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Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard
Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
Game of Thrones Prince of the Rhoyne
"Nine-Thousand-Years," the eunuch player announced, his face carefully neutral.
He had no idea the man standing before him was the legendary knight who had served two kings and once carved a path through enemy lines to reach a prince. To Nine-Thousand-Years, Barristan Selmy was simply an old knight with a white beard and tired eyes. He had watched enough "hidden master" dramas offline to know better than to act arrogant, so he kept his tone polite.
"Please come in."
Viserys looked up from his desk, surprised for only a moment before he recovered. He gestured for the eunuch to bring the visitor inside.
Barristan Selmy was still tall, broad-shouldered, with a pair of clear blue eyes that carried the weight of old sorrows. Even with white hair and the years showing on his face, he stood straight and moved with the quiet grace of a man who had once been the finest knight in the realm. He looked nothing like the broken old man Joffrey had mocked.
He removed his hood and spoke plainly. After the Trident he could have returned to Harvest Hall, where his kin would have taken him in without question. But he knew Joffrey was no true king, and he feared the boy would punish his family for his choices. So he had wandered instead, looking for a place where he could still serve with honor.
"I ask for a place to live out my days and someone to see me buried when the time comes," Barristan said. "That was Joffrey's idea of mercy, but it felt more like an insult. I was born a knight. I would rather die like one."
Viserys studied the old man for a long moment, then nodded.
"I accept your service, Ser Barristan. I name you to my Kingsguard. You proved your courage at the Trident when you fought for the Targaryens without hesitation. You did not wait to see which way the wind blew, the way some men did. Ser Jorah has told me how many wounds you took that day—arrows, spears, swords. That is not the mark of a man like the Kingslayer."
Barristan's shoulders eased. He had come prepared for scorn or cold dismissal. Instead he found acceptance.
"I served Robert after the war," he continued, voice low with shame. "I took his pardon and stood in his Kingsguard beside the man who murdered your father. I have carried that disgrace ever since. I hid nothing from you because the Kingsguard does not lie to its king. I ask your forgiveness for those years."
"You have it," Viserys said without hesitation. "The realm knows there are few true heroes left. Barristan the Bold is still one of them. I will have new white armor and a sword brought for you."
Barristan bowed his head, visibly moved. When he rose again, Viserys personally fastened the white cloak around his shoulders. The old knight refused any offer of rest. He donned the fresh armor at once and took his place beside Jorah Mormont, one white cloak to the king's left, one to his right.
Once the formalities were done, Barristan spoke of the situation across the Narrow Sea.
Robb Stark had raised the North and joined forces with the river lords. They were locked in a grinding war with Tywin Lannister's western host. The fighting seesawed back and forth, but the westerners still held the edge in numbers and heavy horse.
"Has Jaime Lannister been captured?" Viserys asked.
Barristan shook his head. "He was ambushed and nearly taken, but he cut his way out. Singers claim he slew thirty northmen with his own hand. I doubt the number, but the man still fights."
Viserys leaned back in his chair. The players had already changed the board. Renly was dead. The Reach had not declared for anyone. Stannis remained on Dragonstone, waiting. The old certainties were gone.
"Between the two sides," Viserys asked, "who do you believe will win?"
Barristan considered carefully. "Tywin still commands more men and better-equipped forces. But Brynden Tully has returned from the Vale. With the Blackfish beside Robb, Tywin's tricks may not work as cleanly as they once did. Jaime has already been bloodied by the young wolf once. The advantage is narrow, but it still lies with the west… for now."
Jorah nodded in agreement.
Viserys tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. The players had killed Renly, thrown the timeline into chaos, and left the future of the war uncertain. He could no longer rely on the old story. Both sides were bleeding. Either could still break.
He looked at the two white cloaks standing guard beside him—one young, one ancient—and allowed himself a small, dangerous smile.
"Let them fight," he said quietly. "When both lions and wolves are exhausted, the dragon will cross the sea."