In the shaded antechamber of the Red Door House, Viserys Targaryen awaited the courtesan's promised "good news."
The Swordswoman, his Braavosi contact among the courtesans, arrived smiling — and she had not disappointed him.
The man who followed her looked weathered but proud, roughly forty, broad‑shouldered and straight‑backed despite the weight of years.
His clothes were simple: no silks, no velvet, only worn leather and a blue‑and‑white surcoat embroidered with two crossed black war‑hammers on a slanted cross.
The cloth was frayed, the leather thinned, but he still moved like a soldier.
"Your Grace. Your Highnesses."
The stranger knelt quickly, armor creaking. "Pardon my arrival, I knew not the true dragons still lived in Braavos. I thought the courtesan mocked me when she spoke your name."
His voice was rough, half‑choked with disbelief. Small wonder. To most of Westeros, the royalists were dust — dead on battlefields or forgotten on the Wall. That one still breathed here was miracle enough.
Viserys's gaze fell to the sigil and recognition stirred. "House Lych of Duskendale."
The knight bowed his head.
"Yes, Your Grace — though a distant branch. Ser Roland Lych, once of Duskendale. A knight anointed, if a poor one."
For an instant, the young dragon was no exile but a prince again. He reached down and clasped the man's arm, pulling him gently upright.
"Then rise, good Ser Roland. You are among your own."
Meeting a Westerosi in this far‑off city — a countryman, a believer in the same broken crown — filled him with something dangerously close to hope.
The Swordswoman dipped in a graceful half‑bow. "My King, the man you requested. But I must leave now; my ship waits."
She was clever enough not to linger where politics might turn to treason. She dealt in introductions, not revolutions.
Viserys thanked her sincerely anyway. "You have my gratitude — and one day, reward." He walked her to the door himself before turning back to the knight.
"How did you reach Braavos, Ser Roland?"
The man's gray eyes darkened with memory. "After the Trident, I escaped the slaughter. The Westermen's host was the crown's last hope. But I knew the truth — our House had never pleased Lord Tywin, nor his pride. There were whispers enough of what he'd do once King's Landing fell. I fled east instead of returning home. When I heard what Tywin's men did in the capital…" His jaw tightened. "My kin were ruined, those left alive forced into black cloaks."
Viserys frowned. "What had the Lychs done to anger him?"
Roland gave a bitter chuckle. "Old tales. At Queen Cersei's first court appearance, my lord father made a jest — said Tywin's great mines must run on his temper, since it struck gold so often."
Viserys almost smiled. "He actually said that?"
"He did — before the whole hall. Tywin stared at him until the laughter died, said nothing, and never forgot. When the lions remember, they always draw blood."
Viserys leaned back. "That would do it."
In truth, he'd known little of those politics — he'd been a child when Aerys, Tywin, and Jon Arryn still called one another friend. The madness that followed had burned away more than a throne.
The Mad King had mocked and humiliated Tywin until all friendship rotted. And sycophants had fed the disease, whispering that Aerys might replace Rhaegar with Viserys as heir.
The boy who'd once been that pawn now smiled without humor.
"You did your duty as best a knight could," he said at last. "I hold no blame for men who survived where others fell."
"Duty," Roland whispered. "A word too light for the weight it bears."
He told them of the Trident — forty thousand men called to battle, only a tenth true knights, the rest farmers and archers pressed into chaos. Rhaegar had led them hoping for glory; Robert had brought wilder bands hardened by endless war. When the prince fell, the rest had simply dissolved.
"I was among those who ran," Roland admitted. "Shame follows me even here."
"There is no shame in living," Viserys said quietly. "Only in forgetting why."
The Dornish princess stepped forward then, dark eyes bright. "You fought beside my father, Ser Roland. That is honor enough."
The knight's weathered face tightened with emotion, deep lines etching into scars. "Your Grace… I am not worthy. I was a coward — I fled when Prince Rhaegar died."
"And yet you stand here," she said. "That makes you braver than most."
He knelt again, steel rasping on stone. "Then let me serve you now. Let me live to see the red dragon fly above the Red Keep once more. Give me that, and I will die smiling."
Viserys drew Brightsilver and touched it gently to the man's shoulders. "Rise, Ser Roland Lych — first of my knights in exile. In the name of blood and fire, serve and be remembered."
The older man rose, voice low but steady. "I will."
"How have you lived, all these years?" Rhaenys asked.
"Poorly," he admitted. "When my coin ran out, I sold my sword. I've fought everywhere — for Pentoshi princes, Myrish merchants, even Dothraki khals. A man fights who must eat. The Golden Company once offered me service, but I refused. I'll not march under the Black Dragon's banner. I still follow the red."
Viserys's eyes warmed with something approximating respect. The word loyalty meant little among sellswords, but in this man, it still flickered alive.
He realized that Ser Roland Lych filled the role he had long imagined for another — a rugged exile, fluent in the tongues of Essos, skilled in horse and bow. A mirror of the "bear" he'd once heard of in stories… only without treachery or divided heart.
No spy, no turncloak. Just a faithful, fallen knight, still believing in dragons.
For the first time in years, Viserys looked upon another man and thought, Here is the beginning of an army.
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