"You killed Maelys."
"I did."
"Because he was Blackfyre."
"Because he took arms against my King."
"You wouldn't have killed him, if he hadn't?"
"If he'd stayed in his isle, he would have only needed fear old age."
"But he was Blackfyre."
"And I am not their hunter."
"So you will not kill me, will you? Just because i'm a bastard?"
"No, little one. Never."
"Not even if you were ordered to, Ser Bald?"
"Bold. Not even then."
283 AC, Southern Darry.
They'd laid down no tents, nor built campfires. Most lords and landed knights hadn't even dismounted their horses, and those who had looked shifty and nervous, just the same as the majority of the men all around, ready to bolt into night and into woods at a moment's notice, discard any semblance of order and honor at the first frightful sound.
An army defeated, on the road and on the run, hounds at its heels. It made a sore sight, one of despair and fallen virtues.
But, it was an army all the same, thought Ser Barristan the Bold, ready to neither bolt nor run, but stand.
He was aching, of course, and tired, like everyone else was. The battle had been hard, and the enemy had been fierce, and they'd lost. Yet, he was still wearing a white-cloak, no longer peerless, but bright nonetheless.
Men were looking at him, he knew, for it was symbols that hopeless men took their strength from in forlorn times, and he wouldn't allow himself slouch, or slack, not now and not ever. Not with one of his Princes dead, and the other looking mighty and tall despite his own troubles and grievances.
He was red in the face, Aeryn Targaryen – Redwyrm, Barristan corrected himself – for even if now shone the moon, all day had shone the sun, and all day his Prince had marched, without his shawl and without protection, at the head of the battered column, unflinching and uncaring of what light's glower had been doing to his pale complexion.
He'd even adorned his dark armour with red stones, and scarlet garnets, found here and there, so that from afar he might have looked Rhaegar Targaryen, and so that defeated men might have believed a moment longer.
Selmy straightened some more, forced the weariness out of his bones.
What place had he, fall into torpor and exhaustion, when a child he'd watched grow stood mighty and tall, even after his brother had been slain before his eyes, and even after his one and only companion, loyal and true Ser Jacelyn Bywater, had been mauled, his face shredded from one side to the other.
No place, he knew, and his hand flew to his sword, when a flock of men erupted, and a horse came charging through, neighing as angry as its rider.
"Damned traitor!" He spat, Jon Connington, as soon as he'd dismounted. He looked like he'd come out of Seven Hells, bloody and bruised, red like his stead, some of the red not their own. "Damned traitor!"
Aeryn didn't even glance up from the charts he was holding, and Barristan quietly moved closer. Without his hood, and without Ser Jacelyn Bywater, the old knight was the only shadow his Prince could cloak himself with, and cloak him he would.
"I speak to you, coward!" Connington barked again. Some of the soldiers backed, while others stood, and twitched. "Look me in the eye, if you dare!"
"Ser Barristan." Aeryn didn't. "If I might abuse of your experience, what would you say it's the best route to the Capital, through Butterwell or Rolling Ford?"
Neither. Antlers' plains were the fastest to traverse.
"Rolling Ford." Selmy answered anyhow, fingers on the hilt.
His Prince had spent most his life in King's Landing, and the pit of snakes had made him cunning, not martial. What he'd learned of battle, and gore, he'd learned on the field, and he'd taken quite well to it, too. The army at their backs was proof enough of it.
Yet, however quick, he'd yet to learn the land, and Barristan was unwilling to correct him in front of the men, and in front of Connington.
Later, he would, not now.
"You sounded the retreat before Rhaegar had even fallen, you wretch!"
Aeryn did look up, then, his face red and his eyes bloody, both the same as his long, tousled hair. He didn't have the dragon's look, not quite, he never had, but he commanded crowds same as any Targaryen Selmy had ever witnessed, from Duncan the Small to Jaehaerys II, and the few whispers that had risen, died in the breeze.
"Are you accusing me of something, Lord Connington?" His Prince asked, cool as the night around them. "As you might imagine, we have little time to waste. Come out and say, if you are."
"I've already spoken, bastard!" Connington bellowed, a sight of fury.
He'd remained at the Trident, the old knight suddenly realized, longer than the rest of them. That was why he looked so, and that was why he'd only come now.
"You left your brother to die! His body to his enemies! And now you fashion yourself him!" The Griffin raged on, mad and raving, taking a step. "You will burn in Seven Hells for this, cursed by the Gods!"
Ser Barristan took one too. "Back, my Lord." He said. "Let your words speak for you, or it shall be steel."
"He was your Prince! You would stand with his murderer, Kingsguard!?"
"I would stand with my Prince."
"You–!"
"My half-brother was Prince." Aeryn cut him off, smooth and loud, clear as water. "I am not. But I know of another Prince. Lewyn Martell, was his name. Care tell me what happened to him, Lord Connington? What of Ser Jonothor Darry? You know anything of him, my Lord?"
Connington's wounded face wound even more. "How dare you! You accuse me of–!"
"This is not a game of allegations, Lord Connington." He was cut off again. "If it was, there would be no way i could topple yours."
It sent a round of chuckles through the assembled men, that, low and awkward, and it made the Griffin fume all the more. "You, bastard! You want the–!"
"I want a warm meal, my Lord, a soft bed." Aeryn interruped once more, dry and disinterested. He looked like Aerys, in his youth, somewhat, paler and not as striking, but he held himself different. "And i want you to think. Have i killed Prince Lewyn Martell and Ser Jonothor Darry? Have i slain every man who isn't here? Every lord, and every knight, and perhaps their horses, too?" He took a step, waving lazily at the enraptured crowd. "Or is it war that has slain them, and i simply saved those who are here?"
That's no answer, thought Barristan, at once, too fast not to think, even as men eased, and turned their sights elsewhere.
Selmy readied anyhow, when Connington made to rush forward. "You've saved no one but yourself! Bastard! Kins–!"
But, for nothing, and his Prince, beside him, gave a tiny, sharp inhale. It made the old knight want to smile.
A hand had fallen on the stormlander's shoulder, halting his advance before it could begin, and his curse before it could finish.
"Enough, my Lord," mumbled Ser Jacelyn Bywater, square jawed and brown haired. The white of his eyes had been made red, and the gauze covering his face from cheek to cheek bloody, but he stood tall all the same. "You've said enough."
His Prince started forward, with a limp, when Connington turned, but right as he did, another hand fell on his arm.
"Aye, m'lord," uttered a common soldier, bruised and unkept, donning an empty quiver and dirty leathers. "I dun know who's you are, but i know me brothers and me friends are dead in the grave, bread for maggots, and i know i shoulda joined them, from Parchments to yestermorn i shoulda joined them." His head shook and his lip curled. "It don't sit right with me, you talking shit to the reason i did not."
"Me neither!" Shouted another.
"Yea!"
"Leave the dragon alone!"
"Get him outta here!"
"Fools!" Yelled Connington, a noise in the racket. "The lot of you!"
"Fuck you!"
"He's saved us!"
"Lord Redwyrm!"
"Fellows!" Aeryn rose a hand, all that was needed to drive the chorus to a silent still. "I appreciate the good will, but i would rather we not draw more attention than we need." He smirked, and his eyes flashed. A bit of Queen Shaera, then. "And leave the Lord Connington be, elseways he'll accuse you of having stolen his chicks."
The men laughed, then, loud and raucous, even those who'd been advancing menacing on the Griffin.
Connington, for his part, just spun around with a clenched jaw, grit teeth and a scorching glare, and disappeared with his horse into a black mist of jeers and taunts.
Yet, as Ser Jacelyn marched forward, with a stronger foot than he had right to, and as his Prince waited patiently, the smirk and the levity swifly washed away from his face, Ser Barristan couldn't keep a squint, a slack, and a look up, to the shiny stars above.
His head shook, and he straightened, when he was called to tactic, and talk that mattered.
Antlers, Selmy thought and uttered.
It was his duty to serve, and he would serve. A broken hearted fool's words meant nothing.
Aeryn hadn't answered, not really, but the old knight knew the retreat had been sounded after Rhaegar had fallen.
He knew.
"My Lord. About the Prince. I am– "
"Don't. I am not."
"Very well. Where to, then?"
"You are not well, Jacelyn."
"Aye. Where to?"
"The Capital, first. Then West."
"West is land of Lions. It's dangerous ground."
"It is. Both."
"Might they not snatch us whole."
So, the Bold. Suprisingly cool, not having to deal with dragons' craziness, but rather just some willful blindness. And as for Joncon, i know that at this point in canon he'd already been exiled. Ripples.
But anyway, Ser Jacelyn has been introduced, another facet of Aeryn has been shown, and Barristan knows, so i think can call it a day. Like always let me hear your thoughts, and see you next time.