Barristan I
Barristan was deep in thought; he had found himself being deep in thought a lot lately. But it was hard not to brood when things in court were changing so quickly.
Renly Baratheon was dead, murdered. The words rang hollow in Ser Barristan's mind, yet they were truth. The young lord had struggled with his health for some time—nearly a year past, bedridden for days at a stretch. If the gods had willed his end, Barristan had thought it would be sickness that claimed him, not the treachery of men. But murdered he was, and once again, Ser Barristan Selmy had failed. Failed to shield yet another scion of a royal dynasty from the cruel hand of fate.
It was a fortnight past when a Baratheon guard found Renly in his chambers, racked with delirium and pain. That very night, when Barristan heard of it and sought him out, he discovered a grim scene—Renly lying insensible upon his bed, surrounded by Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Arryn, and the king himself, a dagger buried deep in his chest. Pycelle had laboured through the night, closing the wound, cleansing it, and striving to drive the fever away. For a time, there was hope. When Renly woke, it seemed the Stranger might yet show mercy.
In the days that followed, he was seldom lucid, speaking only in broken fragments, murmuring of a king at Highgarden or a secret marriage at Harrenhal—half-formed thoughts that left all who listened troubled and unsure. His final day was the cruelest. He grew frantic, near hysterical, his fevered ravings a torment to all who watched. Yet when Ser Loras Tyrell appeared at his bedside, the storm within him seemed to abate, if only for a time.
The Knight of Flowers had ridden hard from the Reach, abandoning the journey to Highgarden for his sister's name day the moment word reached him of Renly's dire state. But neither Ser Loras's devotion nor the Mother's grace could save Renly. He passed from the world but a week ago, though to Barristan Selmy, it might as well have been a year, for so much had the court changed in the wake of his death.
Renly's body could scarce have cooled before Stannis Baratheon rode for Storm's End to claim the seat that was his by right. At first, the king had been resolute—Stannis would remain Lord of Dragonstone, with Storm's End promised instead to Prince Tommen. Yet even the most stubborn of kings must bend to sound counsel, and both Jon Arryn and Stannis himself spoke persuasively. Reluctantly and fuming, the king relented.
Now Lord Stannis held Storm's End as its rightful lord, bearing the title of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. The crown retained Dragonstone and the office of Master of Ships, though Stannis had pledged to resume his duties in the royal fleet once his affairs in the Stormlands were set to order.
Next came the fate of Ser Mandon Moore, and that fate had been decided swiftly, though it left no shortage of bitterness in its wake. Ser Barristan had been livid when the Kingsguard knight sauntered into Renly's chambers what seemed mere hours after the grim deed was done. His answers to Barristan's questions were vague at best, evasive at worst, and there was little doubt his absence in the crucial moment had cost dearly.
When King Robert learnt of the failure, his wrath erupted in a manner that left even hardened men pale. Barristan had seen that fury only once before—on the Trident, when Robert crushed the life from Rhaegar Targaryen, the rubies from the former prince's armour scattered like drops of blood upon the river.
Treason, the king had called it, and Ser Mandon was arrested without delay. Queen Cersei had sought to temper Robert's ire, suggesting the knight take the black and join the so-called 'brave volunteers' the crown had pledged to the Night's Watch. But Robert had lost a brother, and for that, only blood seemed to suffice.
Ser Ilyn Payne took Ser Mandon's head only the day before now, a fortnight after Renly's death, and now Ser Barristan Selmy, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, had to find a new knight for the King to bestow with a white cloak.
Ser Barristan made his way from the Red Keep, the weight of it all heavy upon his shoulders. His path took him through the Street of Seeds and toward the Gate of the Gods, where the bustle of King's Landing began to thin. Jon Arryn had tasked him with finding men for the Night's Watch, and Barristan had done as well as he could. The dungeons and the Street of Silk had yielded their harvest: a grim collection of orphan boys and petty criminals. Among the nobility, of course, no volunteers had come forward, nor had Barristan truly expected any.
At the gate, he found the twenty or so raggedly clothed recruits assembled under the watchful eyes of Ser Loras Tyrell and a black-clad, weathered recruiter for the Watch. The Knight of Flowers had stepped forward to join the party, volunteering to escort the prisoners to the Wall in Barristan's stead. A curious choice, he had thought. Until now, when Barristan caught the cold, sharp fury in Loras' golden-brown eyes, fixed like blades on two men among the party—the guards of Storm's End.
The pieces fell into place. These guards had been among those tasked with protecting Renly, alongside Ser Mandon Moore. They had failed in their duty, and though they had pleaded their case, King Robert's fury had been unyielding. The dungeons awaited such failures, and there they had been given a choice: the Wall or the headsman's axe. That they had chosen the black over the block was plain, but judging by the venom in Ser Loras's gaze, their survival was a bitter draught to him.
''Ser Loras.'' Barristan acknowledged.
The Knight of Flowers expression changed when brown eyes met blue, one from contempt to poorly hidden awe. ''Ser Barristan, 'tis an honour.''
Barristan Selmy smiled softly. ''None of that, lad; I just wanted to thank you and see you off. You've done me a great service here, volunteering to see these prisoners to the Wall.''
And grateful, he truly was. He had heard that a certain someone was among the Stark party headed for the Wall, and meeting him again would no doubt bring a confrontation he was not ready for as of yet.
Loras Tyrell turned his head towards the Baratheon guardsmen some yards away. ''It is nothing,'' he said simply.
''Come on, you sorry sons of whores! It's a thousand leagues from here to the Wall, and winter is coming!'' The travelling crow roared from horseback. Loras nodded towards Barristan in acknowledgement before climbing his horse and riding towards Yoren to lead the party to the Kingsroad.
A fortnight came and went before he found himself at the small council again, but this time, the king had joined them. He felt optimistic at that; perhaps his brother's passing had woken him up and made him realise the duty he had to the realm. But that optimism was quickly squashed when he heard Robert roar about the next tourney he had planned.
''Seven Hells, Jon! I'll bloody well think about it!'' Robert roared, already a small bit too deep into his cups. ''Now tell me more about this damnable tourney! 'Tis the only reason I am here after all.''
''Lady Shella has granted our offer to house a grand tourney at Harrenhal, and the appropriate preparations are already underway.'' Petyr Baelish answered simply.
''Very good! This tourney will go down in history; I am sure of it! It will make Lord Whent's tourney look like a bat compared to a stag!'' Robert boomed.
Ser Barristan doubted if any tourney held in the years since could ever rival the splendour of Lord Whent's great tournament at Harrenhal. Life had been simpler then, or so it seemed now, viewed through the golden haze of memory. Better, even, he dared to think. He could still see himself dancing with the Lady Ashara Dayne, her laughter bright and her smile as radiant as dawn. He remembered Rhaegar Targaryen, sombre and haunting, playing his harp and weaving melodies of sorrow that seemed to pierce the soul. And, of course, the tale of the Knight of the Laughing Tree—a mystery that had stirred the hearts of lords and smallfolk alike.
Yet the sweetness of the memory curdled with the sting of regret. He could not forget how Rhaegar had unhorsed him in the final joust. Even now, he longed for the chance to rewrite that moment, to strike the prince from his saddle, to claim the victor's crown, and place it upon Lady Ashara's brow, declaring her his queen of love and beauty.
But it was not to be. Rhaegar had triumphed, and he had crowned Lyanna Stark instead—a single act that cast a shadow over all the realm. Barristan could not shake the weight of it, nor the grief that followed. He could still see it, that fateful day when the smiles died, and with it, so much else. All the blood, the loss, the ruin of houses and lives—it all began there, beneath the shadow of Harrenhal.
''Now to the last thing on our agenda, we need to find our next Lord of Dragonstone.'' Lord Arryn paused to look at the king before continuing, ''I have, together with the council, made a list for his grace with contenders for the position; they are all batt—''
''I have already made up my mind on the matter.''
''Your grace, Stannis, is needed at Storm's End. It would be unwise—''
''Dammit, Jon! I'm not talking about my brother; he can keep Storm's End if that is what every clever little twat with a mouth wants! You know who I want!'' Robert declared while holding his cup up in the air next to him for his cupbearer, Lancel Lannister, to pour more wine in.
The Hand of the King looked uncertain. ''Ned won't agree to it, Robert; he is the heir to Winterfell. There are many other sons whose families have served you faithfully from the day you rose in rebellion.''
Robert intends for Robb Stark to be the new Lord of Dragonstone?
Stark and Baratheon had been fostered together at the Eyrie under the watchful eye of Lord Jon Arryn. As boys, they had been as close as brothers, bound by shared youth and the trials of their fostering. But bonds forged in innocence are not always proof against the weight of kingship and war.
The great fissure in their friendship came when Tywin Lannister presented the bodies of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys before Robert's throne, their small, broken forms swaddled in crimson cloaks bearing the golden lion. Eddard Stark had been horrified, recoiling at the slaughter of children. He had demanded justice—Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch sent to Sunspear to answer for their crimes, and Lord Tywin himself held to account.
But Robert had denied him, and what followed was a shouting match that reportedly shook the very walls of the throne room. Stark's fury clashed with Robert's stubbornness, and the echoes of their words lingered long after they had parted. That day, their friendship had fractured, and though Robert had made great efforts to mend it in the years since, the wound remained.
Ser Barristan suspected this latest gesture, whatever it might be, was yet another attempt by the king to bridge the gulf between them. Robert Baratheon was many things—loud, impulsive, and reckless—but he was also a man who could not bear the loss of those he loved, no matter how deeply he buried the pain beneath wine and laughter.
''Ned has two sons reaching their major, does he not?'' Robert said, ''And he loves his bastard dearly, as much as his true-born children. I could have him legitimised and grant him Dragonstone. I know Ned will appreciate this.''
The Bastard of Winterfell. Ashara's son!
''Ned will not appreciate you throwing his... what? Four-and-ten-year-old son into a viper's nest of old Targaryen supporters. The Lord of the Tides will make quick work of him; Dragonstone and Blackwater Bay will only suffer from this.''
''It's a damn good thing that the boy has two whole years to prepare before he can take his seat there then. Stannis will continue to serve as Lord of Dragonstone until the bastard has reached his majority; I'll even allow his Dayne traitor uncle to join him.''
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning—once a brother in arms, once a friend. The very thought of him brought only hurt. He had served Prince Rhaegar with unwavering loyalty, yet when Robert's victory was all but certain, Ser Arthur bent the knee. Still, he would not don the white cloak for King Robert, choosing instead to raise Ashara's son.
Eddard Stark had returned from Dorne bearing the body of his dear sister, and with him came Ser Arthur, a nursemaid, and the boy—Ashara's bastard. Their arrival only fanned the embers of Robert and Ned's old quarrel. Yet grief can unite as surely as it divides, and in mourning Lyanna Stark, the two found a fragile reconciliation. Eventually, King Robert gave leave for Ser Arthur to follow Ned Stark north, so that he might tend to his blood. Thus did one of the greatest knights of the realm turn from the king's service to kin's duty.
''If Snow is his grace's choice, then I must insist that you finalise this order rather quickly. Last I heard from Winterfell, he had volunteered to be one of the men Stark intends to send beyond the wall to help find Benjen Stark.'' Varys said then.
''Your Grace, the strife in the Disputed Lands has not abated. If these whispers of a reborn Triarchy prove true. We must seat a warrior upon Dragonstone, not some unblooded boy.''
Robert sent a sharp look to his hand then. ''I'll hear no more of this, Jon! This is what I want; this is what I command!'' Robert growled.
Jon Arryn sighed. ''Very well, I'll have the legitimisation order finalised by the end of the week. Winterfell should receive word within a fortnight.''
''Good!'' Robert seemed very pleased. Downing another cup of wine in victory. ''Now, what of the Golden Company? Do they stand behind the dragonspawn?''
''It does not seem like it, Your Grace. They are currently still in Volantis. Once I find out their intentions, you'll be the first to know.'' The spider replied.
''And what of the Triarchy? Is it true?'' The Hand of the King asked softly.
''Yes, it appears the Kingdom of the Three Daughters rises once more. Their designs remain murky still, but one might guess the Golden Company's presence in Volantis is no circumstance. Mayhaps they seek a contract from the Volantene—to crush this Triarchy reborn before it gains the strength to stand on its own feet.''
''Could they be making their way towards the Stepstones, like they did with the Crabfeeder?''
''If the Stepstones should fall to this Triarchy, that would beggar most of our eastern ports. Kings Landing included.'' Grand Maester Pycelle added worriedly.
''Spider! I want you to make this your priority as well if you should hear as much as a whisper about them making their way towards the Stepstones…''
Varys giggled. ''You and the lord Hand will be the first to know, Your Grace.''
Later, when Ser Barristan trailed close behind Prince Joffrey, his mind drifted back to the War of the Ninepenny Kings. That campaign had been fought upon the Stepstones as well, where Barristan himself had crossed blades with Maelys Blackfyre—Maelys the Monstrous, they named him. A giant of a man, unnaturally strong, with a second head sprouting from his neck, no bigger than a child's fist.
In the thick press of battle, Barristan had set eyes upon Maelys and carved a path through the sellswords that flocked to the Blackfyre banner. Ten men, or was it more?—fell to his blade that day, in the mad rush that set his blood aflame. When at last steel met steel, the fight was fierce and close—there was a moment when it seemed Maelys might prevail.
But Barristan Selmy was the knight who had bested Ser Duncan the Tall at six-and-ten, unhorsing him during the winter tourney at King's Landing, and by that feat winning his spurs from King Aegon the Unlikely. Barristan had faced giants before. In the end, he lived, and Maelys died, and with it, the last blood of Blackfyre dripped upon the Stepstones' rocks.
It was the one deed that earned him the honour of the white cloak; he was sure of it. The day King Jaehaerys II placed it upon his shoulders was the brightest in all his memory. He had forsaken all claim to Harvest Hall and the woman he was set to wed. Yet he would make the same sacrifice a hundred times over if asked, even if it led him to this moment of all moments: escorting a most peculiar young prince through the halls, with only the Seven to guide him.
''You're dismissed, old man! My dog can take it from here.'' Joffrey declared.
''My prince.'' Barristan bowed and began to walk, leaving the prince with Sandor Clegane.
Prince Joffrey was a spoilt child with a cruel streak within him. Not even Aerys had shown such cruelty at such a young age. At first he thought he would grow out of it, but as the days grew older and his behaviour only increased, he started to truly worry.
During the hour of the wolf, he was sitting inside the White Sword Tower, looking through the many pages of the White Book. It was a thick book, a thousand pages at least. Made of white vellum pages bound between covers of bleached white leather, with gold hinges and fastenings. Barristan Selmy was not a bookish man, but he had often glanced through the pages of the White Book, where the many deeds of those who came before him had been recorded. Some had been legends, like Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. Others had been weaklings, knaves, or cravens. He tried to remember any of his predecessors that would fit the latter quota but could only find the names of his current brothers, Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Jaime Lannister.
From the days of The Sword of the Morning and the White Bull to Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount. How low this illustrious order has fallen…
He had long ago realised that most knights wearing the white cloak were only men—quicker and stronger than most, more skilled with sword and shield, but still prey to pride, ambition, lust, love, anger, jealousy, greed for gold, hunger for power, and all the other failings that afflicted lesser mortals. The best of them overcame their flaws, did their duty, and died with their swords in their hands. The worst... The worst were those who played the game of thrones.
He closed the White Book; his pale blue eyes went from sad to a rare form of pure determination. He had a new knight to find, and by the Old Gods and the New, he would make sure that this knight was worthy.