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Dragonstone - Eleventh Moon, 283 AC
King's Landing had fallen.
It had held out for three moons, fighting back-and-forth skirmishing battles with the Westerlander forces besieging it. Tywin Lannister's turned coat had been clear for all to see, and the city's commanders had done their best to bar him entry. Aerys Targaryen, Raymund had learned covertly from Rhaella, had been imprisoned within Maegor's holdfast, toothless but unharmed. Among others, the Kingsguard had turned their cloaks, it seemed, and done their best to protect the city.
This had been a long time coming, in Raymund's opinion. Even he knew that Aerys had been abusing his power for decades, doggedly working his way to throw the kingdom into chaos. Tywin Lannister's rebellion was just another symptom of the broader disease, and Raymund was glad the others hadn't been caught unawares.
When the capital finally fell, it was due to the overwhelming strength of the rebels. Baratheon, Arryn, Stark, and Tully had joined the siege en masse, and with their combined efforts they were able to overwhelm the defenders. The King's Landing garrison had done well enough to fend off the Westerlanders, equipped with the best arms money could buy, but even their fortitude was not enough against such odds. The city fell, and with it, the royal family within. King Aerys, Queen Elia, her children… none of them survived the subsequent sack.
When the ravens arrived with the news, Rhaella called the residence of Dragonstone together. She collected them in the castle's great courtyard, overlooking them from a balcony. "All is not lost," she proclaimed, radiant even in her late pregnancy. The babe was showing, now, and Viserys stood proud at her side, clad in the fineries befitting his station.
The boy had grown much in the past few months, and now stood with the approximate confidence of a prince. A king, now. "My husband may have fallen, but the rebels have not won. Think, my people, of our allies, and our own strength. The Reach still stands beside us, putting the Stormlands to siege and turning north to challenge Baratheon. Dorne grieves for Queen Elia and her children, and will not rest until Tywin Lannister lies dead and buried. Further still is our own strength," she continued, "The mass naval might of the Narrow Sea and our fleet stands unchallenged. We control the waves, and with it, the war."
"While our own Kingsguard, the gallant Ser Raymund, has trained our soldiers here, the other white knights have taken up arms around the Crownlands. Stokeworth, Rykker, Staunton and more are mustering at Duskendale, under the command of Ser Jorgen Massey, who escaped the capital during its fall."
"So take heart," she continued, "and go about your duties. Do the best you can, be it training, sewing, fishing, or anything else. We shall make it through this. Together."
Raucous applause burst from the crowd, the people of Dragonstone in love with their ruler near as much as Raymund was. The strength of Queen Rhaella shone brightest when away from her husband, and she seemed to grow stronger every day. When the sept of Dragonstone held a ceremony to crown Viserys, she stood by his side, watching the new king say vows he hardly understood, but meant all the same.
The next king of the Seven Kingdoms inherited a war. He inherited a coalition devoted to destroying him and everything he held dear, bound together by a wrath he did not deserve. He inherited the wrongs of his father, his brother, and his ancestors beyond them, wrongs done without his control, permission, or even understanding. Raymund pitied him. And, however he could, he would help him.
Rhaella named him Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, in the absence of any in the old guard. No one knew where Rhaegar's white knights had gone, but Barristan Selmy was said to have turned his cloak on the banks of the Trident, sworn to the Usurper. Lyonel Ryger was still a Kingsguard, gathering forces at Duskendale in the name of the Crown, drawing from both the scattered remains of Rhaegar's host, and the green soldiery of new recruits in the Crownlands. Jordan Massey had done the same, sailing
So the mantle fell to Raymund.
The White Book was lost, perhaps in the hands of the enemy.
In his makeshift solar, Raymund swept a hand across his desk, scattering reports, censuses, and messages to the side for the evening.
He would make another.
…
"Ser Ryam of House Redwyne. Second-born son of Lord Manfryd Redwyne of the Arbor. Served as a squire to his father, Lord Manfryd Redwyne. As a young knight, he was the victor in Jaehaerys' 10th nameday tourney, unhorsing many, including Ser Lucamore Strong of the Kingsguard. Defeated that same Lucamore Strong in single combat during his trial, slaying the adulterer knight. Co-champions with Ser Clement Crabb in the 89 AC Tourney of Oldtown. Briefly named Hand of the King in 99 AC."
"What are you doing?"
Raymund looked up, peering through his own dark locks at a patchwork image of King Viserys. The boy's crown hung low on his head, but he stood straight, keeping it from falling further. He'd grown out in the past few months, filling what had previously been a dangerously gaunt frame with near as much muscle as a child that age could achieve. His gaze, previously skittish, fearful, was now possessed of a self-assurance he'd previously lacked. This early, it was a good sign for the times to come.
"Re-recording the White Book, Your Grace," said Raymund. It would not do to forget honorifics. "The old one was lost when King's Landing fell, so I thought it prudent to begin another."
"The White Book is for all the Kingsguard throughout history." Viserys said, slipping into the room with Willem Darry shadowing. "You know them all?"
"Aye," he nodded. "Or at least most of them." With one hand, he tapped a stack of books, leather tabs lining the important pages. "The library of Dragonstone carries many historical accounts, and can fill the gaps where I need."
Viserys hopped into the chair beside him, showing a confidence Raymund hoped was becoming more deep-rooted. "Including the Kingsguard of old?" he asked. "Ser Gyles Morrigen, Ser Aemon the Ser Dragonknight-"
"And Ser Ryam Redwyne," Raymund finished. "Hence the books, and the records."
He gestured to the page he'd been working on before the prince- no, the king had arrived, at the start of Viserys I's reign. He'd managed to make his way through Aegon I, Aenys, Maegor, and Jaehaerys, and now the current king's namesake had him distracted.
"Can I become a Kingsguard?" asked Viserys, guileless. Innocent.
Raymund winced. "No, Your Grace. You're the King, and as such, will be guarded by the Kingsguard. You could become a knight, if you wish. I'm already training you, so it's a natural next step."
"Oh," said Viserys. He picked at some scratches in the table, tracing his finger along the line of candlelight. "That's all right, I suppose."
"Did you want to be a Kingsguard, Your Grace?"
He shrugged his shoulders, in the sullen kind of way that acutely reminded Raymund of his younger brother. Emmon, years behind his brothers, would take every inadequacy as a personal slight. No one's fault, mind, but for the natural barriers of time. Viserys reminded him of it now.
Raymund got up from his char, and knelt on the stone before his king. "Your Grace, may I be candid with you?"
The crown slipped forward on Viserys head as he nodded, before bringing his arms up to adjust it. "Yes, Ser.
"You are a younger brother. Your brother, Rhaegar, was a decade and some older than you, and a full man in his own right." He pursed his lips, trying to puzzle how to phrase this. "He had more experience, more time to be alive, and his deeds will be spoken of for many years to come. But he is not better than you."
Viserys looked confused. "Why would I think he is better than me?"
"Because, for much of your life, you will find yourself always being compared to him. You are his brother, his inheritor, and some decades younger than him. His feats, his deeds, they will hang above you like a scythe, as his enemies punish you for his actions and his allies look upon you and demand to see him." Raymund gripped Viserys' shoulder, begging his king to understand. "You are your own person, Viserys. Please learn that."
It seemed as if an inkling entered into the boy, and he nodded, lilac eyes bright. "Yes, Ser Raymund."
The knight and the king stood in silence, for a moment, before it passed. Raymund bade Viserys return to his bed, while he resumed recording names in the White Book. It was just one more step he had to take to ensure the realm survived.
But the king was not the last visitor that Raymund got that night.
In the hour of ghosts, Queen Rhaella appeared, in all her majesty. She still wore the royal garb, the magnificent, night-black gown, the Crown of Queens that had passed on to her grandmother to her mother to herself. She was escorted by Ser Willem Darry, the old but sturdy knight who had taken to guarding Queen Rhaella when Raymund was assigned to other duties.
When she arrived, Raymund stood, showing the respect that the queen was due. His armor clanked, and Rhaella smiled at his haste, and said nothing. She entered the study, closing the stone door behind her, and sat where her son had been in just an hour past. Smiling up at Raymund, she gestured to the chair across from her. "Sit."
"My Queen." Raymund did as she bade, closing the White Book as he did so. He dried his quill on some loose parchment, and tucked it away.
Rhaella pursed her lips, partially distracting Raymund as she did. "The rebels believe themselves the victors, Ser Raymund," she said. "Much of the realm believes it too."
Raymund grimaced. "Indeed, my queen. Despite our efforts here on Dragonstone, King's Landing is the symbol of authority for the realm. King Viserys is young, and untested. His reign seems a sham to those looking upon it from afar."
"I would see that perception destroyed, Ser Raymund. My son is King, and all the realm would be a fool to deny it."
Rhaella's eyes were blazing, and within them Raymund saw the will to see her vision a reality. It was magnificent.
"There are many things that can be done," he began. "You would know ruling better than I, but it seems that legitimacy is where your current reign is lacking. Viserys would benefit from a council, from official appointments to daily meetings. So far, we're operating informally. The kingsguard cannot run the war alone. For legitimacy's sake, we might wish to organize it."
"All of Aerys's councilors were toads, simply seeking favor." Rhaella's look of remembered disgust showed how she felt about that. She leaned forward, elbows resting on Raymund's desk. "How would that be avoided this time?"
Raymund shrugged, his armor clinking. "I know not, my queen. You would be performing the appointments in Viserys'. You must rely on your own insights, over anyone else."
"Very well, then." Rhaella gave a small smile, looking at him with a curiosity Raymund did not understand. "I shall think about who I might appoint. What else would you do, were you in my position?
"I would show my vassals that the war was not over. The longer we sit here on Dragonstone, doing nothing across the realm, the more time the Usurper has to consolidate his power. His hounds, Stark, Arryn, Lannister, can run our loyalists down, isolate them, and incorporate them. The more we do nothing, the more Baratheon wins."
Struck by some font of inspiration, the Queen Dowager rushed to another table in the room, one where Raymund kept a map of the Seven Kingdoms, laid out with troop markers and significant terrain features. She gave Raymund a wolfish - nay, draconic smile as her hands deftly moved soldier and ship markers around the board. "Then we shall have to show Baratheon and the Realm how much he is truly losing."
Her manicured hand gripped tightly to the dragon-headed piece and thrust it to land on Storm's End.
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