stroll to Maegor's Holdfast and the King's chambers occurred in an uncomfortable silence between the two.
Meryn Trent opened the door to the King's solar, admitting the Hand and the Lord Commander.
"What? Who is it?" groused the sleepy, irritable, sloppy voice of the King.
"It's me, your Grace," the Hand called out.
"Oh, Ned. Come on then. Grab yourself a bottle. Get two. Mine's empty," the King rambled.
"Ser Barristan is with me. We brought several royal decrees requiring your sigil, your Grace."
"Bugger that, better bring three bottles then."
The Hand smiled faintly at Ser Barristan as he passed over the rolled parchments before picking up a mostly full bottle from the serving table and hobbling toward where the royal bulk, only partially clothed, slouched across a couch. As the Hand crossed to the King, a ripe smell assailed his nostrils. "Oough, Robert, what smells? It's like a midden!" Lord Stark complained fiercely.
"I didn't shit myself, if that's what you're wondering!" his Grace barked back with thick tongue through thicker lips, before suddenly giggling and pointing at a row of potted plants in the solar. "But I have been taking pisses on that goldenrod. Cersei's favorite. Oh set that down, Ned. I forget about your leg. Where's my squire? Lancel? Lumpy? Get out here ya shit, I've been fetching my own bottles all morning."
Ser Barristan felt the blood drain from his face. "Your pardon a moment, your Grace," he called out, rapidly turning back toward the door.
"If you need to piss, there are plenty of pots to choose from," the King snickered.
The old knight opened the door to the solar only enough to attract the guard's attention. "Ser Meryn!"
"Yes, Lord Commander," came the minimally dutiful, dull response.
"Grab any page who walks by and send word quickly to both the Master of Whisperers and the Commander of the City Watch. They are to add Lancel and Tyrek Lannister to their searches."
The red bearded man stared at him through droppy eyes a moment before grunting his understanding and turning away from the door. Ser Barristan returned to the depths of the solar, to discover the Hand placating the King about other Lannisters, or rather Waters.
"I want to see them Ned," his Grace whined.
"Even should they be found, that would not be wise, Robert," Lord Stark cautioned quietly.
"Be damned to that. I'm the King. Tommen and Myrcella are sweet children, not like that trouble making monster Joffrey. He's a poxy Lannister git for sure, but not little Tommen. He could be mine, Ned, he could," the drunken Stag pleaded.
"No, Robert, he's not. His hair is gold. Cersei swore to me he is her brother's too."
"Gods damn her!" the King snarled, hurling the new bottle to the ground, shattering it. "She wouldn't admit such to me. She taunted me so and I made her pay, I did. And now I see her die a thousand times in my dreams, but when I wake, I remember I could only kill her the once. Now, Jaime fucking Kingslayer, we'll see how many times he can die."
"And as I said, you will need an army to make sure the Westerlands stay tame so our knights may search for him. To bring him to your justice. We need your sigil on these decrees ordering the Vale, the Stormlands, and the North to muster ten thousand each."
"What about the Crownlands?" the Stag slurred.
"Those commands are already being drafted, but as Hand I can impress my own seal to them," the Hand explained slowly.
"So how many's that?" The King started to lift the fingers of one hand. "Ten … twenty … thirty … forty … hiccup … thousand to grab the lion's tail. What about the Tully's? They rightly stood beside me against the Targaryens."
"Yes, they did, your Grace. Tywin Lannister already threatens the Riverlands, and my goodfather Hoster started to call his bannermen a month ago."
"Oh, yes, I remember; something with that damn Imp and your boy. I'm sorry about your boy, Ned, truly. Can't trust a Lannister though, even half a one, haha. That was good Ned, very funny. Laugh with me. You used to … a long time ago," the King sighed. His eyes fluttered closed. "Long way for your boys to march," he finally commented, not quite asleep.
"Plenty of time to decide whether to send them to Ruby Ford or Riverrun, depending on what the Lannisters do. If Tywin stays in his den, we can send a raven to the Twins and tell them to turn back."
"Useless dried up Freys," the Stag muttered. "And the Arryns? Where will they go? Who will lead them? You were right, damn it, ya always are, aren't ya? I shouldn't have named that … that … he fucked her Ned. He fucked her, my wife. I bet he took her right here, she always enjoyed the solar. Prolly cause she spread those legs of hers on this Gods damned couch for him … Jaime fucking my wife Kingslayer! What room didn't they shame me in!?" The King sloppily grabbed at his crotch. "Think I'll piss on the sofa next. And I named the Kingslayer Warden of the East." The King laughed sourly. "You told me I was foolish ta do it. Right as always my Ned, smart lad. Honorable too." The compliment did not sound like one, more an epithet. "Suppose ya don't want me to lop Joffrey's miserable head off either?"
"No, your Grace," the Hand agreed. "It would not be honorable to kill a child; and his death would further enflame Tywin Lannister to make war against you."
"Good! I'd like to smash that over proud cock. Pound in his smug face with my hammer. Hit him so hard, see if he really shits gold. Haha. Laugh Ned, twas a funny one there. Oh bugger," the Stag moaned, then rolled on the couch to a more comfortable position. "Ahhh, tha's it." He scratched his ample arse next. "The Vale?"
"I suggest Yohn Royce as the new warden," Ser Barristan interjected. "He has no love for the Lannisters. Lord Tywin insulted Lord Yohn when he offered Tyrion as a marriage match between the two families."
The King snorted in amusement at any idea which cast aspersions on his dead wife's family. "He should do."
"A better choice than Lyn Corbray," the Hand mused. "He would need to ship immediately for Gulltown," he added.
"Alright, alright," complained the King. "Enough talk. Go do it," he declared, flopping over again on the sofa. "I'm tired."
"Your sigil, Robert," Lord Stark prompted softly.
"Hmmnn? Oh." The King pried the ring imprinted with his Stag emblem off a pudgy finger and simply dropped it on the floor among the broken glass and spilled wine.
"Allow me, milord Hand," offered the old knight, quickly bending to pick up the ring in order to spare Lord Stark the effort of doing so on his maimed leg.
"Thank you, Ser Barristan," said the Hand, as snores already began to emit from the King's mouth. The northerner's grey eyes gazed in judgment down on the drunken face of his friend.
"Shall the Vale host make for the Ruby Ford?" Ser Barristan asked, hoping to distract the Hand's attention.
"Aye. By the High Road, or perhaps boat to Maidenpool; whichever Lord Yohn prefers," Lord Stark answered, eyes still held fast on the King. "Ser Barristan?"
"Yes."
"Make sure the Kingsguard keeps his Grace from the Dungeons. I fear the harm Robert would do to the realm, to himself, if he saw Joffrey again."
Ser Barristan Selmy pondered the command of the Hand for a long moment before nodding his head in solemn agreement. "We shall protect the King; even from himself."
November 21.
"Ser Balon Swann and a hundred riders left this morning out of the Lions Gate," Ser Janos Slynt croaked out of his froggish face. Ser Barristan liked it not a single copper penny that the corrupt, jumped up commander of the City Watch now regularly attend the daily meetings of the Small Council.
"How certain are we Tommen and Myrcella went with Lancel and his red cloaks on the Gold Road?" Lord Stark asked.
Varys tittered too quickly and flashed a nervous smile from his perch at the table. "Young pages were seen carrying messages to the stables two mornings ago. My little birds may have seen two smallish riders in the group that left through the Mud Gate, but alas that was not the kind of news they usually seek to gather." He shrugged his soft shoulders lightly. "Quite a risky, but clever ploy by Cersei. I always thought she had a certain … low cunning."
"And our new bird maester?" Lord Renly inquired. "Has he sent ravens to the Crownland keeps nearest the Gold Road?"
"Of a certainty. Within two days every lordling between here and the Westerlands will be searching for the poor little sweetlings," the Spider answered sadly.
"And expecting a prince's ransom in gold dragons for whoever captures the newly minted bastards," Littlefinger lamented.
"It would be a shame," Varys continued, ignoring as usual the Master of Coin's quips, "if after so much effort to retrieve them, the King's Justice simply … thwack!" The Spider dramatically swiped an effeminate hand across his white powdered neck.
"They shall not be harmed," the Hand stated firmly. "There is no honor in killing children for the crimes, no matter how heinous, of their parents. They will judiciously … humanely … be removed from …"
"the Game of Thrones," Littlefinger smirked. "How so, Stark?"
"The Wall is an honorable vocation," said the Hand.
"Or the Silent Sisters," added Lord Renly.
"Marriage to a Hedge Knight or younger son," Janos Slynt suggested with an unseemly glint of hope.
"A mummer's troop," Littlefinger joked.
"The Citadel," Ser Barristan suggested.
"Ah yes, maesters, that reminds my poor memory," purred the Spider in his silky voice. "Maester Denys also sent the ravens to Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm's End baring the royal decree for each to raise a host of ten thousand," Varys continued, ignoring as usual the Master of Coins quips.
"I'm the Lord of the Stormlands," Lord Renly complained, instantly petulant. "I knew of the order. I've drafted a list of which Lords I want to summon. It's my prerogative. So why waste time sending a bird to Ser Cortnay?"
"For the same reason one went to Winterfell," scolded the Hand. "While I am most assuredly here too, Winterfell has the ravens that know how to reach my banners' halls. Send your personal summons then, Lord Renly, to your castellan. I'm sure he can see to the rest."
"This is all precautionary anyway, surely," soothed Varys. "No one wants war. Lord Tywin would be mad to fight, no matter how affronted he felt Lannister dignity was with the Queen's … untimely demise."
"The King may not give him a choice," Lord Stark replied grimly.
"He won't rest till he sees the Kingslayer's head on a spike above Traitor's Walk," affirmed Lord Renly quite viciously. "Can you see Tywin handing over his golden boy to Robert? I can't. Nor would I want him too. The Lannisters need bringing down. Varys, what plans have you made for spreading about the news of Cersei's incestuous relations."
"None," commanded Lord Stark in deadly earnest. "The last thing Robert needs is for all the Seven Kingdoms to know he is a cuckold, and that his heirs were not his own."
"The Queen is dead. Westeros, the entire world, will soon enough discover the reason whether you want them to or not. That wine is already spilled," Littlefinger chortled. "Now is just a question of the best way to sop up the mess to our best advantage."
"Lord Baelish makes an excellent point," Varys agreed, though he gave a pained expression as he said so. "A single death may be hidden or obscured, I've learned. But at some point, the new legitimate heir must be declared before the kingdom. And tongues will wag."
"Stannis," the Hand murmured, nodding his head at the Spider's words. "Yes, I suppose so. But no reason this must be rushed. The King loved his children, this is a terrible a wound to his heart. He must be given time to regain his strength."
"and his sobriety," Littlefinger whispered cruelly, accurately.
"Such rumors at this time would be another gross insult to Tywin Lannister. For peace, perhaps it is not wise to bait him," advised the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
"Ser Barristan, not so bold," proclaimed Lord Renly, words which drew heat to the old knight's cheeks. "Casterly Rock understands only one thing, might! How did Robert take my suggestion to make Loras a Kingsguard and call for the Reach's host? With twenty thousand more Tyrell swords, we'd crush the Old Lion the moment he set paw outside the Westerlands."
"Unfortunately, Lord Renly, I have not had the time yet to present this idea to him. He felt ill yesterday when we saw him, so Ser Barristan and I withdrew before the proposal could be made," the northerner explained in a calm, even voice.
Nevertheless, Lord Renly scowled at the news. "You claim you want peace, Lord Stark, but peace is made by the strong and you're showing the Lannisters only weakness. That! That will lead to war!"
"If you will forgive the interruption," announced Littlefinger, suddenly standing up from the table. "I must leave; another meeting to continue negotiating a contract with his Grace's pet sellswords. They won't work for free, I fear. So while I'm gone, spending the realm's hard earned coin, you knightly types need to think about how much a war with Casterly Rock will cost. Because when I'm told to find the gold to pay for it; we won't have the Lannisters to bankroll the King this time."
With the departure of Lord Baelish from the Small Council's chamber, the meeting dissolved into a mishmash of near pointless discussion on the Romans, the debts of the throne, the latest news from Essos, the state of the current harvest, the search for office holders in King's Landing with Lannister affinities, and other tedious minutia of governance.
November 22.
When the Lord Commander opened the door at mid-morning to announce the start of his duty, he found the disheveled King sitting alone at a table shoveling a heap of eggs and cubed ham into his immense maw. Only a wine stained bathrobe partially obscured his naked heft. "Your Grace," he uttered.
"Ehh?" he garbled through half masticated food, before reaching for a mug of ale to wash the entire mass down with. The old knight watched with an outwardly impassive expression as the wreck of a great knight struggled unsuccessfully with the many indignities of his wife's duplicity. This … thing, this usurper, had charmed him and won him over with courtesy after the disaster of the Trident; seeing that his wounds were tended, praising all the tourney and battle honors he'd won since boyhood, making him in defeat still feel worthy, and lifting him back to the station of the Kingsguard. That promise seen in a young lord, a new King, had slowly drained through the years leaving Ser Barristan with … disappointment? Resigned acceptance? Duty? "What?" growled Robert Baratheon, knight, lord, and sovereign; mouth finally empty enough to speak clearly.
A vision of Ashara Dayne hovered before him, an angel. 'Would her betrayal have unmanned me so?' Barristan Selmy, avowed brother of the Kingsguard and sworn to celibacy, pondered.
"What!?" Robert Baratheon repeated, quite irked.
"Titus Sidonius asks after you, your Grace. His men are sparring against gold cloaks in the Middle Bailey." A tiny glimmer of interest showed in Robert Baratheon's eyes. Ser Barristan continued, "Janos Slynt became so disgusted with performance of the Red Keep's contingent yesterday, he's brought Ironhand Bywater and the best of the Mud Gate gold cloaks to take Allar Deem's place. Perhaps under the eyes of their King, they'd fight harder against the Romans?"
Robert Baratheon lurched unsteadily to his feet. "I might enjoy seeing that," he declared with a hint of a boyish enthusiasm. "Show me."
"Pants, your Grace. You may want to dress first."
Three gold cloaks, one holding a spear and the other two longswords, faced off against Publius Postumius, peeking at them from around one side of his overlarge shield. The spear poked out again and again, glancing off the protective screen, trying to fix the Roman Watch Commander in place, to allow the other two to slip behind him. The tough, thin man refused to obey and danced away, turning this way and that, occasionally stabbing out with his short sword if anyone got too close. Cheers and shouts of encouragement came in both the Common Tongue and the Latin of the Romans. The Legionnaires might not have liked their mean, hard driving sergeant, but they fully expected him to beat a couple of city militia types.
"I'll give five to one odds for any who bet on the sellsword," bellowed Lord Renly above the din.
"Done," yelled the King in response. "A hundred dragons. And you'll lose it soon brother, Publius is only toying with them."
"Piss on that, why Ser Bywater's lads …" Lord Renly did not get to finish his sentence. As the last spear jab slid off the Roman's curved shield, he suddenly stopped back pedaling and reversed course, charging straight at the lancer. Surprised, all three gold cloaks reacted a tad slowly. The spearman tried to back pedal himself, but got bulled over by the too rapidly moving Roman, tumbling to the ground from the shield that battered into him. The Watch Commander then pivoted on one foot and zig zagged right back at the startled swordsmen behind him. A mistimed blow ricocheted off the shield and then Publius' stubby blade was inside the arc of both longswords stabbing, stabbing, stabbing.
A whistle blew. A shout of triumph erupted from the sellswords and a groan from the gathering of too oft beaten gold cloaks. Ironhand himself charitably walked into the circle to help his fallen men up.
"See?" the Stag chortled to his brother, pleased with himself and his sellsword talismans.
"Bah, he wouldn't stand so well against a real knight," Lord Renly rationalized.
"Who do you have in mind?" bantered back the King, happy to twist his brother's tail. "You? Publius would make mincemeat of you or any of your cronies." Then he laughed. "Me too, probably. Course I've been drinking a bit much lately, so I'm not at my sharpest," rationalized his Grace.
Mercifully, no one responded to the Stag's polite exaggeration of his wine fueled condition. Unfortunately, at his big brother's words, a sly look did cross Lord Renly's face.
"Are you saying this Roman is a good enough sword to be a Kingsguard?" the Stag's youngest brother challenged, causing a chill of foreboding in Ser Barristan. The old knight did not want to have to match up against the doughty Publius because of some juvenile sibling pissing match.
"Of course he is," huffed the King, having seen enough of the Watch Commander to appreciate the man's very, very deadly fighting skills. "But Publius will serve me best as an officer among his Romans," explained his Grace, perhaps sensing a need to redirect his brother's train of thought.
"Certainly," agreed Lord Renly pleasantly. "Suppose, however, some knight were to hold his own, or even beat your Roman champion in single combat. Would that man have earned a place in the Kingsguard?"
"What are you blathering about Renly?" the Stag complained.
"With the Kingslayer gone, but not forgotten, there's an empty place in the Kingsguard. Surely Barristan wouldn't complain if his burden was eased by adding a worthy knight to his compact brotherhood."
"Is this about that cockamamie idea of yours Ned told me of yesterday? Mace Tyrell's boy shows promise I'll grant you …"
"What? Are you afraid of him, Robert?
"Who?" The King's voice rose in agitation. "Loras? I'd snap him like a twig!"
"No, Mace Tyrell. Why not bind him to you? With Loras in the Kingsguard, what threat would the Reach be if it raised a host against the Lannisters?"
"It's not one anyway, fool. Besides, your old squire couldn't so much as scratch Publius there!" roared the Stag
"Prove it!" his brother shouted back.
A little more than an hour was taken arranging the specifics of the bout. First, the Romans brought in Centurion Titus and Tribune Lucius to ask their permission. Once they granted it, allowing it to last only to first blood, the talk shifted to weapons and armor. Ultimately Publius had to give up his big shield for a smaller one from the armory and Ser Loras surrender his flowery plate for simple chain mail. The betting ran heavy as the two, slender men of quite different ages prepared, with not a few gold cloaks placing silver on the Roman to win.
From his edge of the circle, Publius Postumius snapped a salute with his short sword and called out something loudly in the Roman language which made the collected legionnaires laugh heartily.
Tribune Lucius leaned over to whisper in Ser Barristan's ear. "An old saying with my people, 'we who are about to die, salute you.' Though the Watch Commander has no such intentions today."
"The lad is uncannily gifted with the lance, but only very, very good with the sword," the old knight responded. "I hope Publius Postumius does not hurt him by accident."
The Tribune smiled drily. "No, I should hope not too."
The whistle blew, and Ser Loras trotted right at the Roman, to bring him in range of his longsword. Publius Postumius mostly met the testing blows with, in what clearly seemed the normal Roman style, his shield. A few times he quickly darted out with his slender blade, point now dangerously uncapped, to see how fast the boy responded. Apparently satisfied, the veteran next caught a few of Ser Loras' slashes on his sword, causing the pure sound of clashing steel to echo across the Middle Bailey. The last one he caught and held long enough to shift forward his shield, trapping the knight's blade. A tussle of arm and leg strength ensued, with Publius Postumius demonstrating his superior muscles by slowly pushing and turning the boy until finally giving him a mighty shove that almost caused Ser Loras to tumble to the dirt.
The legionnaires hooted in derision and most of the rest of the Red Keep groaned disappointment. Ser Barristan smiled at the Watch Commander's maneuver, for though he could not see Ser Loras face through his lowered helm guard, the boy's body language shifted from cool and collected to hot and agitated.
The third son of Mace Tyrell charged right back in, swinging too strong and too wide blows. Publius Postumius met each stroke with amazing subtlety and grace; counter striking at just the right moment or moving to the one spot that ensured Ser Loras never quite had the proper balance to deliver a truly dangerous strike. The youth mostly ignored the defense, trying to blood his opponent first in an arm wearying whirlwind of not quite synchronized blade work. At least four times Ser Barristan's keen eyes detected the Roman honorably avoiding the delivery of a bout winning stab which might have crippled the lad. Cries of encouragement and wonder at the dazzling speed of the bout came in both languages. Even Tribune Lucius shouted words in Latin.
And then suddenly it ended. Publius Postumius' voice shouted loudly and he dropped his sword while skipping backward away from the Knight of Flowers' swift cuts. "Yield. Yield," Ser Barristan heard him cry in Free City Valyrian, while lifting his sword arm high in the air. A gasp of astonishment broke from the legionnaires closest the edge of the circle, following by pointing fingers. An inch long scratch, just deep enough to pierce flesh appeared halfway up the Roman's forearm, a few drops of blood just welling through the broken skin.
Ser Barristan watched as Lord Renly whooped with joy and sprinted into the ring to grab Ser Loras and spin him around in celebration. Next to him, Tribune Lucius did not even grunt at the unexpected turn of events, his features a stoic mask. And out in the swirling tumult of cheering gold cloaks, Publius Postumius stared at the ground in apparent embarrassment at his defeat by a skilled, but nevertheless inferior opponent.
"Piss!" shouted the King, and stomped off in a dark fury.
Before hurrying after his Grace, Ser Barristan snuck another, longer look at the Tribune. Some thought or emotion moved behind that well trained, blank face, but he could not tell exactly what; satisfaction, mayhap?
November 24.
Ser Loras still seemed charmed by the whole experience, a bemused smile plastered across his face as Ser Arys showed him the small, spare cell in the White Sword Tower that was now his abode for life; a far cry no doubt from the comforts of Highgarden or whichever bedchamber in King's Landing he had claimed up till yesterday. Or perhaps a night and a day's vigil without food had finally sapped some of his seemingly inexhaustible youthful vigor, making this tour of the Kingsguard's sanctuary a blur for his memory to sort out in the morning. None of Loras' other new brethren offered him the knightly courtesy to share these first precious moments in the tower with him. Oh each had rotated four hour turns on bent knee with the lad before the altars in the Sept. But if any of them besides Arys still remembered the awe and wonder of their own rite, they buried it deeply inside or hid from it behind the rote of duty. Ser Mandon stood outside the King's bedchamber this night and Ser Preston walked the bridge over the Holdfast's moat. While Ser Boros likely made up for his duty station by the King during the feast by drinking a bottle in his room and Ser Meryn simply slept to prepare for the morning.
Ser Barristan quietly backed away from his two brothers and climbed the stairs to the Round Room. A single candle, lit at dusk as always by a servant, barely pierced the gloom of the night. He sat on a cold hard chair, remembering the investiture and how the King barely stood long enough to accept his newest Kingsguard's oath before wine laden legs ponderously sank him onto the support of a chair. He had taken the Stag's increase in activity the last two mornings as a good sign, only to see his hopes disappointed yet again by Robert Baratheon. Lord Renly had worried him too, carrying a piqued look ever since the Hand rejected his request for the honor of cloaking his former squire and boon companion. An honor typically reserved for him, the Lord Commander; but in this instance granted to the Hand for use as some subtle political point of warning to House Tyrell. Nevertheless, the King's brother had at least contained himself until Lord Stark swept the long white shroud over the lad's plain white plate, at which moment he and his cronies had burst into raucous cheers, delaying for several long minutes the High Septon's benediction from the Seven.
Ser Barristan shrugged in disappointment; truthfully in his tenure he had so far cloaked an outright disappoint lot, not even a shade of a Ser Duncan or a Ser Arthur among them. Maybe the Hand would have better luck with the Knight of Roses; young, but an exceptionally promising warrior. Though the Kingslayer had proven an exceptional warrior … and an oathbreaker of unimaginable magnitude as well. Would Loras fare any better as a knight? At least thanks to the Kingslayer and his golden armor, Lord Stark had outright denied Ser Loras' request to keep wearing his armor of flowers.
With the two names flittering about his head and a brief sigh, the Lord Commander heaved himself out of his perch. He grabbed the lone candle and approached the shrine. He opened the drawer and pulled out a quill. Next, he shook several ink bottles till finding one which sounded still reasonably full. Satisfied, he opened the White Book and started to flip pages. Mighty names, honored names, and even a few craven names swept past him with every sheet. At last he stopped to read the sparse entry, the goal of his search: Ser Jaime of House Lannister. Firstborn son of Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna of Casterly Rock. Served against the Kingswood Brotherhood as squire to Lord Sumner Crakehall. Knighted in his 15th year by Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, for valor in the field. Chosen for the Kingsguard in his 15th year by King Aerys II Targaryen. During the Sack of King's Landing, slew King Aerys II at the foot of the Iron Throne. Thereafter known as the "Kingslayer." Pardoned for his crime by King Robert I Baratheon. Served in the honor guard that brought his sister the Lady Cersei Lannister to King's Landing to wed King Robert. Champion in the tourney held at King's Landing on the occasion of their wedding.
Ser Barristan the Bold hesitantly picked up the quill, dipped it in ink, and proceeded to slowly write on the parchment: Having forsaken his oath as a Kingsguard and disgraced himself as a knight, summarily revoked from the Brothers of the Kingsguard at the command of King Robert and sentenced to death for his treason.
He gazed down at the words, so insufficient for the heinous crimes perpetrated on the Seven Kingdoms by one lone, flawed, arrogant man. The cocky golden face floated in front of him, blurring the writing on the page with a smirk to taunt him for all the humiliation heaped upon the crown. Humiliation heaped upon him, Barristan the Bold, whose blind eyes saw everything and yet saw nothing, whose sturdy voice stood mute as a tragedy unfolded, and whose strong sword arm served a King unfit to rule. His feet quivered, aching to move, to flee, to run from this sacred tower whose honor and memory he had failed to maintain. But his legs refused to budge. Where would he go? What would he, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, become? The words of his own oath, sworn before the Seven, would not permit him to envision any other life than this one of service … to a drunken, overmatched King.
Ser Barristan blinked hard, the page refocusing. He turned a few more pages in the book, stopping when he came to the first blank sheet. The quill moved.
Ser Loras of House Tyrell. Thirdborn son of Lord Mace and Lady Alerie of Highgarden. Served as squire to Lord Renly Baratheon. Knighted in his 15th year by Lord Mace Tyrell, being named the 'Knight of Flowers' in honor of the armor he dons. Forfeited to Sandor Clegane the championship of the Tourney of the Hand, held at King's Landing during the 15th year of King Robert I Baratheon's reign. Named to the Kingsguard in his 16th year, by the Hand Eddard Stark.
He blew gently across the page to dry the ink before closing the book with a dull thud.