Red Keep's Courtyard

The sword hilt creaks within Barristan's grip.

A longsword, sharpened and well-oiled, would do well against a common soldier in gambeson and mail — they pose no trouble for the old knight. But against a Kingsguard? Across the marble courtyard and under a tent, his fellow Brother Ser Arys Oakheart readies himself. His blade shines with every polish and embroidered golden leaves dance across his silken cloak.

It was Barristan who brought the knight to be measured at Tobho Mott's: the enamel white paint that catches the sun, the swooping visor helm, the riveted mail beneath his plates… "This won't do," he sighs, returning the longsword to its rack. Instead, his eyes latch onto an old poleaxe lying across a bench. It's of a good make, standing to his shoulder with a still-biting edge. Its head holds the engraving of a stag, though now beaten and barely visible beneath red rust.

Not too light, he thinks, giving the weapon a practised swing. When was the last time he fought with one? In King Robert's many tourneys?

Will this kill Ser Arys?

A bright blue glow fills the tent as the Messengers' blessings pass overhead; Barristan's hair bristles at the divine marvel, lips muttering soft prayers. The Gods are watching, he thinks, and the Stranger wants his due. Now a red glow, and even the Lannister guards turn silent.

"Inadequate," says Lady Eirin, breaking the lull and chastising one of Grand Maester Pycelle's acolytes. In her right hand she holds a length of her braided hair, and in the other a small glass ampoule of an unknown substance; she wrinkles her nose at the object. "Are you even aware of its ingredients?"

"T-These were made by the Grand Maester himself," the acolyte explains, the three links of his chain clinking against the apple of his throat. Not seeing the Maester in Ser Arys' tent, Barristan wonders if he's with the King, trying to undo the Healer's sorcerous treatments. "This is proven to work, made of only the finest ingredients that are found throughout Essos. Grand Maester Pycelle is assured of its quality!"

"And I'm assured as well — of its poor make." With a flick of a finger the ampoule falls, nearly breaking on the floor if not for the acolyte's reflexes. Caring not for the younger man, Lady Eirin walks past him — under the eyes of Lannister guards — towards a table prepared for nursing wounds. Her fingers wander across the many salves, bandages, and liquor, face marked with a condescending smirk. "So, these are the Kingdom's best treatments? Simple tourniquets and germ-filled teas?"

"These simple tourniquets saved thousands of lives in the past," the acolyte hisses, pocketing the ampoule and regaining composure. "Maesters of old have perfected the techniques, each concoction more miraculous than the last, and I will not hear such slander be put on their name."

But his words died on deaf ears. "No wonder your King was dying."

…

Another passing blessing — rich indigo, this time — hides the paled faces of the men within. "Hold your tongue, wench," one of the guards thumps his spear. "Waste not Her Grace's kindness."

"We've yet to clear our names," Barristan adds, giving her a pleading look, "so…"

"…It's your medicine," she replies, the smile melting into a pitying look. "Do not expect to survive with these sub-optimal- No, abysmal examples of treatment, Barristan Selmy. You've seen your share of injuries and blood; how many have died from simple fevers after a battle? Or sepsis? Or pieces of string stuck between the wounds?" The table creaks as she leans against it. "Are you adamant to be another number on that list?"

No, but what other choices do we have?

The poleaxe feels heavier now. How much did the black cells ate from his strength? Will he even be able to defeat…

Barristan shakes his head; why worry when the duel's not yet begun? Besides … "Young man," he turns to the acolyte, "can you spare the table for Lady Eirin?"

"Ser, I was given charge to-"

"-By Her Grace, aye, but she favours Ser Arys and Ser Mandon, does she not? I see your fellow acolyte; attending two knights is certainly more than what a single acolyte can do," he says, nodding towards Arys' tent. "I'll put my trust in Lady Eirin's care." I don't even know who else would be capable of such feats. If she can sew wounds near seamless…

The acolyte narrows his eyes; in suspicion or for questioning his skills? But rather than rebuking, the young man rubs his brow before replying: "Aye, I shall inform Her Grace that Ser Barristan Selmy has refused aid from the Grand Maester… Madman," he adds in a little whisper. Giving one last glare to a smiling Lady Eirin, the acolyte bows his head to Barristan before leaving the tent.

Murmurs erupt between the guards, discussing bets on first blood and deaths. "My apologies for putting you in this position, Lady Eirin, I did not want to disturb your fleeting freedom-"

"-But you want to live," she chuckles, hands already uncorking one of the many bottles on the table. "An integral — and oft sinful — aspect of humanity. One that I've come to understand with high familiarity. A shame they've confiscated my usual instruments."

"They suspect your tools poison."

Lady Eirin clicks her tongue, holding a vial aloft in the bright green glow of the divine blessings. At that moment, her eyes twinkle like stars. "I think I can use these… You'll owe me much, Barristan Selmy. For this and for your King's treatment."

"Nonetheless, my thanks." The Kingsguard gives a short bow before examining his armour. There is some loose mail here and there, and the helm reeks like an unwashed breeches, but it'll do for today. Donning his helm, he closes his eyes and sees his fellow brothers: Ser Arys, Ser Mandon, Ser Meryn, Ser Boros… And last of all, the Kingslayer. Each one worse than the last.

There's treachery to be found in the Kingslayer and Balon Swann, but what of the others? Trant and Blount come to mind, both filled with a coward's bones. Having "trained" them in the yard, they didn't earn the white, only bought it with gold dragons. Moore, however … Jon Arryn was the one who suggested him, yet his muteness hides all motives.

Which brings him to Arys Oakheart. Youthful, confident, and full of promise… He's no White Bull or the Sword of the Morning. Better knight than most, yet not exceptional … A sad affair for the Kingsguard, Barristan sighs. Does that boy know he 's in a viper's pit? Does he have a hand in this conspiracy? If only Lord Stark-

A silver bell tolls.

The blessings dim.

It's time.

Prayers ring out from the High Septon, his voice piercing through the thickest of helms. "Let the Father see to the just, and the Warrior strengthen their resolve!" Another toll.

A guard holds the tent flaps open. Poleaxe in hand, Barristan takes one last look at Lady Eirin before stepping out.

His boots ring across the marble courtyard, sizzling underneath the Summer sun. Fight too long, and the heat shall bite harder than blades. Beneath a blue sky, a murder of crows circle overhead, laughing, watching, waiting. Another toll.

"May the Maiden and Her Messengers witness this holiest of duels." The two girls gleefully raise their cups, laughing alongside septons and septas under a rainbow canopy. Pastries are served by the Keep's servants. Can they see the truth from behind their cakes and wineglass? If the Seven truly sent them…

The royal podium stands tall with the Queen at its apex, guarded by Lannister men-at-arms and various gold cloaks; no Janos Slynt. Looking down at him with a cat-like smirk, she speaks something that catches the attention of Littlefinger; there's something vile in their laughter. The royal children — Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen — sit close to the courtyard, guarded by the Lannisters' Hound. For some it'll be their first trial by combat, but certainly not the last.

Cheers erupt when Ser Arys Oakheart steps out of his tent; he looks near a stranger beneath his helm. Crowds of nobles and commonfolk alike — many climbing onto parapets, walls, and trees for vantage — coo as he unsheathes his sword, the blade gleaming silver in the sunlight. The Kingsguard standard white shield is pristine like fresh snow. A black-handled dagger hangs on his hip. The two offer no words, only a sombre nod.

A drop of sweat rolls down Barristan's nose and onto the helmet's visor; who would replace Arys should he die? The Hound? The Mountain? And after this, to fight Ser Mandon Moore … Between the slit of the tent, another silhouette dons white-enamelled armour. The grip on the poleaxe tightens.

The clamour dies.

The Queen gives one last sip of her cup before nodding.

Another toll.

In a heartbeat, they move.

Ser Arys paces around him, each step as light as a shadowcat; he never leaves Barristan's sight. Their chest rise and fall, rise and- A lunge, his blade a silver blur heading for the visor. But the poleaxe intercepts, locking it between the shaft and axe-head. Ser Arys pulls and sparks fly; cheers erupt. Success or not, the younger knight does not show it.

That was a test.

Barristan replies in kind, thrusting the point and scraping bits of enamel from his shield. The cheers are quieter; he can feel the strain in his wrist, dull and throbbing. The manacles left a-

*WREK*

Ser Arys' longsword scrapes away at his helm, the sound ringing through Barristan's head. If not for leaning back — thank the Warrior — it would 've taken more than just rust. But the younger knight is unsatisfied and presses on, step after step, thrust after slash, biting away at pieces of loose mail and splinters. He's more vigorous, more eager, giving not a moment of respite, pushing Barristan closer to his tent. He catches a glimpse of Ser Arys' eyes, a burning blue beneath his visor. To tire me out, he knows my strength was sapped. Against a thief or common knight, Ser Arys would've slain them in seconds. But-

*CLANG*

-against the Lord Commander who trained him, it's predictable.

A single sloppy thrust is all it takes for Barristan to grab the blade, holding it with his hand and mailed elbow. A second of hesitation is all it takes for the poleaxe to bite down on Ser Arys' pauldron, spraying enamel and sparks. Then it rises again, the axe head catching the sun like a dragon's tooth.

Noticing this, Arys lets go…

…Far too late as the poleaxe bites through his swooping visor with a sickening crunch, earning terrified screams from the crowd.

The tip gleams crimson.

The young knight staggers, legs unbalanced as blood drips onto his pure-white chestplate. A side of his cloak hangs by a single white thread. Barristan's heart is booming, his breath drowning out the nobles' cries and the groaning of his fellow Brother. Is it over? Did he win? But the Kingsguard stops and pries off his broken helm, revealing a sharp face bleeding from cheek to chin. The watchers erupt again, prompting the gold cloaks to move.

There's still a smile on his face, all too familiar to Barristan: the joy of escaping death. That soon falters once seeing his blade beneath Barristan's foot. "Bloody…"

"Do you remember my training in the yard, Ser Arys? A month ago. A knight's strength is his arms," he kicks the sword behind him, "the wisdom in his skull," the poleaxe twirls and strikes the broken helm, "and the courage is his heart." The point lowers, and Barristan watches the slightest of trembles on the marked white shield. There's still the dagger, but that means getting close to me. As skilled as a Kingsguard Ser Arys is, he lacks in experience. Calming his breath, the old knight's tone softens. "A champion may always yield."

"That knave tried to kill MY FATHER! YOUR KING!" Prince Joffrey screeches, nails digging into his chair's cushions. The future King's voice carries none of his father's boom, yet pierces all the same. "What Kingsguard are you!? Spare no mercy for those traitors!"

"A champion holds the right to yield, my love," the Queen squeezes the Prince's shoulder; she's come down from her wooden throne, the lions on her dress prowling as if ready to strike. Her smile is sharp. "Though, that would be a rare thing indeed. We can expect such things from weaker knights, or those who were unmanned…" Her words, calm as a river in Winter, shear through the young knight. The Queen's green eyes gaze down upon him, boring through enamel and steel. "Well, what will it be, Ser Arys of the Kingsguard?"

His eyes flicker from the Prince, to the Queen, to Barristan, and finally to his sword, far behind the old knight. Then the trembling stops. Barristan watches as he brushes back his bloodied hair and unclasps his cloak. With the reddened gauntlet, he draws the black dagger.

Sweat trails along Barristan's back.

Its black shine, the ripples on the edge…

Valyrian steel! How did Arys get-

The young knight charges forth. The poleaxe's bite meets the edge of his shield — so close to his skull that the tip cuts part of his ear — but the dagger is faster. In a blink of an eye, the black blade slips into Barristan's left arm.

Mail, cotton, flesh, bone.

"GRAAH!" The old knight recoils in agony, pulling away from the weapon's burning kiss. Blood trickles out between the plates, his arm damp and shooting pain with every flex of the fingers. Was the cut along the- No, it doesn't matter. It's too deep. Too deep.

Sweat crawls over his eyes and his breathing fills the helm. The cheering, the heartbeat, the heat of the marble courtyard. He sees Arys moving past him for the sword. The wound means a limit to his moves, and so… "Arys!" Barristan shouts with poleaxe raised, taking the attention. The young knight's reflex is quick, snapping round with his shield raised and blocking the cut — it bites even deeper into the wood. There's a relieved smile on his face.

Then with his body weight, Barristan pulls.

His arm strapped to the shield, Arys soon finds himself with his back on the courtyard and sword out of reach. "Yield!" Barristan pounces and pins down the young knight's throat with the poleaxe.

From their periphery, even the two Messengers are cheering for their deaths. His breathing barely a squeak, Arys attempts to lift, hit, claw the older knight off of him. "Stay still," Barristan whispers, his good arm pushing hard against the poleaxe, "and we, can both, sur- GAH!"

The dagger.

The black blade plunges through leather and flesh like cake. Shearing even more, Arys pulls out the offending metal for another jab.

Barristan's bloodied hand grasps the blade, feeling it slowly slipping into his glove. The young knight tries to wrestle it, gasping for the little air the struggle allows. But the Warrior's favour slips from his grasp as Barristan grabs its hilt.

A swipe. A cut to the young knight's reddened face to convince his folly.

But from the rush, the Summer's heat, or the pain coursing through his arm…

His aim is too low.

The blade cuts through Arys Oakheart with far too much ease, opening a red mouth between his jaw and neck. The young knight's eyes turn wide, mouth open as if to say "I yield." All Barristan hears is a whistle of air and the bubbling of blood from the new maw. A hand goes to stop the flow, yet all it does is turn red. Soon, even the chestplate turns pink.

Arys' eyes never leave Barristan, his Lord Commander, his killer.

Silence.

The Stranger has taken His due.