Chapter 22: Riding a White Horse
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen watched Ser Ormund Baratheon, Hand of the King, as the color slowly rose in the Stormlander's face. Ormund Baratheon was a man who had already faced death on the battlefield and returned from it; such men tended to speak more freely, having little patience for pleasing words.
There was an old saying in Westeros: A realm that keeps outspoken ministers will not fall; a house that keeps outspoken sons will not perish.
Too many kings, unfortunately, never understood this truth.
"Throughout history," Ser Ormund said bluntly, "Dorne and the Iron Throne have waged long and bitter wars. The Dornish Marches, the Stormlands, and the Reach have shed rivers of blood against them. Even the Westerlands bear old resentment. A king may command peace, but he cannot command men's hearts."
He paused only briefly before continuing.
"To win Dorne's allegiance, the Crown has granted them privileges no other great house enjoys. Intermarriage with the royal house—never offered to House Tyrell, House Tully, House Stark, or House Lannister. They retain their princely style, their own laws, and pay taxes to the Iron Throne with minimal oversight."
His voice hardened.
"Most importantly, Dorne's strength is limited. Its population is sparse, its distance from King's Landing great. They defend their sands fiercely, but when has a Dornish host ever marched eagerly north to defend the capital? As allies, they are distant and selective."
Rhaegar listened, eyes steady. Such frank speech was rare at court—and invaluable.
Both he and King Jaehaerys II Targaryen carried Dornish blood. Ever since King Daeron II Targaryen married Princess Myriah Martell, the Iron Throne and House Martell had enjoyed long favor. Yet Ser Ormund's words cut cleanly through sentiment. This was the realm as it was, not as songs pretended it to be.
"I have considered these matters myself," King Jaehaerys II said quietly. Few men dared speak so openly before a king—and fewer still were permitted to finish.
He stroked his short beard, gaze distant.
"One of the roots of the Blackfyre Rebellions was my grandsire's closeness to Dorne. Daeron II gained a steadfast ally—but lost the hearts of many in the Reach, the Stormlands, and the Marches. Men whispered that he favored Dornishmen over his own lords, that Prince Baelor Breakspear lacked the warrior's look of Daemon Blackfyre."
The king exhaled slowly.
"That is politics. Gain weighed against loss. We gained Dorne—and lost much else."
Hatreds, after all, outlived generations. The Seven Kingdoms had stood united for three centuries, but the old enmities ran far deeper. The Riverlands despised the Iron Islands. The Reach and Stormlands distrusted Dorne. King's Landing scorned them all in equal measure.
"Yet to abandon the present course would be equally dangerous," Jaehaerys II continued. "To turn from Dorne now would offend them gravely. All we can hope is that the next generation finds a better balance."
Rhaegar understood the unspoken truth: House Targaryen was too small.
Too few princes. Too few princesses. Centuries of incest had preserved Valyrian blood but strangled opportunity. Had there been more dragonlords, marriages could have bound every great house to the throne. Instead, choices were few, and every choice carried risk.
With the War of the Ninepenny Kings concluded, the royal host began its withdrawal from the Stepstones. Without dragons, the islands were more burden than prize—costly to hold, difficult to defend, and offering little in return.
The surviving pretenders fled back into Essos, broken and scattered.
Yet from the war, new names had risen.
Young men marked by history and by steel: Ser Barristan Selmy, Tywin Lannister, Ser Steffon Baratheon, Prince Aerys Targaryen, Brynden Rivers' legacy fulfilled in others, and Hoster Tully, beginning his ascent.
Outside the gates of King's Landing, horns sounded in triumph.
King Jaehaerys II, Queen Shaera, Prince Rhaegar, Ser Ormund Baratheon, Ser Steffon Baratheon, Lady Joanna Lannister, and other nobles waited beneath silken canopies. Jewels glittered, banners snapped, perfumes mingled thickly in the air. Victory lent borrowed splendor to many who had not bled for it.
Then the host appeared.
Armor flashed like a moving wall of steel beneath the sun. The soldiers rode high, spirits soaring, voices raised in thunderous cheers.
At their head rode Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
He wore gleaming white plate, rode a white destrier, bore a white shield, and let his white cloak flow freely behind him. The White Bull returned in triumph.
Behind him rode knights of renown:
Ser Barristan Selmy, plain in armor yet radiant in fame;
Prince Aerys Targaryen, helm crowned with the three-headed dragon;
Tywin Lannister, stern and silent in crimson and gold;
the Tully brothers, riding side by side despite old divisions.
The Kingsguard, though simply clad, outshone all others.
Ser Gerold dismounted and knelt.
"Your Grace, the host returns in honor."
"Rise, Ser Gerold," King Jaehaerys II said warmly. "You have brought great glory to the Iron Throne and the Kingsguard."
"A knight lives to serve," Gerold replied, then gestured behind him. "Your Grace—allow me to present the hero of Bloodstone. Ser Barristan Selmy."
The king's smile was unguarded.
"So be it. Let him take the white cloak."
Ser Barristan knelt.
Trumpets blared. Applause thundered.
At scarcely three-and-twenty, Barristan Selmy had surrendered Harvest Hall, heirs, and marriage. From this day forth, he would live for honor alone.
And Harvest Hall would be remembered—not for grain—but for the knight who became legend.
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