278 AD
Main Loyalist camp, Twilight Valley.
The royal army's headquarters was a traditional military camp from the 15th or 16th century—tents pitched in designated locations where soldiers and knights lived, dozens of mobile forges and kitchens, from which the constant cries of cooks and blacksmiths could be heard, latrines built nearby, and a very distinctive smell. A smell the likes of which I'd only encountered in King's Landing. I even suspected that most of the people present were so accustomed to this stench of shit, hot iron, freshly baked bread, and freshly fucked whores that they unconsciously carried it with them.
Having led me to the center of the camp, where a giant yellow tent towered, the nameless knight of Velaryon left, saying that everyone had already been warned about me, and that we could go inside.
Inside the tent, which could easily accommodate a hundred people, there were only seven, not counting the guards present. But what people they were.
Quarlton Chelsted. The current Master of Coin. A hunched, flabby man with a long black mustache and greasy hair, he was known in high circles as the epitome of a legal and clever embezzler. During his ten years on the Small Council, not only did the Seven Kingdoms avoid drowning in debt, but he himself became the owner of a fortune not far inferior to the royal treasury.
Simond Staunton. Master of Laws. Aerys's minion, doing everything to stay in his position. Except for his actual job. I would never have guessed that this upright and proud-looking man is known throughout Westeros as a coward and sycophant, practically wiping Aerys's snot.
Lucerys Velaryon. Master of Ships. I can't say anything about him. The current Lord of Driftmark was appointed to his late father's post only recently—a couple of months ago—and only because of an old tradition, according to which the Velaryons had always been Master of Ships under the Targaryens.
Pycelle. Grand Maester. This old man (he's barely sixty by local standards) served Aerys's grandfather and father, Aegon the Incredible and Jaehaerys the Wise. Little information is available about him, but even so, I managed to learn his nickname: the Weathervane. He always sides with the strongest. And that's the only reason he survived.
Ser Gerold Hightower, nicknamed the White Bull, a Great Knight and current Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, looked at me with a certain unkindness. He was a man barely fifty, equal in stature to me, and still the strongest of his generation. It was said that in his youth, Gerold was far stronger than the current Arthur Dayne, the "Sword of the Morning."
And finally, the remaining three, who needed no introduction. Tywin Lannister, the "Great Lion," the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and Rhaegar Targaryen, the "Silver Prince," the last hope for his family's rise, were quietly conversing, their eyes fixed on the map spread out on the table, occasionally clarifying details with a fat, bald, and pampered-looking man with soft white hands and a smooth, powdered face. Varys. Master of Whisperers.
"The one to be most wary of," I thought, taking two steps into the tent and making the traditional forty-degree bow reserved for greeting Grandlords, members of the Small Council, or heirs of the Royal Dynasty. All three categories were gathered here.
"Ah, Lord Temper," the descendant of ancient Valyria greeted me, looking up from the map and in my direction. Damn, I'm even jealous. Even though the prince and I are the same age, he's much better looking than me. Living proof why noble Valyrians were considered gods on earth. "We've received word that you received a letter from my father. Could you please provide it?"
"Of course, my prince," I replied, handing over the letter I had previously taken from my cloak pockets.
Rhaegar read it, confirmed its authenticity, and glanced at the broken seal with the three-headed dragon. He handed the letter to his Hand, who repeated the prince's previous actions exactly. It circulated for five minutes—every member of the Small Council (most likely in public) considered it important to personally read the message, examine it carefully, and search for the codes known only to them. Staunton even tasted the paper, causing a wave of disgust among those around him.
"Maester Pycelle." Finally, when the whole circus with the letter was over, Tywin said. "When did the king send the letter to Lord Temper?"
"A few days before my trip, my Lord Hand," the Citadel's protégé replied, his voice dry as sandpaper.
"Did he tell you anything before?" the prince asked, knowing full well that what he'd written was nothing new to the maester—reading royal missives before sealing them was a beloved tradition among the Grand Maesters, often joked about in the Citadel. He paused briefly, clearly feigning dementia (though I could immediately tell he was faking it—he'd suffered from memory loss in his old age and knew what that looked like), but after a few minutes he answered:
— He muttered something about Valyrian steel and defeating some ragged cat.
— Ahem-ahem...
Judging by the coughing and sneezing Staunton used to cover his laughter, even the most obtuse person understood why Aerys needed me. A weapon of Valyrian steel. All the Seven Kingdoms knew that Lord Tywin had tried no less than three times to buy a Valyrian sword from impoverished houses as a replacement for the long-lost Brightroar, but his offers were flatly rejected. It was too prestigious and rare an item to sell for money.
And then the Martells acquired a spear made entirely of Valyrian steel (the varki are just the tip and counterweight), gifted to them in exchange for lands and a title by a certain wealthy merchant who had become Lord Temper. It didn't take a fortune teller to figure out why Aerys needed me—to get another Valyrian steel blade to wave in front of the hated and completely superior Tywin Lannister.
Judging by the furrowed brow and the storm erupting in his emerald eyes, the Great Lion wasn't very pleased with this move from his childhood friend. Neither was Prince Rhaegar, who made the interdimensional "hand-to-face" gesture and was no doubt feeling a sense of Spanish shame for his dimwitted father.
"I ask you to stay here for a while," Lannister finally said to the calmed-down woman, his tone alone making it clear it wasn't a request, but an order. "We will quickly free the king and punish the rebels. You won't be staying here long."
Realizing my time here was over, I quietly left the tent and went to the camp administrator. I needed to set up the tent and quickly deal with the mountain of problems that had undoubtedly arisen in my domain. The crows would fly there and back for almost three days, so communication would be delayed, but at least it would be some progress.
"I hope everything gets resolved quickly," I thought as I headed to Robin's to send the first letters. Work doesn't wait.
*
279 AD
Main loyalist camp, Duskdale.
I was a little naive.
The siege of Duskendale has been going on for nearly six months. This is all because both sides were unable to compromise. But it was already clear that the situation for the besieged was only getting worse with each passing day—the city, cut off from food supplies, was plagued by famine and an epidemic of "Corpse Rash," mowing down the citizens like grass. Denys Darklyn himself attempted several times to initiate peace negotiations, but Tywin demanded unconditional surrender and the immediate release of the king. Naturally, the besieged had sent him repeatedly to the most unsavory places in the Seven Kingdoms. But apparently his patience had run out—a few days ago, he sent Lord Darkyn a message threatening to storm the city and put every man, woman, and child within the walls to the sword and fire.
He even sent his court minstrel as a messenger and ordered him to sing "The Reynes of Castamere"—his tried-and-true way of reminding rebellious lords of his uncompromising nature. I don't know what the poor singer did to offend him so much, but the next day, a body in his clothes appeared on the city walls, riddled with arrows like a pincushion.
The war councils I was invited to because of my newly acquired lordship were a complete circus. Lannister took full advantage of the fact that the troops and fleet he had assembled were his own or directly under the royal family's control, and that no one on the Small Council could cross him, planning only an assault on the city. He didn't even consider attempting a covert operation, as suggested by one of the Kingsguard. And when other courtiers criticized the assault plans, arguing that they risked the king, Tywin pointed to Rhaegar standing in the corner and said, "Darklyn may or may not kill. And if he does, we have a better king right here."
Only the most obtuse didn't realize that the Great Lion was provoking the Darklyns by every means possible to murder Aerys. If that had happened, Prince Rhaegar would have ascended to the throne instead of the king who had already eaten away his bald spot. As a "thank you" for his accession, he would have been forced to marry Tywin's daughter, making her queen. A perfect scenario. If I hadn't known about the Lion's dislike of such subtle and complex intrigues, I might have thought he was the one who provoked the Darklyns to revolt.
Now the next round of this circus… military council was ending, where the final decision was made regarding the storming of the city.
"Your Highness, my Lord Hand." Interrupted by one of the Kingsguard, the very one who had previously suggested a secret entry into the city. Barristan Selmy. Second in command of the white cloaks. "I believe it would be dishonorable to storm the city without making at least one attempt to rescue the king without bloodshed. There are innocent women and children there. You were with me on the Stepstones, during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. My Lord Hand, you know how much innocent blood is shed when armies clash. Allow me to try to save our sovereign quietly, without unnecessary bloodshed."
A loud uproar immediately erupted. The most foolish, but noble, supported the Kingsguard's idea of rescuing the king without bloodshed. The most foolish, but hungry for glory and the Great Lion's gratitude, began to express indignation and mock the old warrior, quipping that "old age is no joy, so they resort to the methods of dirty thieves." Only the minority with any sense remained silent, staring intently at Tywin Lannister, who, in turn, stared fixedly at Selmy.
"Ser Barristan," the Old Lion began in his usual commanding tone, silencing all the chatter with a single glance. "I agree with you completely. But I cannot risk my men on this mad adventure. Duskendale is teeming with angry and hungry guards who, if they catch even one intruder, will raise the alarm and slaughter everyone. There will be an assault."
"Let me at least try," Barristan said loudly, lowering his head and slamming his fist onto the breastplate of his armor. "I will infiltrate the city myself and rescue our king. Just give me a chance."
Watching Lannister gaze thoughtfully at the Kingsguard, I realized he was at a crossroads. On the one hand, if he refused, many would recall in the future that Tywin Lannister didn't even try to save his king, abandoning him to his death. And that would be a huge reputational loss for the House of the Lion. On the other hand, if he ordered the death of one of the most renowned knights of the Seven Kingdoms, no one would say anything good about him either.
Dilemma.
"One day," the Old Lion finally said, swinging his cloak dramatically as he headed out of the tent, turning back only at the end. "I give you just one day, Ser Barristan. The day after tomorrow, in the afternoon, our forces will begin storming the city walls. If Aerys is not back in camp by then, you have failed."
Having finished, he departed, bringing the war council to a close with his departure. All the Western lords present followed him, followed by all the members of the Small Council, each of whom, with the exception of Varys, had their own small retinue. Only I, Prince Rhaegar, and Ser Barristan remained in the tent.
"I wish you luck, Ser Barristan," Targaryen said, approaching the pensive knight and placing a hand on his shoulder. "I deeply regret that I cannot come with you. They will not let me go."
"I understand, Your Majesty," Selmy replied, bowing his head slightly.
"May the Seven bless you," the prince said finally and also left, leaving him alone with the royal guard.
"Did you want to say something, Lord Temper?" Selmy asked, turning around and looking at me with an unreadable gaze. It's hard to believe he turned 42 this year. The stature and strength in that body would be enough for three good warriors, and considering his skill... They say the unspoken rule for joining the Kingsguard is to be the equal of thirty soldiers in combat. I don't know about everyone, but Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, Leven Martell, and Barristan Selmy have long since passed that rule. "If you need anything, speak now. I need to begin preparations for the sortie quickly."
"Unless… Let me join in," I smiled, observing the slightly confused expression on the white cloak's face.
"It's time for me to start my legend."
*
P . O . V . Third person
Barristan Selmy has seen a lot in this life.
Born the first son of Ser Lyonel Selmy, Lord of House Harvest, one of the many houses in the Dornish Marches, he knew from an early age what he would become.
Knight.
A knight without fear or reproach, faithfully serving his monarch and punishing injustice for his sake. The White Cloak became the Brave One's number one target from the moment he learned of the Royal Guard.
His path was long and harsh. At the age of ten, he took Lord Dondarrion's armor and his father's horse, journeyed to Blackhaven, and competed there as a mysterious knight in the Black Tournament. He barely had enough strength to sit on his horse or hold his lance. Amid the boos of the tourneyers, he clashed with Prince Duncan Targaryen and was rightfully defeated. But despite the nickname "Bold" he earned that day, which would follow him throughout his life, and thirty lashes from his enraged father, Barristan did not give up and vowed that within five years he would take revenge for that defeat.
And so it happened. At sixteen, grown and mature, Selmy again competed as a mysterious knight in the tourney at King's Landing, defeating both Prince Duncan and Ser Duncan the Tall, then Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. That day, he was knighted by Aegon the Unlikely himself, the greatest king he had ever known.
Unfortunately.
His subsequent life proceeded smoothly. His resounding victories in all the tournaments echoed across the Seven Kingdoms, and during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, he proved himself a fine warrior and commander, breaking through the Golden Company and slaying Maelys "Two-Heads" Blackfyre, ending the Blackfyre male line.
Finally, at the age of twenty-three, he was accepted into the Kingsguard, swearing his oaths to Ser Gerold Hightower, and King Jaehaerys the Wise granted him a white cloak.
Life was beautiful and consisted of one continuous white stripe, the color of his guards cloak, but life does not like uniformity.
Jaehaerys's son, Aerys, who should have inherited the best from his father and grandfather, inherited only looks, not a strong mind. Envious, lustful, and cowardly, he embodied all the vices of the royal line. Barristan, who considered serving the royal family his purpose in life, was pained to see the dynasty weaken. But oaths are as strong and unbreakable as tempered Valyrian steel.
And now, sitting in the tent of the newly-minted Lord Temper, he once again tried to crush this unbearable burden of guilt and regret, which hung like a heavy weight on the heart of any Royal Guard.
"They failed, they failed to protect him, they couldn't." The thought flashed through Selmy's mind once again as he sipped from the offered glass of wine, not even tasting it. If he hadn't realized that the king's life depended directly on him, he would have gone on a drinking binge, like Harlan Grandison.
"Ser Barristan, come here." The tent owner's voice pulled him out of his dark thoughts, causing him to look up from the floor.
Felix Temper, yesterday's merchant and current vassal lord of some lands in Dorne, stood with his hands on the table, studying something intently. Standing and moving closer, Selmy realized it was a map. A map of Duskendale. And a very old one at that.
"Why did you call me?" the Kingsguard asked the boy. Yes, the boy, young enough to be his son and not even a knight. If it weren't for the memory of this youth breaking his nose at the tourney in Lannisport almost seven years ago, and the fluidity of his movements characteristic of any good warrior, Barristan wouldn't have even listened.
"To consult and come up with a plan," Temper said, jotting down notes on a piece of paper. "You're an experienced knight who's been through more than one battle. Your experience will be very useful. You have some ideas, right?"
"I have a rough plan. At night, during the 'hour of the wolf,' we need to climb over the city wall and enter the town. There, disguise ourselves in a beggar's rags. They're practically unsuspected, and we can approach Twilight Fort without suspicion. After that, climb over the castle wall and free the king. Take a steed from the stables and ride to the wall. There, Lord Tywin's archers will clear it of defenders, allowing us to reach the camp undisturbed," Barriston said, pointing with his finger and not looking up from the map. Only when he looked up and saw the skepticism in his companion's eyes did he decide to add, "I've been to Twilight Fort before and I know the layout of the castle."
"What makes you think its gates will be open?" Temper asked, looking thoughtfully at the tent ceiling.
"The gates have an old lifting mechanism. It's very difficult to use. That's why the Darklyns leave them open," Barristan replied, looking at the map again. Looking more closely, he noticed one important, yet subtle, detail—it was very detailed and even included a map of the city's catacombs.
"Where did you get this map?" Selmi shouted loudly, losing his composure, fully understanding the treasure that lay before him.
"One of the Citadel's acolytes sent it to me almost two weeks ago," Temper replied, as if he hadn't been holding a detailed map of the besieged city, with all its secret passages and all its mysteries, but some useless scrap of paper.
"Where did the Citadel get it?" The royal guard, who was practically shaking with excitement, managed to keep his voice level and began to devise a new plan based on the new information.
"The Citadel libraries contain all the originals and copies of the maesters' works," Felix said matter-of-factly, taking a sip from a nearby cup of diluted wine. "Including architectural ones. And you can easily find plans for any castle built in the last five thousand years there."
Barristan's mind nearly went blank at the words he heard. So the Citadel and the Hightaurs have plans for every castle in Westeros. With all the weak points, secret passages, and defensive secrets. Wait, though…
"But the Twilight Fort was a fortress of the first people," Selmy recalled, citing a kind word for the maester who served at the House of Harvest and who had filled his head with the history of almost all the castles of the Seven Kingdoms. "It was built before the Citadel was founded."
"For someone who hasn't studied at the Citadel, you have a very good knowledge, Ser Barristan. You're right—there's one problem," Temper replied, slightly surprised, pointing to the top corner of the map. There was a very faded four-digit number there, which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be 1329. "It's a very old story. One thousand three hundred and twenty-nine years after the accession of the Hoares. Two years before, Duskfort was taken by the ironborn and almost completely destroyed. Because of this, it was completely restored, leaving behind this map, which I barely managed to find. Fortunately, such maps are quite rare, otherwise the White Beacon would have long ago held most of the continent by the throat.
- Why?
"Almost all the major castles were built before the Andals arrived. Later, they were simply restored and added to, without the help of maesters. So, the plans for most of the castles in the Citadel are missing," Temper said, running his finger over the area with the old Godswood, where one of the old secret passages ran. "The exceptions are Oldtown, Highgarden, White Harbor, Harrenhal, the Eyrie, and King's Landing. At least, those are the only ones I know of."
"Then that changes our plans completely," Selmy said with a smile. His chances of saving his king and clearing the name of the royal guard had just skyrocketed, giving him not just hope for a successful outcome, but confidence. Confidence that they would succeed. A smile appeared on his face. "Then shall we begin to formulate a plan, Lord Temper?"
- Of course, Ser Barristan.