"How ironic. In our history, the crimes committed by knights in armor, riding horses and wielding lances, far outnumber anything the dragons ever did.
Even counting the old king's long peace, dragons soared over Westerosi skies for less than two centuries. They never attacked smallfolk without reason. They never bled the realm dry with taxes. Compared to any army that ever marched, they kept the land safer."
Viserys spoke slowly, letting the weight of history settle between them.
"Yet for a thousand years, knights and lords—whether in war or in peace—have robbed, raped, and slaughtered. And somehow they frighten people less."
Ser Barristan Selmy shrugged, calm and unsurprised. He knew the criticism wasn't aimed at him.
"Knights are men, flesh and blood. Even the Mountain is a monster people understand. But dragons… they're something else. Even when they wheel quietly in the clouds, every farmer, every knight, every lord feels fear. The Kingsguard, though—they're seen as protectors. The living embodiment of chivalry. The pillars that hold up the throne. The shield of the weak."
The old warrior's words rang true.
No one understood the power of symbols better than a Blackfyre heir. Yet the more Viserys read his ancestors' records about the Kingsguard, the less he wanted to entrust his life to seven men.
Unless…
Viserys fell silent, thinking.
Tonight held no urgent business, and across from him sat one of the most accomplished and level-headed knights alive. Why not share the idea that had been circling his mind?
"My ancestors created the Kingsguard after they conquered Westeros," Viserys said at last. "You're right, Ser Barristan—there were loyal men among them, men who honored the white cloak. But to me the order has long since rotted. The system Aegon and Visenya built has failed. As their descendant, if I don't change these old rules, who will?"
Barristan cleared his throat. "You want to remake the Kingsguard? How?"
"A wise king learns from everyone—even his enemies." Viserys leaned back. "My ancestors were surrounded by the good, the bad, and outright traitors. Yet this world has seen true loyalty worth respecting, even when that loyalty was given to the wrong man."
The old knight frowned. "You're speaking of the Unsullied of Astapor?"
"The Golden Company," Viserys corrected. "For a hundred years that sellsword brotherhood has stayed loyal to Daemon Blackfyre's descendants. They've fought for them, bled for them, died for them. Not one Blackfyre was ever betrayed to Bloodraven. Not one was sold into slavery in the east. Those men have acted more like true knights than half the white cloaks who ever lived. And just weeks ago they proved it again—crushing Weymond's army. A pity, really."
Mention of the Golden Company sent Viserys's thoughts to the ransom talks still underway.
He and Captain Harry Strickland had reached an agreement: two hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons for the release of Triarch Weymond Dorya, plus safe passage for the prisoner and his escort through the Disputed Lands back to Volantis.
Strickland insisted on a land route. He clearly didn't want to risk the gold falling into Euron Greyjoy's hands.
Dealing with professional sellswords was expensive, but you got what you paid for.
The ransom caravan—horses and mules loaded with coin—had already left Volantis for Myr. The surviving highborn prisoners would travel with Weymond himself.
What happened next had shocked every Old Blood noble in Volantis—and Viserys too.
Weymond had resigned his seat on the Black Stone Throne and handed his power to Vamar Natarys.
Then he wrote to Viserys, begging to rejoin the army and wash away the stain of defeat with enemy blood.
Viserys's spies reported that Weymond's wounds had not fully healed. In his reply he ordered the man to rest and recover while he decided what to do with him.
"I plan to form the new Kingsguard after we take Tyrosh, Ser Barristan," Viserys continued. "But this guard will be nothing like the old one. Whatever shape it finally takes, I'll need a list of worthy men. For now we simply have to stay alive long enough to reach that day. Tyrosh won't fall easily."
He turned toward the corner where his squire stood listening intently.
"What do you think, Hagon?"
The boy looked like someone had dropped a live scorpion in his lap. He stammered, "Y-yes, my lord. No—my lord, you will win! You'll definitely win!"
"Easy. Breathe," Viserys said, amused by the panic. "Take a moment. Then give me something worth hearing. I know you have it in you."
And he did.
Hagon had no taste for soldiering, but he devoured every book on war he could find. His grandfather had indulged the boy, buying rare manuscripts, ancient scrolls, and long-lost translations.
When it came to battles, generals, and strategy—ancient or modern—Hagon was one of the most learned men in Volantis. From the legendary campaigns of Old Ghis to Valyria's conquest of the Sunset Kingdoms, from Braavos and Pentos's endless wars to every clash along the Jade Sea, the boy could recount them all.
Pity none of that knowledge came with the skill to swing a sword.
Then again, no one is born a great captain.
"The problem," Hagon said once he steadied himself, "is that Tyrosh has never fallen to a direct assault. Since the Century of Blood the city has endured seven sieges. Enemy armies broke into the outer districts twice, but the Black Band—the inner city—has never surrendered. It's their… well, it's their Black Wall, Ser Barristan."
"The Three Daughters fight each other constantly," Barristan said gently, like an uncle prompting a clever nephew. "Surely someone tried to take the whole city after the Century of Blood?"
"Most wars ended before the walls were even reached. Sometimes landing parties were ambushed and slaughtered in the dark. Sometimes the sellswords were bought off on the spot and turned their cloaks." For the first time the boy's voice carried real passion.
"I imagine you've heard of at least one Tyroshi disaster," Viserys prompted.
"Tyrosh has suffered a few crushing defeats," Hagon admitted. "For example, the Second Sons' captain—the Trickster, Steffon—once led a few hundred desperate men into the city and kidnapped an archon…"
"No one ever came from the west across the sea?" Viserys steered the boy toward the answer he wanted.
"Ah—yes!" Hagon nodded quickly, then corrected himself. "I mean, yes, there was! Prince Daemon Blackfyre once launched a short but glorious campaign against Tyrosh."
"He wasn't a prince then," Barristan said quietly. "Just a knight—though already the most famous and fearsome knight of his age."
Viserys barely heard them. He closed his eyes and let the old memories pull him under.
It was the hundred and ninetieth year after the Conquest, the sixth year of Daeron the Second's reign.
Tyroshi pirates had seized an entire slave convoy in the northern Narrow Sea, emptying the city's slave markets.
The richest merchants ignored the protests of their kin in the Stormlands—who had already married into Westerosi houses—and decided to raid the Stormlands coast.
They believed the local lords were weak, the Seven Kingdoms divided, and the realm exhausted under the rule of the feeble King Aegon. Easy prey.
The first raids succeeded. Slaves poured into Tyrosh. The archons and their favorites grew fat on ransom gold while Westerosi settlements burned.
Then the Stormlords and Rhaena's kin both begged the Iron Throne for help. This time Daeron the Second listened.
His brother Daeron had never been a warrior—his tactics were average, his sword and lance work clumsy, his body never meant for close combat. But he had the sharpest mind in the realm and understood a king's duty: to use the men around him wisely.
And the king had a brother who burned to prove his valor on the battlefield. Giving him command of the expedition was only natural.
Daemon sailed from King's Landing with Bloodraven and Ser Aegor Rivers, first to Tarth, then Estermont.
Along the way the Velaryon and Celtigar fleets joined the royal navy. On Estermont the Dornish galleys arrived.
For the first time, knights of the Crownlands and Stormlands, warriors of the Reach, islanders of the Narrow Sea, and descendants of the Rhoynar marched together under one banner.
The result did not disappoint.
The Tyroshi never expected the Sunset Kingdoms to strike back, let alone so quickly.
The landing was swift and brutal. A strong force reached the city walls before the defenders could react.
Local sellswords, militiamen, and slavers still thought they could teach these western savages a lesson—capture noble hostages, demand ransom.
That was the day Daemon Blackfyre won his first true, glorious victory.
Not in a tourney. Not in single combat. In open battle against a fierce and cunning enemy.
The Tyroshi tried to break Bloodraven's left wing. A storm of arrows and javelins shattered their charge.
They swung against Aegor's right wing and met a savage counterattack that sent them reeling.
Then Daemon led the elite knights of the Stormlands and the Reach in a thunderous charge. The enemy broke completely.
It was a magnificent victory won at almost no cost.
The next morning, the delighted kin of the rescued prisoners marched every Westerosi slave out of Tyrosh's gates.
Overnight the city's rulers changed. The new archon—Rhaena's cousin—had never liked the enemy army camped on his island. Rhaena's father himself thanked Daemon for freeing the city from madmen and signed the peace treaty Daeron had already prepared.
An ally inside the walls bought victory at the lowest possible price.
Viserys still remembered the day they returned to King's Landing.
The whole city turned out. Cheering crowds lined the streets as the victorious army marched in, freed captives behind them and mountains of loot in their wake.
As they entered the gates the people mistook the tall knight riding at the front—Blackfyre at his hip—for the king himself. They roared his name and hailed him as their true sovereign.
The brothers had laughed about that misunderstanding for days afterward.
Another king might have seen treason in the cheers. Daeron was never that small-minded. On that day of shared triumph there was no shadow between them.
Back at the Red Keep, Rhaena and Melissa kissed him. He gave both women the finest pearls and jewels the Narrow Sea could offer.
At the victory feast lords and knights praised the king's wisdom, the warrior who had won the day, and the loyalty of every man who had followed him. For one shining night the realm felt whole—united as it had never been before.
As if that warmth could last forever.
When had it all gone wrong?
When Bloodraven and Aegor returned from the battlefield and Shiera chose Bloodraven, casting Aegor aside?
Daemon had warned Aegor that woman was only playing with his heart.
Or had it begun when Bloodraven and Shiera whispered poison into Daeron's ear?
When rumors spread through the towns and castles that the realm had a worthier king, and Aegor and Quentyn urged Daemon to claim the crown?
When his own men began spreading the old lie that Daeron was a bastard?
Or on that night burned into his soul—when Aegor rode into the castle on a lathered horse, half an hour ahead of Bloodraven's men?
Was there ever a chance to turn back?
Viserys was still lost in the old pain when Barristan leaned forward, listening with genuine interest as Hagon described the battle in vivid detail—the landing, the formations, how Aegor Rivers had cut down the enemy standard with one mighty swing.
A knight on duty burst into the tent and the boy fell silent at once.
"Your Grace, a letter has arrived—from your wife, Princess Daenerys. Her own hand."
Barristan rose immediately. The squire snapped his mouth shut.
"Thank you." Viserys took the letter. For a heartbeat his heart stopped.
His wife would only write now for one reason.
Her time was near. The child could come any day.
The old knight understood at once and bowed himself out. The squire started to follow, but Viserys stopped him and ordered him to fetch his helm and polish it until it shone.
Only when the tent was empty did Viserys break the seal and begin to read.