I'm back.
The Red Keep - July, 283 AC
He was a kingsguard—a knight of the highest order, among the likes of legends. It was something like a fairy tale, some story he and his brothers would tell one another back at Sunhouse, in their youth.
Of course, all those heroes were gone, traitors, or dead. Information was hard to come by these days, but Raymund knew nothing good came from beyond the walls of King's Landing. The kingsguard hadn't fared well in the past few months, and he feared worse was to come.
Barren, that was the only word that Raymund would use to describe their vaunted order. Gerold Hightower, Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent had vanished off the face of Westeros following Harrenhal, nowhere to be seen even when Rhaegar returned.. Lewyn Martell and Jonothor Darry had fallen at the Trident, sacrificing themselves like good soldiers should. Barristan Selmy - well, the less said about him, the better.
Jaime was the only one left - a boy of six and ten, still wet behind the ears. Raymund couldn't help but feel sorry for the lad, despite the fact that he was in the same boat.
Raymund wasn't the only one to receive a White Cloak. No, far from it. With the status of Rhaegar's Kingsguard still up in the air, Aerys could only appoint another three. Raymund was the first, followed by Jorgen Massey, the Lord of Stonedance's stone-faced grandson. Lyonel Ryger was the last, a monster made flesh, wounded in the Battle of the Bells- now recovered. Raymund liked him not, but when Aerys said the words the two became sworn brothers. Four white beacons, dim in the light of wildfire.
He hated it, but burning to death was worse.
The brotherhood had naught to do but guard their king - and worry. Worry while the madman burned all his perceived dissenters, while Wisdom Rossart spewed out more and more secrets of fire. Jaime told Raymund of all the times he'd been forced to wait beyond Rhaella's chambers - how this was nothing. Raymund hadn't known what to say.
"We're knights," Jaime had confided in him, while Qarlton Chelsted was shackled to the stake. "Why must we do nothing in the face of such horror? Why must we break our oaths to follow the others?"
Raymund hadn't known what to say to that, either. "This will all be over soon," he'd told the boy, hoping to calm him. There was naught else to be done, not as flesh sloughed to the floor. Raymund closed his eyes, and he prayed.
Blessedly, the Seven answered.
King Aerys sent him to Dragonstone, along with the young Prince Viserys and the Queen. "The city is too dangerous for my wife, as frail as she is," said the madman, atop his molten throne. "Pregnancy has never been easy for her. Dragonstone would suit her well, as it has our family in years past. Ser Raymund, you will escort her."
Next to Aerys, Rhaella stood, bowing to her lord husband. The powder did little to hide her scars, which in turn did little to hide her beauty. "Thank you, Your Grace. Your consideration in these harrowing times is not unnoticed."
Tyrian eyes twinkled, a mix of amusement and anger dancing in wild harmony. "Yes, yes," said the King. "I am ever considerate of my dutiful wife. Just… don't forget the purpose of your visit."
"I am to await my pregnancy, and birth a wife for Viserys," Rhaella recited, a flicker of fear trembling across her features. "Then, once the war has been won and the rebel Baratheon burnt, I shall return to resume my wifely duties, and bear you more heirs."
"Yes. Your duties. Good." Aerys' claws waved, and Rhaella was dismissed. Raymund followed behind the Queen, outwardly a dutiful, beaten hound, tame for his master. But inside, his soul was soaring.
He was free.
Jaime was the first to say goodbye, waiting in the Round Room until it was time for a shift change. As Raymund was returning, the boy embraced him, murmuring and doing his best to hold in the fear he felt. Raymund had forgotten how singularly young the heir of Casterly Rock actually was, but it all came rushing back in that moment. In a way, Raymund was abandoning Jaime to Aerys' clutches, leaving him with solemn Jorgen Massey and vicious Lyonel Ryger. Raymund was free, while Jaime sat as a hostage to the Mad Dragon.
"I'm sorry, Jaime," Raymund whispered, trying to make the boy understand that Raymund wasn't any stronger than him. Raymund didn't feel like a man of twenty and nine, older and wiser than his compatriot. He felt like a boy whose body had aged ahead of him, caught in a never-ending catchup race with time. He couldn't do any more for Jaime than Jaime could have for him. "Be strong."
Jorgen Massey gave a stiff goodbye when he heard, and Lyonel laughed bitterly. "Running to Dragonstone, are we?"
"I was assigned, by His Grace himself-"
"Sure, sure," the knight sneered. "Hide well, Cuy. We'll win the war without you."
Raymund had nearly challenged his brother on the spot, were he not worried that any injuries incurred would prevent him from performing his duty to Her Grace, and guarding her at Dragonstone. That could not be.
And so he left, taking one of the few ships that hadn't already been deployed to the Narrow Sea, the White Hart. Three-headed dragons roared atop the masts of the great warship, and Raymund set sail to Dragonstone.
The Sunflower Knight would not set foot on Westeros again for many a year.
…
The Gullet was not kind to the White Hart as it sailed, buffeting and slamming the ship like a drunken husband. Raymund was not inclined to it, despite all the years he spent sailing around the Cape of Westeros. Prince Viserys, on the other hand, was jubilant, racing across the deck and making a general nuisance of himself.
Good. The boy deserved some joy after life under his father.
"I am grateful for your companionship, Ser Raymund," confessed the Queen, shocking Raymund from his trance. He was behind her and to the side, while Rhaella stood confidently atop the deck. Sailors rushed about, but she was an island in a sea of chaos. "My family needs strong knights to protect us in these troubling times."
Raymund hesitated, his gut churning with guilt and with fear. "T-thank you, Your Grace. My sword is yours." You are the only royal to ever earn it.
"I should hope for more than your sword," Rhaella laughed, absently running a hand through her bone-white hair. It was starker than typical of the valyrian stock, yet did nothing to discount her beauty. "Your mind will be needed in the coming months, just as much if not more. The Dragonstone garrison needs whipping into shape, and I know not anyone better than you for the role."
"The Master-At-Arms has a duty to-"
"The Master-At-Arms is an old man. I should know. Willem Darry is kind and loyal, but he has no strength to train the youths of Dragonstone."
What worth did she place in him? "And I do, my Queen?"
"Of course," Rhaella smirked. "You are the Sunflower Knight. Who better?"
Raymund found himself blushing beneath his helm, for the first time in many a year. He wasn't aware that his moniker had reached the ears of someone like the Queen. "A title afforded to be by the smallfolk. They like their lancers, that's all."
"The sight of a knight thundering across the grounds, lance out, piercing towards a foe." Rhaella's eyes twinkled as Viserys peered over a rail. "What's not to like?" she mused.
"Nothing, Your Grace," said Raymund. What else could he say? His tongue was in knots.
Rhaella continued to fill the space he left. "Do you think it wrong to declare your skill? To be proud of who you are, what you've accomplished. I should hope not. If so, I could not feel pride for my Viserys, or for the child I now carry. Do I not deserve to feel that way?"
"No, Your Grace," Raymund was quick to assure her. She had endured more than most could imagine. "You should be proud of your strength, your courage. Your resilience."
The Queen smiled, crows feet wrinkling at her eyes. "Thank you, Ser Raymund. But that means
"So I shall train the garrison, as you command."
"Good," Rhaella turned away from him, returning her son scampering about. "And it won't just be the green farmers, the scattered fishers, and the rusty guards who you shall train. Prince Viserys needs an education as well, and I see no one better to give it than yourself."
The prince? He was but a boy of seven, and Aerys had always been paranoid about Viserys' safety. Now, more than ever. Viserys was now the Crown Prince. "His Grace the King-"
"Is not here. Is he? Nor will he be at Dragonstone." Rhaella sighed, some tension seeping from her shoulders. "My son is growing up in dangerous times, Ser Raymund. I will not have him sheltered and soft, quick to cry and to fail. I would have him survive."
"No, Your Grace. I-I mean, yes, Your Grace. But are you sure-"
"Ser Raymund."
Viserys took up a training sword later that day. Raymund placed it in his hand, coaxed him to stand properly. He gave the boy a tie to keep the hair from his eyes, and chose fitted gloves to enclose around Viserys' hands.
On the deck of the White Hart, a warrior was born.
This story was born from a little shower thought I had about Aerys' kingsguard, and how there was essentially a full year between the Battle of the Trident and the Fall of Dragonstone. Like, that's a lot of time. You think that paranoid Aerys wouldn't have wanted to replace the sworn defenders of his life? Yeah, I doubt it.
So here we have it. Raymund Cuy, the Sunflower Knight, becomes a kingsguard and is assigned to Rhaella at Dragonstone. Meanwhile, Jorgen Massey and Lyonel Ryger will get up to some shenanigans in King's Landing, and the surrounding Crownlands.
As always, follow, favorite, and review as you see fit.