A/N: Another chapter, and with it, a solemn promise. I promise you that we will be leaving Harrenhal in the next chapter. The tourney is over; war is looming. Next up, the Lord of Winterfell. The chapter should not take as long (hopefully).
Barristan IV
''High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts...''
The singer's voice was soft and smooth, and as they sang, Princess Myrcella seemed on the verge of weeping, but it took all Barristan's strength not to let a frown betray his thoughts.
They knew well enough what they did, choosing that song. It was all the talk of late, whispered in taverns and in tents, spreading like wildfire through the tongues of men. The Ghosts of Harrenhal. When I am naught but a bent and withered old man, waiting meekly for the Stranger's cold kiss, will there be some new song of Harrenhal's ghosts?
He did not linger to hear the singer's finish Jenny's song, for his brothers had it well in hand, and the small council awaited besides.
As such, with heavy eyes, Barristan strode through the great corridors of Harrenhal, alone. The King and Queen, along with their princes and princess, remained within the Chamber Hall, where Barristan had seen to it that all his sworn brothers stood watch. A small mercy, that they had the sense to remain where they were, at least until the situation was firmly in their grasp.
The two diplomats sent on behalf of the Three Daughters are dead.
Barristan himself had been among the first to lay eyes upon the scene. A steward of Harrenhal had raised the alarm, rousing Lady Whent after knocking upon their door and receiving no answer. The envoys had been summoned by the Master of Coin to resume their talks regarding the Crown's debts, yet now they would speak no more.
Spotless the bodies had been. No crimson upon the sheets, no gaping wounds, no marks of a blade. They might have been merely sleeping. Selmy had seen death in all its cruel forms, but seldom like this. A stark contrast from the butchered corpses and broken men who he had both sent and had seen sent to the Stranger's hall.
Suddenly, he halted abruptly as his hand drifed toward the hilt of his sword.
A sound had reached his ears. A soft and sweet ripple of giggles that sounded like an echo. And it came from behind him.
Yet when he turned, there was nothing.
The corridor lay empty, save for the occasional guard standing at his post, clad in steel and silence. Barristan knew well that none of them could have made such a sound. It had been feminine, and it had no place here.
He had heard those giggles before; of that, Barristan was certain. No matter how distant, no matter how faint, he would always know. But that is not possible. It could not be.
A chill threatened to creep up his spine, yet he suppressed it, barely. Instead, he exhaled, slow and steady, and shook his head as if to cast off the unease.
Soon enough, as he kept walking, he could see the door that led toward the room the Crown had temporarily claimed as the small council chamber.
His Grace, King Robert Baratheon, had wished for this tourney to be sung of for generations, a spectacle fit for the history books in the Citadel. And so it shall be, Ser Barristan Selmy thought, but not for the reasons His Grace had hoped.
Throughout Harrenhal, the gossip changed with every tongue that spoke them, for all men thought themselves wise enough to unravel the mysteries of the past week.
Harren the Black had felled a great grove of weirwoods to raise the castle's sept in honour of the Seven. And the evil of the Old Gods has lingered ever since, haunting the halls with their vengeance to strike down good Quentyn Martell. A devout septon had proclaimed.
Others scoffed at such tales. It was Aegon the Dragon's doing. For his dragon left more than charred stone and melted towers. It left ghosts, lingering demons of the men, women, and children he burnt alive within Harrenhal's walls.
No, it was Black Harren's own folly when he had mixed human blood into the mortar for the stonework—blood from the thousands of captives that had died labouring on the five huge towers.
Some had claimed to have seen the ghosts of Harrenhal with their own eyes. Pirate's from Lys, seeking vengeance, nothing more. For one of the diplomats had murdered their little sister.
No, it was no pirates. It was the River Outlaws, bought and paid for by Tyrion Lannister; the Imp has his hands in many a shadow.
No, it was the River Outlaws, but they were paid by Viserys Targaryen.
The talk of the River Outlaws soon gave way to accusations. The Brackens laid the blame squarely upon the Blackwoods, while the Blackwoods, in turn, named the Brackens as the true culprits. The Hand of the King was wary of such talk, and Barristan did not fault him. The outlaws had nearly driven the two river lords to war once before, when villages within Bracken lands had been raided and put to the sword.
Lord Jonos Bracken had sworn it was Blackwood butchery, claiming the attackers had worn their colours, while Lord Tytos Blackwood had denied it with equal conviction. Insults had been hurled, tempers had flared, and soon enough, banners had been called.
Barristan recalled the Small Council meeting well. Lord Renly had still drawn breath then, and Jon Arryn had commanded a raven be sent to Riverrun, ordering the Tullys to put an end to the discord before it turned to war. Yet, it had not been long after that meeting when Edmure Tully had declared a new assize at Riverrun. That alone suggested that Tully had been labouring toward peace long before the Crown had intervened, but it also hinted at another truth: the outlaws had not been the only thing to stoke the flames of conflict.
The Teats, it must have been the Teats. They have fought over those hills for centuries.
Barristan paused as the two guards standing before the door moved to open it. Stepping inside, he took in the chamber with a practiced eye. Besides one of the stewards, all were seated. Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King; Lord Stannis Baratheon, the Master of Ships; and Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin.
Silently, Barristan made his way to the nearest empty chair. Fewer and fewer faces at this table, he thought. The Small Council grows ever smaller.
His mind drifted to the talk around Harrenhal, who had been responsible for these three demises.
It was the Father himself who cast down the blasphemers, striking the pirates dead for their sins.
It was a dark omen, signalling that war was coming.
It was ironborns seeking retribution for their sunken ships.
Every man had the truth of it, while all others were wrong. I have seen and heard talk like this before, Barristan thought solemnly. Summerhall.
A great tragedy and a great fire, born out of great sorcery, one so terrible the Stranger had feasted well that day.
King Aegon the Unlikely. Queen Betha Blackwood. Prince Duncan, the Prince of Dragonflies—the same prince who had once laughed and named him Barristan the Bold at the tourney at Blackhaven. His Jenny of Oldstones and The Ghost of High Heart. Princess Rhae and Princess Daella, and all their children. Ser Duncan the Tall, along with every sworn sword of King Aegon's Kingsguard, save for Gerold Hightower and Long Tom Costayne. The King's septon and pyromancers, all had perished; all had braced for the Stranger's kiss.
The whispers had spread across the Seven Kingdoms shortly after, like the very fire that had consumed Summerhall, carried on the lips of smallfolk and lords alike. Each man had claimed to know the truth then as well; each swore by one tale or another. But the truth had been lost to the flames.
There had been survivors of the tragedy at Summerhall. King Jaehaerys and Queen Shaera had escaped the flames, yet neither would outlive their grief for long. They lingered but three years more, and even then, there were whispers that it was Summerhall's curse that had taken them so soon after in the end, just as surely as fire had claimed the rest.
Prince Aerys, who would follow him to the throne, fell instead to madness. None had ever dared claim it outright, but Barristan was certain that some believed the seeds of his madness had been sown amidst the flames and ruin of Summerhall.
None who had lived through that night had ever spoken of what had truly transpired. Not Hightower or Costayne, not Aerys, not Jaehaerys. Queen Rhaella had spoken of it but once to Barristan Selmy, and even now, he could recall how her violet eyes had grown distant and haunted before they found his once more.
''If not for the valour of Ser Duncan the Tall, my little Rhaegar and I would not be here.'' She had only said.
What the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had done that night, how he had saved Queen Rhaella and Prince Rhaegar, a babe still swaddled in his mother's arms, she had taken to her grave. None others had ever spoken of it, and none ever would.
Yet every so often, when Prince Rhaegar took up his harp and rode for Summerhall, insisting he be left alone, Barristan Selmy found himself wondering. Did he know? Had the truth from his mother reached him in his youth? Or did he merely feel the weight of it, as all those touched by Summerhall seemed to?
Mayhaps it was the weight, for everywhere I look, men are frightened. Barristan thought. Men touched by the Ghosts of Harrenhal.
''All of you know well why you have been summoned.'' Arryn said grimly. ''Ser Barristan, you were one of the first on the scene; what can you tell us?''
'''Twas one of the stewards who discovered the bodies within their respective chambers that His Grace and Lady Whent had so generously granted them.'' Barristan said.
''What killed them?'' Jon Arryn asked.
''We won't know for certain until the Maesters have done their work. But there was not a drop of blood in sight.''
''That makes it three now, my lords. I daresay 'tis a blessing this tourney nears its end. Fear grips his Graces tourney, and Lady Whent is fuming. She demands compensation from the Crown for the declining reputation her house is suffering.'' Baelish said smoothly.
''She demands?'' Stannis said, his voice like cold iron. ''Whent is fortunate, we do not strip her family of lands and titles. Her failure to host a mere tourney has plunged the realm into war.''
''War?'' Arryn echoed, a darkened look on his face.
Lord Stannis gritted his teeth so hard in response that Barristan thought he might break them. Yet it was Petyr Baelish who spoke next. ''Foreign vessels have been skirting our coasts long before this tourney began, and the diplomats found little willingness to compromise on the matter of our debts. A wise man might say they were merely waiting for a pretext to strike.''
''A pretext they have now been given,'' Stannis continued firmly. ''Lady Whent swore them her protection, offered them bread and salt, and now they are dead. The laws of hospitality are sacred.''
Jon Arryn quickly and firmly raised a hand dismissively. ''I will hear no talk of guest right, nor any questioning of Lady Whent's honour. Not until we have uncovered the truth of what befell these men, and if there is foul play, who or what was responsible for the deed.''
His gaze shifted to Baelish. ''Deny the Whents any compensation. We do not yet know what befell these men, but in either case, if Lady Whent had seen fit to raise the matter before the tourney and sought aid in securing guards and men-at-arms for better protection, she would have had it. That is solely that fault of her, not the Crown.''
Baelish nodded with a tight smile. ''It shall be done, Lord Hand.''
Arryn's gaze flickered briefly to something distant before he spoke. ''The diplomats spoke of Ironborn during their audience with the king.''
''Words was sent to Pyke as soon as the diplomats raised the accusation. As of yet, the king's request for clarification remains unanswered.''
Arryn's expression hardened. ''If we hear nothing within a fortnight, I want men and ships scouring the waters where this supposed battle took place. One way or another, we will have the truth of it.''
''Quellon Greyjoy's line has never been wanting for recklessness. Raiders to the bone, with little to no mind for strategy. The Essosi spoke truly; I am sure of it, and Lord Eddard's hostage should lose his head for it.'' Stannis said.
''It may well have been the Triarchy who struck the first blow, and the Ironborn merely answered in kind. There is also a question to be raised: Can it even be called rebellion if they have not spilt a single drop of Westerosi blood?'' Baelish said.
''If Balon Greyjoy's deeds have drawn war upon us? Aye, beyond doubt, Baelish. To disturb the king's peace is the gravest of treasons.'' Stannis answered both sternly and dismissively.
Stannis Baratheon's gaze then fell upon the King's Hand. ''Lord Hand, with all respect, chasing after the truth of these diplomats' claims is folly. A wiser course would be to raise the royal fleet in full and set them to guard our shores and strike down any Triarchy ship that comes sniffing.''
''You would have the realm go to war? To strike first?'' Arryn asked, frowning.
''I would have the realm not stand vulnerable to foreign raids, to have sons and daughters of Westeros kidnapped and enslaved.'' Stannis answered.
''If I may, my lords?'' Baelish said, a smile playing at his lips. ''I must confess, I find myself in rare agreement with Lord Stannis. Two men, both perishing of natural causes on the same night? Highly unlikely. Poison would be my guess.''
''Poison?'' Barristan echoed, joining the King's hand in his frowning.
''It is what I would wager on, my good ser,'' Baelish replied smoothly, before his lips once more curled in amusement. ''Either that, or mayhaps there is some truth to Black Harren's curse after all, for never in my life have I heard of two men with sound health drop dead in unison.''
''What cause would anyone have to poison two diplomats under the Crown's protection?'' Arryn asked, considering Baelish's point fully serious.
Petyr leaned back, fingers idly drumming against the table. ''That remains unclear, but if we have no culprit to name save for ghosts and shadows, then when word reaches the Free Cities, they will take it for what it appears. An act of war.''
''More than enough reason to find this suspected culprit, then,'' Arryn said sternly.
A long silence followed. Stannis held Arryn's gaze, with eyes narrowed. Baelish, by contrast, looked wholly indifferent, as if the matter of potential poisoning amused him more than it concerned him.
Arryn met each of their stares in turn before exhaling, weary but resolute. ''I hear your counsel,'' he said at last. ''But I will not have us go to war until every other course has been exhausted.''
''What do you suggest, my Lord?'' Baelish asked.
''We raise a portion of the royal fleet, no more, no less.'' Arryn said. ''There is no need to drain the treasury on full fleet maintenance when a fraction of it will suffice. Let it patrol our eastern coast, from King's Landing to Sunspear. That should serve to dissuade any would-be opportunists without needlessly provoking war.''
Stannis gave a curt nod. ''I will see to it,''
''Do so,'' Arryn said. ''Much of the royal fleet is still stationed at King's Landing, if I am not mistaken?''
''You are not,'' Stannis replied. ''As you may recall, I have petitioned both the King and the Master of Coin for sometime.'' He cast a pointed look at Petyr Baelish before turning his gaze back to the hand. ''to be granted the necessary resources to build more ships. The royal fleet has been neglected since Balon Greyjoy rose in rebellion, my lord. Ships lost at Fair Isle, Great and Old Wyk, and Pyke to the Iron Fleet were never rebuilt. Yet my requests were denied.''
Baelish smirked while Jon Arryn sighed, running a hand through his hair. ''Be that as it may, I will give you a week. By the time we take our first days' ride from Harrenhal, I expect a full preparation plan in place. I want to know how many ships will sail from King's Landing, where they will patrol, and which lanes they shall follow.''
''It shall be done,'' Stannis said, ''the rest of the royal fleet should not remain idle in the docks of King's Landing, however. Duskendale, Driftmark, and Dragonstone all serve as far better stations. Should the worst come to pass, we would spare ourselves days, if not weeks, of unnecessary travel time to Shipbreaker Bay or the deeper waters of the Narrow Sea.''
''Do what you think is best, Lord Stannis. I trust your judgement in these matters.'' Arryn said before shifting his gaze toward Lord Baelish. ''Any word of Viserys Targaryen?'' He asked, and Barristan's eyes grew lighter for it.
''Nothing, my lord,'' Baelish said. ''Whilst we remained in King's Landing, Lord Varys sent an agent to pursue the sister, Daenerys.''
''Daenerys? She is but a girl.'' Arryn said.
''She is, my lord.'' Baelish answered before he paused, eyes flickering to all at the table before he continued. ''The spy is Ser Jorah Mormont, the former Lord of Bear Island.''
''A traitor? Is that truly the best the eunuch could muster? Have we fallen so low as to rely on traitorious exiles and cowards?'' Stannis said.
''Ser Jorah is a slaver, not a traitor.'' Baelish offered.
Stannis Baratheon's answer to that was with an expression carved from stone.
''A pardon was offered, I suppose?'' Arryn asked with an unimpressed face.
''I must admit, my lord, that I do not know; Lord Varys keeps his cards close. I doubt that he knows that I carry the information I just provided.''
Stannis scoffed. ''Of course he offered a pardon. No exile would agree to it without one.''
''Lord Varys is still in King's Landing. Once we return, we will have the truth of it.'' Arryn said. This council is adjourned.''
Stannis and Barristan both gave a curt nod before rising to their feet and leaving the room steadily.
''Steward Tom,'' Arryn then said, looking at the man in question. The steward had stood diligently by the door, and he straightened at the sound from the hand. ''Summon Prince Oberyn. I would have a word with him.''
''At once, my lord.'' the steward answered and left the room after Stannis.
Barristan would have left with them, were it not for the Hand calling for him.
''Ser Barristan, the King's safety is paramount, so we keep him and the royal family in the Chamber Hall for the evening and the night, under tight guard.''
''If His Grace and his family remain within, we shall guard them well, but the King has a habit of wandering to the local taverns or the tents beyond come nightfall.'' Barristan paused, suppressing a sigh. He had wished to find some sleep tonight, but alas, sleep would not claim him this night, it seemed. Another sacrifice to duty. ''I will personally join Ser Boros and Ser Arys to escort him when he takes his midnight stroll.''
''That will not be necessary. I have already spoken to him about it. For the evening and night, he will remain within the Great Chamber Hall.'' Arryn countered.
Barristan nodded. If King Robert had given Jon Arryn his word, it meant that he would indeed remain there for the night. He did not listen to many, our king, but his Hand was one of the exceptions.
''That would be all, Lord Commander. Baelish, stay.'' Arryn finished.
Barristan recognised the dismissal for what it was. So, with a bow and a final glance at Jon Arryn and Petyr Baelish, he stepped out into the corridor and began the wander back towards his brother's in the Chamber Hall.
The sound of his boots striking the cold stone floor and the faint rustle of his white armour reverberated through the vast, empty halls as Barristan made his way back toward his brothers. It was comforting, even soothing, in its own way. It was the sound of a castle too large to maintain; it was a herald of the silence, and outside, he knew, the world was anything but. Whispers of war, schemes, and unrest hung thick as fog beyond these cursed halls.
His mind wandered back to the meeting and to the diplomats who had met their untimely end. Littlefinger might well have the truth of it; nay, he did have the truth of it. For the point he had raised was sound, even for Barristan's ears: two men of sound health dropping dead at the same time was not just unlikely, but nigh impossible.
Poison was a foul way to kill. A coward's weapon, fit for cravens, women, for those too fearful to look a man in the eye as they took his life.
And Dornishmen, Barristan thought. Was that why Arryn had summoned Prince Oberyn? The thought left a sour taste on his tongue. It was how The Red Viper had earned his moniker after all, after his clash with Lord Edgar Yornwood had left rumours that he fought the duel with a poisoned blade. He had studied at the Citadel too, and travelled across the Free Cities for many a year. Did Arryn suspect him, or did he simply seek his counsel on what had killed them?
The latter seemed most likely; if anyone would be able to spot a poisoning, it would be him. Prince Oberyn had no cause to slay these men.
Barristan shook his head at all these thoughts, meaningless speculation it all were, pointless until they knew for certain how they died. His duty was clear: protect the King, keep a watchful eye, and leave the mummery of politics to those better suited to it.
Sweet giggles, the very same he had heard before, followed by a voice full of sweetness, suddenly echoed through the quiet.
''You truly are the bold knight, aren't you?''
Barristan halted; he knew those giggles, and he knew that voice, and it halted his heart.
''Very well, Connington makes for a poor dancer anyhow. You shall have this dance, Barristan the Bold.''
Barristan drew his longsword instinctively as he turned abruptly, with eyes widened.
Yet when he turned, there was nothing, save for the cold and empty hall that stretched out before him, the shadows that flickered from the torches along the walls, and the few guards that once stood diligently and calm by the walls now looked at him like he were the Smiling Knight come again. Still, Barristan held his sword highly, the point of the blade toward the end of the corridor. His breath came slow and steady, but he felt his heart pound like a squire at his first tourney.
He did not know how long he had just stood there, his sword pointed at nothing. All he knew was once the same voice had not called once more for a while, his heart ached, and a shiver went down his spine.
''Ser?'' One of the guards eventually found the courage to say.
The sound of someone speaking to him made him snap out of it all. He looked at the guard, blinking, before his gaze shifted his risen blade.
''My apologies; I thought I heard something.'' Barristan said, frowning as he slid the sword back into its scabbard.
With that, he turned, and began to walk toward the Chamber Hall once more. Foolishness. Madness. I have had little sleep.
It was true, between the ride from King's Landing to Harrenhal, the tournament, the long feasts, with one less knight in his order to fill the ranks. Barristan had found little sleep—if any at all—and the lack of sleep is beginning to tell.
Luckily, he did not have the night shift this time. So he could finally find some rest.
Once Barristan had made his way back to the great oaken door that led to the Chamber Hall, he found two of his sworn brothers standing guard as he had commanded. Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Preston Greenfield. Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Jaime Lannister, the finest blades among them, kept closer guard within the Chamber Hall itself. Both knights wore stern and sullen expressions that only seemed to harden as they saw him approaching beneath the torchlight.
Though loyal enough, both of them were of lesser mettle compared to himself, Ser Jaime, and Ser Arys.
Ser Meryn, and Ser Preston had all participated in the joust, eager to prove their valour before the realm. Yet only Ser Meryn had made it to the final day of jousting, and even then, his glory had been brief. He had been unhorsed after a single clash with Ser Balon Swann, and the defeat had left him sullen and bitter.
Ser Barristan himself, had been defeated by Ser Jamie in the quarter's, a fine and tiring match that had gone on for what felt like an eternity.
He had kept a keen eye out for other knights as well, for he still had a duty to find one of true mettle to replace the failing Ser Mandon. Ser Loras Tyrell, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Robar Royce, and Ser Lyn Cobray had all caught his eye, each proving themselves worthy in the lists and the field. Of all the four, it was Ser Loras who shone brightest, yet Barristan knew well enough that King Robert had already spurned the Knight of Flowers, leaving the choice to lie between Ser Robar, Ser Lyn, and Ser Balon.
By the morrow, he had already resolved, he would speak to all three knights and ask them to accompany the King's party back to King's Landing, should they wish it, so that he might put them to their trials. Only a man of proven valour and honour would do to stand among the Kingsguard, and Barristan intended to see both tested before himself. On the morrow, Barristan thought. Now, I need sleep.
''Ser Meryn, Ser Preston.'' Barristan acknowledged as he passed them.
Both nodded back, but kept their lips sealed and their faces indifferent.
Once he had made it to the Chamber's the Kingsguard shared, he saw Ser Boros Blount deep in his slumber laying on a couch; he had removed his armour, and was snoring loudly.
Barristan, however, decided to only remove his scabbard, sit on an empty cushion, and close his eyes.
He did not know how long he had his eyes closed, but eventually, Ser Boros stopped snoring, which was a blessing in itself. Though, to his irritation, another sound had come to take the place of his brother's snoring.
Knocking, the door was knocking.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He opened his eyes, blinking away the remnants of sleep as his sight adjusted to the dim light. Rising slowly, he cast a glance at Ser Boros, who remained deep in his slumber, oblivious to the knock at the door. It made Selmy frown. It would not do for a knight of the Kingsguard to be so lax in his duty. A knight of the kingsguard ought never to sleep so soundly.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
He fastened his scabbard to his belt, steadying his breath as he prepared himself for whatever duty awaited him. No doubt the King had changed his mind, and a tavern visit was upon him after all. Barristan could almost hear the King's booming laugh and the clatter of empty cups.
Barristan the Bold twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open.
Before him stretched a vast and lush green field, kissed by the light of the moon and a thousand stars.
He saw a maiden, giggling an echoey, bright tone that filled Barristan full of sweetness and longing. The maiden was dancing with numerous shadowy figures that swayed and swirled all around her. She wore a flowing purple gown with long, wide sleeves. And long, wavy black hair adorned with small white flowers that formed a delicate crown.
Barristan stood frozen, watching. This cannot be.
The maiden's eyes, those haunting violet eyes, eventually met Barristan's own, and a smile spread across her lips.
''Dance with me, Ser Barristan.'' Ashara Dayne said.
A chill ran down his spine as he, wary and hand on hilt, walked slowly toward her.
The shadowy figures took notice of his approach, and one by one they began to swell and grow, eventually towering over him as their haunted faces twisted into scowls. As their blurry faces became more detailed, he saw who they were, and it took all for Barristan not to run.
''I am sorry.'' Barristan meekly managed, full of shame.
''Traitor!'' Queen Rhaella Targaryen shrieked.
''Defector!'' King Jaehaerys Targaryen II roared.
''Oathbreaker!'' King Aegon V Targaryen growled.
''Craven!'' Prince Duncan Targaryen screamed.
''Turncloak!'' Ser Duncan the Tall boomed.
''I could not go to the King after the Trident; I was wounded.'' Barristan said.
''You did not try!'' Queen Rhaella shrieked.
''You did what was easy!'' King Jaehaerys II roared.
''You abandoned your king!'' King Aegon V growled.
''And the children, you abandoned them as well!'' Prince Duncan screamed.
''The family you swore to die for!'' Ser Duncan boomed.
''Prince Viserys was only a boy,'' Barristan said, feeling weaker suddenly. ''it would have been years before he—''
''Your duty was to the rightful king!'' Queen Rhaella shrieked.
''You protected the Usurper after royal children were butchered!''
''You swore your life to House Targaryen!''
''Ser Gerold and Ser Jonothor stayed true!''
''Why did not you?!''
Barristan fell to his knees, heart pumping, full of dread. ''...Forgive me,''
The shadows did not answer this time; instead, the stars that had lit the night sky were guttering out.
Ashara Dayne only looked at him sadly as the shadows that had once danced with her came rushing in toward him.
Ser Barristan the Bold closed his teary eyes and accepted his fate.
And then he woke up.