Mid May, 300 AC

The sun was setting behind the Lion Gate as Olyvar climbed the marble steps of the Great Sept of Baelor.

He had not wanted to be knighted here. The Great Sept was a place of vanity, the domain of the Lannisters' pet High Septon. The royal sept was where Aunt Elia had once knelt to pray, begging the Mother's protection as Tywin Lannister's army approached the city. The Seven had spared Princess Elia, but they had not saved the babes from their bloody ends. Even so, the royal sept was once hers.

It was Oberyn and Ellaria who had insisted on the Great Sept. While Olyvar spent the better part of a moon's turn recovering, the entire city had gone wild over the combat. What better way to remind the Lannisters of Dornish power than to have half the city watch Ser Loras Tyrell bestow his knighthood?

Sansa Stark had suggested it, or so father claimed. Olyvar could not fault her reasoning, but he wished he could receive his knighthood from Princess Sansa herself. She was the one who had defied Tywin Lannister to his face, a feat that surpassed any by the Knight of Flowers. But only a knight could make a knight, and what Olyvar wanted was not always the same as what was needed.

Olyvar hoped Ellaria would be able to soothe the Stark girl. While he began his vigil in the sept, the many Dornish ladies would host the only northern one for dinner in the cornerfort. Princess Sansa- no, he reminded himself, Lady Sansa, even my thoughts must be cautious. Lady Sansa's presence was not optional, given how Olyvar had won his knighthood, but the last time she had stood on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, they'd forced her to watch her father lose his head. Olyvar reached the doors of the sept and paused for a moment, looking back at the marble pulpit on its raised dais. The bloodstains were long gone, but he doubted Sansa Stark would ever forget the sight.

A pair of septons opened the doors wide. With a deep breath, Olyvar went in.

The Hall of Lamps was dimly lit, the prisms of light fading with the sun. Once night fell they would light lamps of colored glass, but for now the sunlight was still strong enough to see. Rainbows danced on his copper armor, the butt of his spear thumping quietly as he walked.

Another pair of septons, a set of double doors, and he was in the sept-proper, beneath the immense dome of glass and gold and crystal. At midnight septons and septas would fill the seven transepts, conducting evening prayers at each of the seven altars, but his vigil would begin with solitude. None could accompany a knight during his vigil, save for fellow squires holding vigil themselves.

When he reached the Warrior's altar Olyvar laid his spear across the statue's knees. When that was done he unsheathed the sword that hung at his hip and placed it beside the spear. Then he began to remove his armor, piece by piece, to pile it beneath the altar. It was difficult, with his left arm still throbbing in a plaster cast, but after much fumbling he was finished.

His knees ached as he knelt, clad only in an undyed wool tunic and breeches. His feet were bare against the cold marble floor, another sign of his humility. The great sept was drafty; he would be half-frozen by morning. Olyvar breathed deeply, setting the thought aside. He was not here to complain about temporary discomfort. He was here to contemplate what it meant to be a knight.

What was a knight? A man with a sword, yes, but something more than that. A knight was a man who stood vigil through the long night, who was anointed with the seven oils to consecrate the vows he swore. Olyvar knew the ancient vows so well he could recite them in his sleep.

In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave.

In the name of the Father I charge you to be just.

In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent.

In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women

In the name of the Smith I charge you to be steadfast.

In the name of the Crone I charge you to be wise.

In the name of the Stranger I charge you to remember that all men must die.

Olyvar frowned. There were seven oaths for the seven faces of god, yet he had piled all his armor before the Warrior. It was tradition, but that did not make it right. He rose, knees creaking.

His helm he laid before the statue of a man in middle age, his crown of silver, his beard of gold, asking the Father Above to turn his head toward justice. His gorget he placed before a woman, her belly swollen with child, asking the Mother to help him defend the vulnerable. His vambraces and shield he placed before a girl with jeweled flowers shining in her flowing hair, asking the Maiden to let him be a shield for women. His greaves he laid before a plainfaced man with muscled arms, asking the Smith to make his legs steadfast. His boots he placed before a wrinkled old woman, one gnarled hand holding a lamp high, asking the Crone to guide his steps along the path of wisdom. The rest he placed before a half-human face shrouded by a heavy cowl, asking the Stranger to grant him the courage to face death without dishonor.

When Olyvar knelt again it was before the Father's altar, the light of the candles shimmering off his copper helm. He owed his devotion to the Father most of all, for helping him slay the Mountain. The Warrior might have given him the strength to carry on with his broken arm, the Maiden might have sent the birds that slowed the Mountain's charge, but it was the Father who had given justice.

Knights are supposed to do the same , Olyvar thought bitterly. So many knights were eager for battle, for pretty girls bestowing favors. Most men might condemn Mad King Aerys, but his Kingsguard were still spoken of with hushed voices. Squires longed to be as renowned as Ser Oswell Whent, as Ser Gerold Hightower, as Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Jonothor Darry.

False knights, all of them. Aunt Elia might have lived at Dragonstone, but she was neither deaf nor dumb, and Rhaella's ladies loved her well. They had told her of what went on in the Red Keep before Aerys summoned the Princess and her children. The Kingsguard kept their oaths to their king and failed every oath they swore as knights. What sort of man stood by while pyromancers cooked men in their armor? What sort of man listened as a king raped his sobbing queen, leaving her covered in bite marks and bruises?

His great uncle, Prince Lewyn Nymeros Martell, had stayed his hand so that he might keep Elia safe. The rest, though... sometimes Olyvar wondered how Jaime Lannister had borne it, young as he was. Aunt Elia saw him little, but said he had been an eager boy, full of chivalry and ideals. Guarding Aerys had changed that boy into the Kingslayer.

Once, Olyvar had asked Aunt Elia why killing Aerys had been wrong. The king had executed lords and their sons without due cause, had demanded the heads of boys shielded by guest right. Rebellion was inevitable after such tyranny; an unjust king was no king at all.

"You are right, dear one," his aunt said, a soft hand cupping his cheek. "But Aerys was not his to slay. Ser Jaime could have bound him hand and foot and given him to the rebel army. Instead he slit his throat and climbed the Iron Throne himself."

Anger burned deep in Olyvar's chest. While the Kingslayer sat the Iron Throne, Tywin Lannister's men had come for the royal family. Rhaegar had left his wife and children with only a single kingsguard to keep them safe.

Ser Arthur Dayne had been meant to stay in Dorne, guarding the maid he had helped abduct. Only a solemn oath sworn to Princess Elia had brought him north. He should have stopped Rhaegar, not helped him. The Sword of Morning, most famous of Aerys' seven. Even Oberyn grudgingly admitted he was the finest knight he ever saw. Ser Arthur Dayne had died a hero's death defending Princess Elia from the Mountain, but he had failed the children, just as he had failed Lyanna Stark.

What is a true knight, if even Ser Arthur Dayne fell short?

The sound of groaning hinges roused Olyvar from his reverie. It must be midnight. Hundreds of septons filed in through the Father's Doors, some in cloth-of-silver, others in robes of white with their seven-stranded belts. From the Mother's doors came septas in white, singing softly. Silent sisters proceeded down the Stranger's Steps, their garb a soft grey that covered all but their eyes. A host of holy brothers and sisters marched down the other aisles, the thongs about their necks bearing either the hammer of the Smith, the sword of the Warrior, the flower of the Maiden, or the lamp of the Crone.

None disturbed Olyvar's vigil. They made a round of the sept, worshiping at each of the seven altars. To each god they made sacrifice, to each they sang a hymn. Olyvar joined his voice to theirs, an uneven baritone that made Meria despair of her little brother's ability to carry a tune.

At last the prayers were done, and the devout returned from whence they came. Olyvar shifted slightly, his knees stiff.

A true knight. What was a true knight? Ser Barristan Selmy was an honorable man, all agreed, but he had braved Duskendale to liberate a king that burned men alive. Was that what being a knight meant? To win glory by keeping a mad king on the throne?

No. Glory was not what gave meaning to a knight's vows. Then what did?

Knights were sworn to defend the realm. What was the realm? Was it Casterly Rock and Highgarden, Riverrun and Winterfell, the Eyrie and Storm's End and Sunspear? So few lords and ladies made up the great houses; the realm was more than that.

The realm was his sisters, both beloved and bothersome, Obara with her spear and her angry stride, Nym with her daggers and her sly smiles, Meria with her qithara and her love of song, Tyene with her prayers and poisons, Sarella with her books and scrolls, Elia with her lance and her horses, Obella with her daydreams, Dorea with her tiny morningstar, and Loree with her dolls. Olyvar could not imagine life without them, and his new sigil was chosen accordingly— a ten-headed serpent, gold on sand.

The realm was the sands of Dorne and the fields of the Reach, the mines of the Westerlands and the mountains of the Vale, the streams of the Riverlands and stony shores of the Stormlands, the harsh coasts of the Iron Islands and the vast forests of the North.

The realm was hedge knights and sellswords, farmers and smiths, serving girls and laundresses, bakers and cooks, seamstresses and weavers. The realm was a Dornish whore spreading gossip to help a northern lady; it was a helpless girl raising her voice when powerful men dared not.

I slew the Mountain for her , Olyvar thought, a nervous laugh echoing through the empty sept. He had never slain a man before, and the Mountain had stalked his nightmares for years. The moment he volunteered as champion he had regretted it, terror clutching his throat tight. Who was he to face Ser Gregor Clegane? Olyvar was a callow youth, a squire. Surely some knight was about to speak, someone brave and experienced, someone bold and daring.

But no such champion had stepped forth. Oberyn had been angrier than he had ever seen, demanding that Olyvar abandon his folly. To his shame, Olyvar wanted to. He wanted to saddle his horse and ride back to Sunspear, to embrace his sisters and listen to Aunt Elia's stories.

Yet he had not. The girl needed him. Sansa Stark was not just a maid of thirteen, she was a flame shining in the darkness, a lone sapling in a field of ash. The truths she spoke must be defended. The realm deserved better than the Lannisters and their monstrous pets; the realm needed to see that they could be defied.

Perhaps that was what a true knight was. Someone who refused to stand aside, who took the path of righteousness even when the road was steep; who ignored his own wants for the needs of the realm.

Perhaps a true knight was even a frightened boy, still fighting with wet breeches and a broken arm.