Chapter Text
When the ceaseless peals of thunder shook the earth and lightning lit up the midnight expanse like dawn come early, it should have been a sign to all that a son of the Storm Lord was on his way. When Steffon Baratheon, the lord of Storm’s End, received word that his beloved Cassana had gone into labor, he was caught completely unawares. Perhaps that was foolish of him, given that his wife had looked fit to burst for weeks now. Then again, he reasoned, both of his other children had been longer than normal pregnancies. Or so Maester Cressen claimed. Having not yet seen his 20th nameday, Steffon didn’t pretend to know much about childbirth or even of fatherhood. His oldest, Robert, was barely three years old; his second son, Stannis, had just turned one. I’ll learn quickly at this rate, the young lord thought with a grin. All the same, Steffon remained outside of the birthing chamber. He knew he would be of little use to anyone in there, especially Cassana. After giving birth to Stannis, she had informed him that his constant pacing unnerved her.
So he did so outside, back and forth for what seemed like hours. Hours filled with the mutterings of midwives and the old maester, punctuated by screams of pain and effort from his dear wife. When at last Cressen emerged from within, sweat beading on his wrinkling skin, Steffon had almost reached his breaking point. “How is she? How is the child?” Steffon’s heart leapt when Cressen issued a rare smile and beckoned him forward. The young lord almost shoved the gray-garbed man to the side in his eagerness to be with his wife and newborn child. His Cassana, half-asleep, grinned up at him before looking down at the bundle of blankets that Steffon assumed must be their child.
“You’ve a third son, my lord,” said Maester Cressen. “Congratulations. He appears to be in perfect health, just as Robert and Stannis were. Your lady wife did admirably and I believe she will recover fully.” Steffon barely heard any of it after Cressen told him he had a son. As though from across a great distance, he heard Cressen excuse himself, heard the old maester usher out the midwives as well. Steffon was grateful for that; he had an important introduction to make.
“What shall we name him?” Cassana’s voice was exhausted, barely more than a whisper, but Steffon could sense the strength in her. He had expected nothing less. She had married into House Baratheon after all, she had to be strong. Steffon placed a kiss on his wife’s forehead, smoothing back her damp hair. “Perhaps Ormund, after your father,” she suggested. Somehow, Steffon knew that wasn’t right. He had loved his father, there was no question of that. When Maelys the Monstrous had killed his lord father in front of him on the Stepstones, a part of Steffon had died with him. The memory, though bitter, gave rise to a new thought. Visions of a blond-haired knight charging into the thick of battle, sword held high in the air as he challenged the last Blackfyre. Steffon knew then.
“Barristan.” Steffon liked the sound of that. “Barristan Baratheon.”
❖❖❖
Harrenhal loomed on the horizon, blackened towers reaching into the sky like horrible fingers, still grasping at the dragon that had reduced them to ash. Barristan reined in his horse to stare at the ruined castle, heedless of his companions riding beyond him. It was only when the calm air of the early morning was disturbed by a great, bellowing laugh that Barristan snapped out of his reverie. Robert was approaching, followed closely by his wardmate, Eddard Stark. The two friends were laughing at something Stark had said, their sides shaking as they too reined in their horses besides Barristan.
“This your first time seeing the Realm’s largest oven,” Robert asked, leaning over to slap his younger brother’s shoulder. Barristan was by no means slight. He was built like a Baratheon should be: well over six feet tall, although not as towering as Robert, and well-muscled, with shaggy black hair and piercing blue eyes. Even still, what Robert meant as a friendly pat on the back nearly sent Barristan from his saddle. Eddard, who had halted on Barristan’s other side, steadied him.
“Aye, it is,” Barristan responded with a nod of thanks to Stark. He cast his gaze over the blackened towers once more. “It must have been quite a sight in its day,” he mused.
“A day is all it would get before Balerion burnt it to a crisp,” Eddard replied. “The power of House Targaryen was fearsome in those days.” What went unspoken as the three young lords started up again was how much that power had waned in the centuries since Aegon conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Barristan knew the history, probably better than Robert ever would. He knew of Aegon and his sisters, of Maegor the Cruel and Aegon the Unworthy, of Daeron the Good and Aegon the Unlikely. Those days were long past. King Aerys, the second of his name, was a far cry from his famed ancestors. Barristan had never laid eyes on the man people referred to in their whispers as “The Mad King”, but stories abounded. About his wild hair and beard, the crazed look in his eyes whenever someone dared to offer a different idea than his own. Even worse were the stories that filtered into Storm’s End of his cruelty. Barristan was simply grateful that his youngest brother, Renly, was still too small to understand some of the things they’d heard. Sometimes, Barristan wished he was too young to understand the horrors.
But none of that mattered for the moment. Even though the maesters were saying that the warm weather was nothing but a false spring and the realm was in the hands of a madman, Barristan could set that all aside. Now was a time for celebration. Old Walter Whent had promised unimaginable prizes for the winners of the joust, the melee, and the archery competition. Glory and fame were sure to be found in abundance with so many of the great lords in attendance. Although he would never say it out loud for fear of Robert’s jests, Barristan even harbored hopes that he’d earn his knighthood at this tournament. The competition would be fierce, he knew. Arthur Dayne would ride, as would his namesake, Barristan Selmy. Eddard had told Barristan that his eldest brother, Brandon, intended to ride in the jousts, as would Robert. And of course, Crown Prince Rhaegar would ride. Just as Barristan had never laid eyes on the Mad King, he’d never met his second cousin either. But all the realm spoke of him with fondness and respect that they never attributed to the king himself. Barristan would’ve been lying if he wasn’t eager to get a measure of the man for himself.
When at last they entered within Harrenhal’s famed walls, the noise was almost too much for Barritsan to bear. All around, friends reunited, old rivalries sparked, animals bleated and shit and ate everything within sight. The smells were even worse. The sweet scents of baking bread and roasting meat struggled to overcome the stench of sewage and animal and muck. Barristan leaned over to Robert, a rueful grin on his young face. “Stannis was right, he would’ve hated this.” His words earned Barristan another booming laugh from his eldest brother.
“Still, I’d have loved to see his face right now.” Robert screwed up his features in a scarily accurate impersonation of their dour-faced brother. “Someone must look after Storm’s End,” Robert imitated through gritted teeth. “Not all of us have the time for such luxuries.” Barristan couldn’t repress his smile. He often thought Robert was too harsh on Stannis, especially considering Stannis had only ever shown deference to Robert as his elder brother. But even Barristan could admit that Stannis needed to relax some. Any thoughts of Stannis were soon driven from his head when Robert roared out a greeting to an approaching man.
Even if the soaring falcon and moon device on his cloak wasn’t hint enough, the respect that Robert and Eddard showed the old man identified him as Jon Arryn, Warden of the East and Lord of the Vale. For a man that Barristan judged to be in his mid-fifties, Jon Arryn was remarkably spry. He drew Robert in a crushing hug before doing the same to Eddard. His grey hair, starting to be shot through with strands of ivory, was still full and shone with luster. And his eyes were clear and alert, without any trace of the fog of old age. Barristan waited behind his Robert, staring at the ground while his brother caught up with his foster-father.
“I trust the journey from Storm’s End was pleasant,” asked the old lord of the Vale.
“With such companions, it could hardly be otherwise,” boomed Robert, throwing an arm around Eddard. It was hard for Barristan not to feel jealous of Eddard Stark. They’d only just met and from what little he’d experienced, the young Stark was an exemplary man, fully deserving of the praise that Robert heaped on him in his letters. It didn’t stop Barristan from wishing that his oldest brother would show some of that affection to him.
“Robert’s brother proved to be a worthwhile companion as well,” the Quiet Wolf added.
“I thought Stannis was staying behind?” For the first time, Jon Arryn peered over Robert’s shoulder and cast his eyes upon Barristan. Determined not to disappoint, he stepped forward and bowed deeply.
“I am Barristan Baratheon, one of Robert’s younger brothers. An honor, my lord.” Barristan straightened up and met the old man’s gaze.
“Yes,” Lord Arryn said after a moment. “Yes, I imagine it would be.” Barristan glanced sidelong at Robert and Eddard, uncertain of how to respond to such a strange answer. He was spared his embarrassment when the three men around him burst into laughter. Seizing his hand, Jon Arryn greeted Barristan properly. “My apologies, Barristan. I’ve stayed too long in the company of your brother that I’ve forgotten my good graces. I am Jon Arryn, a pleasure to meet you.” Barristan shook his hand eagerly, glad to be relieved of the awkwardness. Lord Arryn beckoned for them to follow him as he set out through the maze of people that had clogged up Harrenhal’s massive courtyard. “Come, all three of you,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Set up your tents by mine. I fear you’re unlikely to find anywhere better.”
The tourney, which was set to last for ten days, was not something that Barristan would soon forget. The first two days were given over to feasts and singers and even a mummer’s show. The next three featured the grand melee, the axe-throwing competition, and the archery contest. Barristan enjoyed himself greatly, although he was eager, as were many others, for the joust. The lists would be announced at the end of the fifth day and Barristan could hardly contain his excitement. More than once, frequently at Robert’s drunken urgings, Barristan found himself in bed with a serving girl or two. Initially, all he could think about was Stannis and the scowl that would’ve soured his features if he were there, which did nothing to get Barristan in the mood. But the feel of each girl’s lips on his own and the wicked words they would whisper in his ear was enough to dispel any reservations Barristan might’ve had.
It was on the last night before the jousts when everything changed. Barristan found himself sandwiched between Lord Jon’s nephew and heir, Elbert Arryn and Eddard Stark’s youngest brother, Benjen. Across from him sat Robert going drink for drink with Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, while Eddard and his sister Lyanna, Robert’s betrothed, cheered them on. The air was thick with music and raucous laughter and hardly a minute could go by without someone offering a toast. Many were offered to Robert, who had won the melee with his massive warhammer. Even more were offered to the Crown Prince and his wife, Princess Elia. They had just recently welcomed their second child, a boy named Aegon, and the Realm rejoiced for them both. Barristan had made up his mind to raise a toast to the Dragon Prince when the large doors of the hall burst open. All eyes were drawn there and witnessed the procession of six men clad in white cloaks. The Kingsguard. All of them had attended the tourney, if for no other reason than Walter Whent was their sworn brother Oswell’s blood brother. But none had seen them gathered together thusly since the tourney began.
They were led by an unassuming man with dark brown hair who Barristan assumed was Jonathor Darry. He was followed by two Dornishmen, one elder with graying hair and of darker coloring, the other was of an age with Robert and all throughout the realm knew him: Arthur Dayne, The Sword of the Morning. Many eyes lingered on him and his family’s sword that hung from his back. Barristan was distracted by the next pair of Whitecloaks. Polite applause met the arrival of Ser Oswell Whent and even more was offered for the man behind him. Barristan Selmy’s hair might have started to gray, but none in the Hall of 100 Hearths would have dared to challenge him, save for Arthur Dayne. The young Baratheon watched with wide eyes as the man for whom he was named marched past. Only then did The White Bull, Gerold Hightower, join his comrades. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard marched to the main table, where Lord Walter Whent sat with Prince Rhaegar. After bowing to both men, he turned to address the hall and bellowed for all to hear.
“All rise for King Aerys of House Targaryen, the second of his name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!” A hundred benches scraped backwards, a hundred cups clattered to the table as the attendees scrambled to their feet. Barristan himself craned his neck for a view of the king. Aerys strode through the doors and even in their terror, some couldn’t contain their gasps. The king, still shy of his fortieth name day, was hunched and his skin looked a feverish white, almost like crumpled parchment. Barristan forced his lip not to curl as he took in the king’s matted hair and beard and the yellowing talons that grew from his fingertips. The gaunt king looked more shade than man, thought Barristan as Aerys passed by. Up close, the head of House Targaryen looked even worse. His hands were covered with scars and scabs and his teeth were an ugly yellow. None spoke as Aerys approached his eldest son. If Rhaegar was surprised by his father’s sudden appearance, he did well to shield it. When his father stood before the high table, Rhaegar bowed and everyone else was quick to follow suit.
“Welcome, father.” Prince Rhaegar’s voice wasn’t as deep as Robert’s, but still carried a certain weight that Barristan knew could carry over great distances. “Your presence, while unexpected, brings great joy to this day.” With Aerys’ back facing the crowd, Barristan couldn’t glimpse the king’s reaction, but Rhaegar’s face fell when his father whispered something unintelligible. The prince moved closer to his father, tried to tell him something, but Aerys had already turned away.
“Well where is he,” he snapped to the Lord Commander. The White Bull shouted out once more, his voice bouncing from every corner of the massive hall.
“Let Ser Jaime, of the House Lannister, step forward.” Immediately, the hall was set alight with the buzz of chatter. Barristan glanced at Robert and Eddard. Neither man was smiling and Lyanna moved to whisper something in Eddard’s ear. To one side of Barristan, Benjen Stark craned to see through the crowd.
“What’s happening out there? I can’t see a damned thing.” Barristan wanted to answer him, but the truth was that he had no clue. Stories of Tywin Lannister’s heir had proliferated throughout the Seven Kingdoms, how he’d held his own against the Smiling Knight and been knighted by Arthur Dayne. His prowess with a blade was said to be unrivaled. Still, he was a year younger than Barristan and as the blond boy emerged from the crowd, he looked every bit the 15 year old he was. Even from his bench, Barristan could see the way the boy’s hand shook as he approached the king. For all that, he did well to keep his voice steady , thought Barristan.
“Your Grace,” Jaime said with a low bow. Aerys ignored the boy and spoke out to the crowd. His voice was every bit as guttural and crass as his appearance.
“Ser Harlan Grandison is dead,” the king announced. This was not new information. Ser Harlan, the seventh member of the Kingsguard, had long been sickly and succumbed to either illness or old age some months before. “I need a new Kingsguard,” continued Aerys. “There must always be seven and right now, I only count six.” The realization dawned on Barristan at the same moment that Gerold Hightower stepped forward to stand alongside King Aerys.
“Kneel,” he commanded the Lannister boy. Jaime, to his credit, complied immediately. Barristan could only imagine how he would react if he had been in the boy’s shoes. It was a thought that had occurred to him before, joining the Kingsguard. He was the third son, completely surplus to requirements. Not that his lord father had ever made him feel that way, but still. Barristan watched as the Lord Commander drew his sword and held it before his eyes. “Do you, Jaime of House Lannister, swear to ward the king with all your strength and give your blood for his?”
“I do,” came the response, clear and bold. The lord commander placed his sword on one of Jaime’s shoulders and continued.
“Do you swear to take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children?” When Jaime gave the same answer, the White Bull moved his blade to the opposite shoulder. “Do you swear to guard his secrets, obey his commands, ride at his side, and defend his name and honor?”
“I do,” replied Jaime. The ghost of a smile traced across Hightower’s lips as he sheathed his blade and congratulated his newest sworn brother.
“Then rise, Ser Jaime, as a knight of the Kingsguard.” The hall rang with applause and his new brothers quickly moved to encircle young Jaime Lannister. Barristan joined in the applause, although not as raucously as some. While many would take this for an honor, Barristan knew of the one man in the realm who wouldn’t. Tywin Lannister would surely rage at being stripped of his heir. If the stories that Barristan had heard were to be believed, Tywin’s only other son was part demon, a stunted little thing barely fit to walk the earth.
“He won’t let this stand,” Barristan murmured even as all around him celebrated. The festivities paused once more as Aerys left the hall. It seemed as though he had only shown up to steal away Jaime from his father and had no intention of remaining for the feast. Whether or not he’d show at the jousts would be a question for the next day. Now wearing his ivory cloak, Jaime Lannister joined the rest of the Kingsguard in lining the walkway for King Aerys to exit. When Aerys left, the White Bull and the newest member of the Kingsguard left with him. The others remained to enjoy the party that was already proving to be the most memorable for decades.
Once the main courses were ushered away by the serving girls, a few of whom Barristan had his eye on, the musicians took over. They played songs for hours and hours, and all the lords and ladies danced away their cares. Barristan danced with Lyanna Stark, the girl who was soon to be his good-sister. He found her energy to be almost overpowering and when they returned to the table, he whispered to Eddard. “Your sister and my brother will be quite a sight. I can hardly think of two people who I’d like to get in the way of less, than those two.” Eddard laughed softly, but something in his eyes didn’t light up the way Barristan had expected them to. From what he could tell, Lyanna was Eddard’s favorite sibling, although it was clear he loved his brothers as well. And Robert was his best friend. There was something more there, something that Barristan wanted to find out, but before he could press the issue, Eddard’s eyes were drawn away from him. Barristan followed his gaze and was struck dumb by the woman he saw. She made all the pretty serving girls with whom Barristan had lay look like old maids. Her hair, the color of jet, tumbled about her shoulders in thick waves. She was tall for a woman, with a thin face and pale, smooth skin. What struck Barristan the most was her eyes. They haunted him from across the hall. To call them violet wouldn’t have done them justice. They were simply otherworldly, different from anything Barristan had ever seen before.
“Who is that,” Barristan mumbled. Eddard’s answer was hardly audible, his voice thick with longing.
“Lady Ashara Dayne, the sister of Ser Arthur.” The rest of the night seemed to pass in a blur. Barristan danced with other ladies, all of whom he would’ve found charming and beautiful had his head not been turned by Ashara. He watched her dance first with Ser Barristan Selmy, then with another Dornishman with the sun and spear of House Martell on his cloak, then with one of Prince Rhaegar’s attendants. Barristan joined his brother in laughing when Brandon Stark asked Ashara to dance on his brother’s behalf. Eddard’s burning face as he took Ashara’s arm only caused the Baratheons to laugh harder, until both were on the floor.
Barristan’s laughter faded with the music of the last song. Eddard walked back to them after thanking Ashara with a bow and kiss on her hand. If the shy second son of Winterfell was annoyed at them, he couldn’t express it without a grin. “Go on then, Barristan,” Eddard challenged. “Since you Baratheons are so brave. Ask her for a dance.” Barristan’s mouth suddenly became drier than the sands of Dorne. Robert started to grin into his cup when he noticed his brother’s frozen expression.
“Don’t let the Shy Wolf out do you, Barristan,” Robert roared. “Go on.” Robert practically threw Barristan halfway across the hall towards Ashara. Steeling his nerves, the young man approached the ethereal beauty.
“I beg your pardon, my lady.” Ashara twisted towards the soft words that Barristan mumbled in her direction. Her eyebrow rose as he continued. “I was hoping… rather, it would be my pleasure… I’d be honored if I might have this dance.” For a moment, she only smiled at him and Barristan thought he’d happily spend the rest of time like this, watching her with the firelight dancing in her onyx hair.
“I’m afraid, I’m quite tired,” she said at last. “I think I'll be turning in for the night. Do excuse me, my lord.” Without a second glance, the Dornish beauty disappeared into the crowd, leaving Barristan’s face burning and his heart aching. He might’ve stood there for hours had he not felt a hand on his arm. Turning, his heart skipped a beat when he recognized the face of Princess Elia Martell.
“That was illy done,” she said, her voice so soft that Barristan could barely hear her. “A man brave enough to ask for a dance from such a beauty shouldn’t be discarded so easily.” Barristan swallowed and dipped his head to the princess.
“You’re kind to say so,” he managed. The musicians were already strumming up the notes of their next song and Barristan started to return to his bench, but the princess’ grip on his forearm tightened.
“If you would still care to dance, I would be happy to oblige.” It took a moment for Barristan to comprehend that the wife of the Crown Prince was offering to dance with him.
“You do me a great honor, my princess. I would be delighted.” Despite his own mediocrity on the dancefloor, Barristan found Elia to be a natural partner. She allowed herself to be led in a way that forced Barristan to do the right things. They swept across the floor in a gentle set of twirls and bows and spins. When the last notes faded and Barristan bowed to the Princess, he found it impossible to keep the smile from his face. “Thank you, my princess,” he said, kissing her hand. “I shall not soon forget your kindness.”
Later, as he stumbled back to his tent, Barristan was still thinking of that dance. Elia Martell was almost a decade older than he and a Princess of the Realm besides, she was not compelled to help the younger brother of the Storm Lord save face. And yet , Barristan thought, she had . That is how a queen behaves, he decided. With the moon only a sliver of silver wax in the sky, it took Barristan longer than normal to find his own tent. During his travels, he passed by a massive tent, a huge piece of black canvas with red trim all around the edges. From within, he could hear voices, one almost pleading, the other cruel and unforgiving.
“Your Grace, he is newly named to the Kingsguard and a young man besides. Let him have this moment, I beg you. I can guard Queen Rhaella and the young prince, I have won enough tournaments, allow Jaime this chance at glory.” The response was harsh and devastating.
“He will win no glory serving in my Kingsguard. I’ll send him back to King’s Landing, that’ll show that bastard, Tywin. I’m the bloody king, not him. Now I’ve got his heir and there’s not a damned thing he can do about it.”
“As you say, Your Grace,” came the resigned response. Barristan stumbled away, realizing belatedly that this was something he had no desire to hear. When he rose in the morning to the news that Jaime Lannister had been sent back to King’s Landing to guard the Queen, Barristan only sighed.
❖❖❖
“The lists have been announced!” Benjen Stark came rushing over to his brothers and the Baratheons. His words were barely intelligible as he interrupted their breakfast with the news.
“Who rides the first tilt then,” asked Brandon.
“Barristan Baratheon,” replied the boy, a wicked smile carving his face as he turned to Robert’s younger brother. Brandon didn’t skip a beat in asking who Barristan would be facing. If possible, Benjen’s grin broadened. “The White Bull.”
Barristan scarcely remembered anything after that. Benjen agreed to be his squire since he had none of his own. All he could think of as the young Stark helped him into his armor was how rotten his luck was. To face the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard in his very first tilt was an unkind fate. True, if he succeeded then he would receive much fame and glory. But life was not a song, as Stannis was keen to remind him, and the likelihood of unhorsing the experienced knight was low. Barristan’s hopes diminished even further when he rode out before the crowds. The page that announced his arrival barely gave the crowd any time to cheer before he brought forth Ser Gerold. The roar that followed his name was far greater than the one Barristan had received. All the same, the pair rode out together and bowed before the royal party.
King Aerys had decided to remain after all and he watched the two men with little interest. Prince Rhaegar was missing from the box, likely preparing for his own tilt, but Elia sat beside her good-father. She offered Barristan a smile. “I wish you good fortune,” rumbled Ser Gerold, leaning over and offering Barristan his hand. “Although if you’re anything like your namesake, you won’t need it.” The young man accepted the hand and shook it firmly.
“And you, Lord Commander.” Barristan rode off to receive his lance and shield, trying to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. As Benjen armed him, Barristan took stock of his opponent. Ser Gerold was more experienced, had won a dozen tourneys, and had the crowd on his side. Through the slit of his visor, Barristan could make out his brother and the Starks cheering for him, but they were in the minority. He had but two advantages. The first was his age: Ser Gerold was nearing sixty name days and, despite his prowess, his body was starting to fail him. The second advantage was the fact that Barristan was left handed. Hardly any knight in the Seven Kingdoms chose to joust with his left hand, even if he was otherwise inclined to do so. As such, hardly anyone had experience jousting against a left-handed lancer. However, this would only be an advantage for half the tilts. Depending on the side, either Ser Gerold’s body would be exposed or Barristan’s would. Barristan simply had to hope that these factors were enough.
At the herald’s trumpet, he kicked his charger forward, spurring him into a gallop. Ser Gerold bore down on him, imperious in his pearl-colored armor. If he was perplexed by Barristan’s shield being on the wrong side, he didn’t show it. When their lances found their marks, Barristan thought the world had burst. He reeled in his saddle, one foot almost coming free from its stirrup. With tremendous effort, Barristan forced himself back upright. His horse thundered on, where another page waited with a fresh lance. A glance told him that his old one was broken and he accepted the new weapon before wheeling his horse around. The two men charged once again, and again their lances struck shields. To the wonder of all, Barristan Baratheon did not fall. A half dozen times they charged and each time, Barristan would reel back and miraculously regain his balance.
It was on the seventh tilt that Barristan noticed it. The toll was beginning to show in Gerold’s body language. He no longer held his shield so high, nor his lance so steady. When next they clashed, Barristan bellowed like he’d heard Robert do during the melee. He thrust his lance at Ser Gerold’s blank, white shield with all the power of his arm, shoulder, and back behind it. The crowd thundered its approval, although Barristan’s horse galloped too quickly for him to truly take stock of the situation. When he wheeled around for another tilt, he noticed for the first time that Ser Gerold wasn’t waiting for him at the other end of the field. Removing his helmet, Barristan’s eyes quickly focused on a pair of pages helping the old Lord Commander to his feet. Barristan Baratheon had unhorsed the White Bull.
It took everything in him not to run into the crowd to celebrate with his brother and friends. Barely remembering his decorum, he cantered his exhausted horse to the royal box and bowed once more. Aerys, no doubt displeased that his Kingsguard had been beaten by a lordling yet to receive a knighthood, scowled. Barristan didn’t mind, his eyes were focused on Princess Elia. She was laughing and joined the crowd in rushing to their feet to applaud the newcomer. He bowed deeply to her and waved to the crowd. As he left the field, he dismounted and walked over to the defeated Lord Commander. Taking the older man’s hand, Barristan bowed his head.
“I pray ser, forgive me. I meant no dishonor by unhorsing you.” Ser Gerold removed his pearly helm and tossed his grey head in laughter.
“You need not apologize, son of Steffon. It appears that you live up to your name. Well-fought.” Shaking the hand of the Lord Commander, Barristan might’ve died happily. It didn’t matter that he was unhorsed the next day by Brandon Stark. He’d had his moment of glory.
Barristan watched the rest of the tournament at Robert’s side, losing himself in his cups as he watched knight after knight after knight ride against one another. He cheered the loudest for Ser Barristan Selmy. He spilled his ale on Eddard Stark in his eagerness to celebrate when Ser Barristan unhorsed his sworn brother, Ser Oswell, to secure a place in the final tilt. The Crown Prince was to be his opponent. The Young Dragon had a difficult route to the final tilt, having ridden against Bronze Yohn Royce, Brandon Stark, and the Sword of the Morning. Some had hoped that he would ride against the Knight of the Laughing Tree, but that talk ended when the mystery knight seemingly disappeared. Barristan never paid much attention to the whole business, but he heard that King Aerys was furious about the mysterious figure, even going so far as to order his eldest son to personally investigate the matter.
All that was forgotten now that the prince sat across the field from Ser Barristan. Lord Whent himself announced both knights and held a crown of blue laurels for the crowd to see. “The winner will name their Queen of Love and Beauty,” the old man shouted to great applause. “Let the riders begin!” Barristan watched on as his namesake thundered toward the Crown Prince. The two figures cut quite the sight, Barristan the Bold in his shining armor of enamel and the prince clad in black plate that seemed to swallow all the light around it. Rubies danced in the sunlight as he urged his charger to even greater speed. When the lances cracked on the shields, it was like Barristan was back at Storm’s End listening to the waves pound in Shipbreaker Bay. Once, twice, three times the knights met, each blow sending the other reeling in the saddle. And yet, it was on the fourth tilt that a winner was decided.
Many had touted him as the winner before the tourney even began, and Rhaegar Targaryen paid back that faith with results. Ser Barristan the Bold fell from his saddle after a mighty blow from the prince’s lance shattered the Kingsguard’s shield into a hundred shards. Even Barristan Baratheon stood up to applaud the victor, only slightly put out by his namesake’s defeat and the hundred gold dragon bet he’d lost to Robert. Lord Walter Whent handed the laurel crown to the victorious prince. Everyone watched as he walked his horse towards the royal party. Princess Elia remained seated, but her eyes were locked onto her royal husband. Barristan could sense the love she held for the prince, anyone with eyes could see it. The younger Baratheon smiled. She deserves to be named Queen of Love and Beauty , he thought. Rhaegar cantered ever closer to his wife, the laurel raised in his armored hand. And Barristan felt all the smiles melt away like winter snows before summer sun as Rhaegar rode on past Elia Martell and stopped in front of the Baratheons and the Starks. There was only one person upon whom he could’ve bestowed the blue roses and Barristan’s blood ran cold when he turned to face the shocked Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar gently deposited the crown of laurels into her trembling hands and departed the field without another word.
For the rest of the day, it was all anyone could talk about. Rumors flew spread like wildfire and, oh how Robert raged. In their tent, he downed wine and bellowed about the dishonor of the prince. Barristan’s own blood boiled, although not for the same reason. He dishonored his wife. The young man ground his teeth. And it won’t end there, it can’t. Riding out of Harrenhal that night, leaving his elder brother and Eddard Stark as they returned to the Vale with Jon Arryn, Barristan knew it wouldn’t end with Rhaegar’s scandalous act. It could only ever be the beginning.