Chapter 20: The King's Summons
The summons came the next morning.
A royal servant, wearing the king's colors, found me loading cargo at the docks.
"Ulf, called the White? His Grace King Viserys requests your presence in the throne room. Immediately."
Gavrel whistled low. "The king himself. You're moving up in the world, bastard."
Or I was about to be arrested for double murder.
I washed my hands in a water barrel, brushed off the worst of the dock dirt, and followed the servant.
The throne room was exactly as I remembered from the show. Massive. Stone pillars reaching toward vaulted ceilings. And there, at the far end, the Iron Throne itself.
Viserys sat upon it, looking older than his years. Pale. Thin. His breathing labored even from this distance. Dying slowly, just like in the show.
Otto Hightower stood to his right. Hand of the King. Already calculating, scheming.
Alicent beside him. Young, beautiful, trapped.
Corlys Velaryon near the front. He caught my eye, gave a slight nod.
And there, in the back—Princess Rhaenyra. Looking bored, like this was just another tedious court session.
The herald's voice boomed. "Ulf, called the White, champion of the melee and marine in service to House Velaryon!"
I walked forward. Every eye in the room on me. I kept my pace steady, controlled. Stopped at the appropriate distance, knelt.
"Your Grace."
"Rise." Viserys's voice was weaker than it should be. "Corlys speaks highly of your service. A tournament champion turned sailor. Unusual."
"I serve where I'm needed, Your Grace."
"And you fight in an unusual manner. I've heard reports. Inhuman speed. Strength beyond reason. Skin that turns aside blades." He leaned forward slightly. "How do you explain such things?"
Careful. Truth wrapped in misdirection.
"Foreign techniques, Your Grace. Learned from a traveler in my youth. Disciplines from beyond the Narrow Sea. Training methods not commonly known in Westeros."
Otto's voice cut in. "And where, precisely, did you learn these techniques?"
I met his gaze. "Flea Bottom, Lord Hand. The traveler was passing through. Taught me in exchange for food and shelter. He died years ago."
"How convenient." Otto's eyes were cold. "And your lineage? Your appearance suggests Targaryen blood."
Here it was. The question I'd known would come.
"My mother was a washerwoman, Lord Hand. She claimed my father was a Targaryen—which one, she never said. I have no proof. No claim. No ambitions beyond earning my bread honestly."
"A bastard with Targaryen blood and mysterious abilities." Otto turned to Viserys. "Your Grace, such individuals can be... dangerous."
Corlys stepped forward. "Lord Ulf has served House Velaryon faithfully. He's proven his worth in combat against the Triarchy. I vouch for his character."
"You vouch for a man you've known mere weeks?"
"I vouch for results, Lord Hand. Pirates flee at the mention of his name. My ships return safely. That's worth more than speculation about mysterious travelers."
Viserys raised a hand. "Enough. Otto, your concerns are noted. But Lord Corlys is right—results matter." He looked at me. "Serve him well, White. And perhaps one day, you'll serve the Crown directly."
I bowed deeper. "You honor me, Your Grace."
"Dismissed."
I backed away three steps before turning. Walked out of the throne room with measured calm, even though my heart hammered.
That could have gone worse. Much worse.
As I reached the door, a servant touched my arm. Older woman, discrete.
"Lord Ulf? Princess Helaena requests you attend her in the godswood tomorrow afternoon. She requires assistance with... insect observation."
I almost smiled. "Tell the princess I'll be there."
The servant nodded and left.
Viserys knows. He has to know about the meetings. And he's allowing it.
For now.
Evening. I stood on the Red Keep's battlements, looking out over King's Landing.
The city sprawled below—organized chaos, desperation and ambition mixing in equal measure.
Somewhere down there: the undercroft passages where Blood and Cheese would have come. Empty now. Threat eliminated.
Blood and Cheese: dead. Helaena: trusting me. Viserys: tolerating me. Corlys: employing me. Otto: suspicious but contained.
I'd achieved visibility without becoming a target. Built a position without drawing fatal attention.
But Viserys was dying. I could see it in every labored breath, every pained movement. Months, maybe a year at most.
When he died, the Dance would begin. Aegon versus Rhaenyra. Green versus Black. Dragons burning each other from the sky.
And I was nowhere near ready.
I needed to be stronger. Faster. Capable of standing beside dragons, not just surviving them.
The weighted gear waited in my room. The fire training. The poison resistance building. The Rokushiki techniques still incomplete.
I turned from the battlements, headed inside.
Work to do. Always more work.
Tomorrow: meet Helaena. Reassure her. Continue building that connection.
Tonight: train.
I strapped on the weighted vest in my room. Thirty kilograms added to my bracers and ankle weights. Total: one hundred thirty-five kilograms of constant resistance.
Moved through Rokushiki forms. Soru bursts. Tekkai holds. Rankyaku kicks. Geppo jumps.
Each repetition: controlled. Perfect. Building muscle memory until these techniques became as natural as breathing.
Hours passed. My body screamed. I ignored it.
The Dance was coming. Viserys would die. The realm would fracture.
And when it did, I'd be ready.
Not for power. Not for glory.
For Helaena. For Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. For the chance to change one timeline, prevent one tragedy.
That was enough.
I collapsed onto my bed at dawn, muscles burning, hands bloody from training, mind clear.
Tomorrow would bring its own challenges.
But tonight, I'd become a little bit stronger.
And in this world, that was the only currency that mattered.
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