Chapter Text
Over the years sufficient brothers had been summoned into the Lord Commander’s study, but never Barristan. Such a request was surely related to some disciplinary matter, no different than when the maester at Harvest Hall would twist Barristan’s ear and scold him to pay attention, but Barristan was well past the age of childish behavior or inexperienced mistakes.
“Ser Barristan.” Without glancing up from the missive he was writing, Gerold gestured towards the vacant seat.
No order needed stating twice, and so Barristan sat. The room was sparsely decorated save for some tapestries on the wall. Only the Lord Commander’s apartments offered a view over the outer walls, and Barristan straightened to see outside.
Like most days that year, it was gloomy. Whispers told it was a false spring, and of late, Barristan believed it. Nothing good had come of 281ac.
Despite leaving the Red Keep for the first time since his captivity at Duskendale, the king was slipping further into madness and his growing mania was worrisome. The tourney at Harrenhal had been a catastrophe, much of which Barristan blamed himself for, and to make matters worse, Ser Harlan’s death saw the appointment of a literal child to the Kingsguard.
Gerold set down his quill and folded the missive, speaking absently as he did. “I’ve a task for you.”
A task, not a punishment for an unimaginable wrongdoing.
“You will be Ser Jaime’s guiding brother.”
It was a punishment. “What have I done wrong?” Barristan asked, believing the assignment unfair.
Harrenhal, Barristan answered his own question. Ser Gerold blames me for the prince’s mistake.
“It is an honor to be named guiding brother to a new white cloak.” Gerold’s tone was a warning, but Barristan was bold.
“Then honor yourself,” he said.
Gerold looked at him then. “I am Ser Arthur’s guiding brother.”
“He has been a Kingsguard for three years. Surely he doesn’t need one anymore.”
“The honor is one for life.” Gerold’s tone was clipped. “You don’t have a younger brother to guide.”
“Ser Oswell…”
“Has Ser Jonothor.” The White Bull scowled and crossed his arms. “This is not a suggestion, it is an order.”
Barristan struggled to mask his agitation. “Does Ser Jaime truly need one? I never had a brother to guide me.”
As soon as the words passed Barristan’s lips, he wished he could take them back. When Barristan had joined, only Gerold and Harlan remained from a prestigious Kingsguard lost to the flames at Summerhall. The order had been broken, nearly beyond repair, and Gerold had been given the monumental task of restoring it.
Neither the passage of time nor appointment of new brothers lessened the melancholy in Harlan’s and Gerold’s eyes. Like an errant child bracing for a scolding, Barristan lowered his head and stared at his boots.
A weighty silence hung between them before Gerold managed a brisk reply. “I knew you’d be fine without support.”
Everyone had always assumed as much, particularly Barristan’s father, but for two decades Barristan had struggled to shake the feeling that Gerold didn’t like him. After the war, the White Bull had chosen three Kingsguard to replace his fallen brothers, but King Jaehaerys had selected two of his own, Barristan and Gwayne, just as Prince Rhaegar had chosen Arthur.
It was an unspoken understanding between Barristan and Gwayne that they were viewed differently by Gerold. While they did not have guiding brothers, they looked out for one another, and now Barristan was alone as new divides formed.
Although Barristan had watched the prince grow from a babe to a man, it was Arthur and Oswell forever at Rhaegar’s side. Jonothor and Gerold were Aerys’s men, and Prince Lewyn only accepted the cloak for his niece’s sake. It had been Barristan’s hope that whoever replaced Harlan might fill the void left by Gwayne’s death, but no man was chosen to replace Gwayne. A child had been given what grown men died dreaming of.
“All these years and you’ve never once entrusted me with guiding a new brother. Why now?”
Barristan wanted Gerold to admit that he liked Jaime as much as him, which was to say, not at all. All of the brothers had been dismayed at the appointment of a boy with less hair on the whole of his body than Oswell had on his useless arse.
“I think the pair of you have much in common.”
Barristan huffed a bitter laugh. With arms crossed over his chest, Barristan glanced up through his lashes. He hadn’t expected honesty, and the truth hurt more than he expected. “Perhaps the only thing we have in common is your opinion of us. I hardly think that qualifies me to guide him.”
Gerold stood from his chair and moved towards the window. “You’re both firstborn sons who sacrificed your inheritance for the white cloak, and you both possess an otherworldly skill with a sword. That should give you plenty to talk about.”
“Some would say the same about Ser Arthur’s skill with a sword, and it was Arthur who knighted the boy. Perhaps he would be better suited.”
“The king wants Ser Jaime kept close, not with Prince Rhaegar.” Gerold turned to face him. “It was the king who chose Ser Jaime for his seven. As I said, the pair of you have much in common.”
Frustration curled Barristan’s fingers into a fist, but he kept his voice calm. “Ser Jaime is too young and untried. I earned my cloak.”
“Are you questioning our king?” Another warning in the words, and Gerold took a step forward.
“I’m questioning your comparison of us.” Barristan stared into angry eyes. “I defeated the greatest threat to King Jaehaerys’ crown.”
“And in naming Ser Jaime, King Aerys has vanquished his own threat. The Great Lion goes limping back to the Rock.”
There was a bitter edge to Gerold’s voice, but Barristan did not follow his Lord Commander’s meaning. Barristan never excelled at politics, nor did he wish to partake in it.
“You’re dismissed, Ser Barristan.”
Barristan stood and took a long look at Gerold. “Ser Duncan would have named me had he survived the flames.”
“He said you were too young. Too young and inexperienced.” The words were a lance to the chest.
Barristan gaped before he found the word dancing on the tip of his tongue. “When?”
Amusement flashed in Gerold’s eyes. “As I said, you and Ser Jaime have much in common. Two boys nipping at their idol’s heels.”
During Barristan’s first week in the White Sword Tower, Ser Harlan Grandison had caught him lingering too long over the White Book, fingers grazing Ser Duncan’s page with reverence.
“I do hope you’ll not look at me as you looked at Ser Duncan,” Harlan had said. “I am not in the habit of telling boys bedtime tales.”
Barristan’s cheeks had flushed so hotly he could still remember the embarrassment of it.
“I am no boy, ser.”
“No,” Harlan had said, not unkindly. “You are a knight of the Kingsguard. Boys may admire their heroes, but the white cloaks require brothers who can hold a line.”
Laughter in Gerold’s voice cut through the memory. “You could barely manage the spiced boar at the tourney feast and yet you wanted Ser Duncan to name you. What were you? Six-and-ten?”
Memory of the day he unhorsed Duncan the Small and Duncan the Tall to earn his knighthood had forever been one of Barristan’s greatest achievements, but the thought of being regarded as a jape by his idol left a bitter taste. True, Barristan had been a child then, but King Aegon recognized his worth with knighthood, and King Jaehaerys later recognized Barristan’s skill by bestowing the white cloak upon him.
So lost in thought was Barristan that he hadn’t seen Gerold return to his seat and renew writing. “You’re dismissed.”
It should have been Gwayne in Arthur’s sleeping cell, but the king’s hubris cost more than his sanity. Leaning against the doorframe, Barristan tried for a second time to impose the boy onto Arthur.
“You knighted him, so it’s only fair you take accountability for our predicament.”
Arthur huffed and inspected the edge of Dawn. “He earned it. Do you question his skill?”
“Not his skill,” Barristan said. Only his cloak.
“Then I reject your assigned blame.” Standing, Arthur sheathed his sword and walked to the doorway, clapping Barristan on the shoulder, a smile upon his lips. “I can’t help you mind the boy tonight. I’ve plans. Besides, I’d hate to deprive you of quality time alone with your new brother.”
“Our new brother,” Barristan corrected, trailing Arthur down the stairs. “He’s quite fond of you. He’ll be terribly disappointed.”
When they reached the landing to the main level, Oswell was there, seated at the round table and obnoxious as ever. To Barristan’s dismay, he had overheard much of the conversation.
Whent flashed a toothy grin. “Surely you understand, Ser Barristan, but the boy is too young for where we’re going. Perhaps you can bond over your lack of experience.”
Barristan gave a withering look. It was both offensive and absurd to have to defend himself for honoring Kingsguard vows. The same vows Oswell swore before gods and men.
“It’s a black cloak you should wear,” he chided. “Though I’d wager you’d dishonor that cloak too.”
Oswell’s smile widened. “Odd, I recall taking no oaths of chastity.”
“It’s rather implied.” Barristan ground out the words.
“By whom?” Oswell asked. “Septons? Maesters? Pillowbiters grateful for a sacred vow whenever their lord fathers start shopping for brides?”
Arthur’s mouth twitched, though he made a noble attempt at hiding it.
“You swore solemn vows,” Barristan managed through clenched teeth. “Vows of obedience, of loyalty, of purity in purpose.”
“Purity in purpose,” Oswell repeated mockingly. “So it’s the Septon you spoke to then.”
Barristan refused to become Oswell’s entertainment for the night. He was better than that. He had been better than that since he was ten years old and too small for a destrier, but not too small for his father to send him from Harvest Hall with a hard pat to the shoulder and harder words about honor.
A Selmy was not made for soft feelings. A Selmy served. A Selmy honored his oaths. A Selmy did not quarrel with fools in white towers.
Unfortunately, Oswell Whent was a fool of rare talent, and therefore more difficult to ignore.
Arthur saved Barristan by lifting a hand. “Leave our brother be. Ser Barristan has been ordered to guide our new brother, not reform the rest of us by supper.”
“I’d begin with smaller miracles,” Oswell said. “Teaching a Lannister humility, perhaps.”
Arthur guffawed at that. “Perhaps you might try leading by example, Whent.”
“I thought you a better friend.” Oswell stood and rounded the table, clapping Arthur’s arm. “I’ll leave you to enjoy Ser Vows while I escort the prince into the city. We’ll meet you later.”
Arthur chuckled, warm and easy, the sound increasing Barristan’s irritation. Acceptance had always come easily to Arthur. Lords loved him for his sword, ladies for his face, the sworn brothers for his wit, and the crown prince for his companionship. Even Gerold smiled more often in Arthur’s presence.
Barristan left the tower and walked through the archway that led into the training yards where the last of the day’s light stretched across the land. Jaime Lannister was there and practicing alone.
The boy moved as if he had been born with a sword in his hand and no shame in his heart. His golden hair spilled from beneath the most obnoxious helm fashioned in the shape of a lion’s head, the sight forcing an audible groan from Barristan.
Jaime’s white cloak was folded over the rock wall instead of worn, a placement which Barristan considered disrespectful. On the other hand, Barristan thought the placement fitting as that cloak hadn’t been earned.
Jaime slashed once, twice, and a third time, each stroke precise and quick. Youth often mistook speed for mastery.
The boy’s form was clean. Gifted, even. Barristan would not deny what his eyes plainly saw. Ser Jaime had been born for a sword, but that did not mean he had been ready for the cloak.
Suddenly, there was a presence at Barristan’s side. A Dornish presence almost as groan-inducing as Jaime’s helm. Perhaps Arthur had followed to ensure Barristan honored their Lord Commander’s orders.
“He does not lack discipline,” Arthur said, following Barristan’s gaze.
“He lacks experience.”
“Experience can be gained.”
“A Kingsguard should bring experience, not acquire it in the position.”
Arthur gave him a long look. “Ser Gerold seems to believe otherwise.”
“Ser Gerold believes many strange things.”
“Such as?”
“That I have anything in common with a boy swallowed by a man’s cloak.”
Without awaiting reply, Barristan stormed into the yards. At first, Jaime did not notice Barristan’s approach, or if he did, he gave no indication. He continued to wage war with an imaginary assailant, something Barristan used to do at age five. The fun had ended when his opponent began to hit back at age six.
“You drop your shoulder before the riposte,” Barristan said. Annoyingly, the boy’s stance was excellent.
Jaime turned, surprise passing over his face faster than a storm swept across the Dornish Marches. Then he smiled. “Do I?”
“You know you do.”
“If I know it, then perhaps it’s a trap.”
“If it’s a trap, it’s a poor trap.”
Jaime glanced past him. “Ser Arthur says it works.”
“Ser Arthur is too kind.”
“He put me on my arse twice this morning.” The boy sounded giddy.
Barristan tried not to wince. Arrogance was frustrating, but admiration was worse.
Jaime looked towards Arthur Dayne as if the Sword of the Morning had stepped from the pages of the White Book. A god amongst mortal men.
Barristan knew that look. He had worn until Harlan Grandison taught him that sworn brothers had no use for worship.
“And yet you live,” Barristan said dryly.
“He is kind,” Jaime allowed.
Barristan did not smile. “Again.”
The boy’s expression shifted. For half a heartbeat he looked less like a knight and more like what he was… five-and-ten, over-praised, and far from home. Then that unmistakable Lannister smirk returned. “Is this guidance?”
“This is correction.”
“Ah. I was told there would be guidance.”
“You were told wrong.”
Jaime gave a small laugh that held no warmth. “Seems to happen often here.”
Barristan should have asked what the boy meant. That was what a guiding brother should have done. Gerold might have asked. Harlan would have. Gwayne definitely would have, then offered some ale and an hour of patience that Barristan had never learned to keep in reserve.
Instead Barristan pointed to Jaime’s sword. “Again.”
The boy did as commanded. If he resented the corrections, he hid it well.
Jaime moved through the same steps, each repetition sharper than the last until sweat darkened his tunic and his breathing labored. Soon he abandoned the obnoxious helm, but still, he did not complain or ask to stop. When Barristan corrected his shoulder a fourth time, Jaime’s jaw clenched, but he obeyed the command.
“You favor your right,” Barristan said.
“I am right-handed.”
“So are most men,” Barristan said with a shrug. “Most men die too.”
Jaime’s smile sharpened. “Is that the guidance?”
“That is truth.” Perhaps it was too blunt, but Barristan was raised with directness. A knight unprepared for the harsh reality of war was a dead knight.
“So grim, this brotherhood.” A touch of mockery underscored the words.
“Does something about our order amuse you?”
“Nothing of the order amuses me, ser, though I daresay it’s not at all as promised.”
That angered Barristan. Jaime had the audacity to expect things of the order while offering it nothing in return. Still, Barristan asked, “Such as?”
“Everyone speaks of this brotherhood as if it were a feast, though it feels more like a fast.”
Barristan reeled back as if slapped. The remark picked at his own feelings of rejection, and Barristan didn’t care for such vulnerability.
The yard seemed quieter after that. Barristan could hear the city below, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone roads, voices of children running through alleyways, and the restless cawing of ravens.
Jaime looked at him as if he had not meant to speak so plainly, but Barristan spoke before the boy could.
“Our duty is to the king.” He wanted to add ‘not one another’, but Barristan could not bring himself to. Gwayne had been like a brother where Gerold and Harlan failed.
“To the king?”
“Aye, to the king.”
Jaime looked towards the Red Keep and grumbled. “Yes. I noticed.”
There was that look again. A small fracture beneath finely polished Lannister armor. Barristan recognized it but turned away, for seeing such a thing felt a responsibility to acknowledge it and he wasn’t certain how to do that without exposing his own frustrations.
“You are not here to judge your brothers,” Barristan said.
“No? I had thought everyone here judged everyone. Silently, of course… except Ser Oswell.”
“You are here to serve.”
“I know why I’m here.”
“I doubt that.”
Jaime went very still and immediately Barristan knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Any arrogance and amusement observed earlier scattered like dust in the wind and all that remained was a striking resemblance to Lord Tywin, not in physical features, but in coldness.
“Do you?” Jaime asked.
Barristan took a deep breath and made a poor attempt to smooth over his accusation. “I know you are young.”
“So I am told.”
“You are untested.”
“So I am reminded.”
“You were chosen for reasons beyond your merit.”
The words landed harder than Barristan had intended. He knew it wasn’t Jaime’s fault and regretted the phrasing immediately. Surely this was not what Gerold intended.
Seven hells, I don’t want to lead anyone. Following had always come easier to Barristan, not commanding or mentoring.
Jaime’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword and for an instant Barristan thought the boy might challenge him. A part of Barristan welcomed it.
Then Jaime laughed. “You sound like my father.”
Perhaps that was the trouble. Jaime should have been a peer, not a boy looking for a father’s guidance in a brother’s correction. Barristan knew how to test a knight, but he did not know how to answer a child who heard condemnation where Barristan had intended instruction.
Jaime crossed the yard to retrieve his cloak from the wall. “Will that be all, Ser Barristan?”
Barristan let out a lengthy sigh. “For tonight.”
“Then I thank you for your guidance.” Jaime bowed in a way that reeked of insolence.
He turned away before Barristan could answer, not that Barristan had an answer worth giving. He watched the boy disappear into the White Sword Tower, white cloak over one arm and the obnoxious helm clutched tightly in hand.
Arthur came to stand beside him, and mercifully, Oswell was nowhere in sight, no doubt already escorting Prince Rhaegar into the city.
“That went poorly,” Arthur said.
Had he been spying? Barristan withheld the accusation. “It went as expected.”
“No, it went poorly.”
Barristan gave his sworn brother a withering look. “If you have counsel, offer it plainly.”
Arthur’s expression softened which Barristan found more irritating than anything. “He is not responsible for the king’s choice.”
“He accepted it.”
Arthur huffed at that. “He is fifteen.”
“At fifteen I was fighting in tourneys against grown men.”
“And did every grown man you face treat you with fairness?”
Barristan thought of his father. Certainly not.
Arthur sighed when no answer came. “He watches everything. Have you noticed?”
“I noticed his shoulder.”
Laughter filled the air. “Of course you did.”
“What else would you have me notice?” Barristan had not been trained to mind frightened boys. He had been trained to protect a king.
“That he is frightened.”
Now it was Barristan’s turn to laugh. Having spent enough time around Tywin Lannister, Barristan found it difficult to imagine a lion trembling. Lions made other men tremble. If by some miracle the boy was frightened, Barristan considered it a blessing that he understood the severity of the position.
Many years ago when Barristan kneeled before the White Bull and took his vows, he had been frightened, but no one patted his head placatingly and sang sweet lullabies at night.
“He should be frightened,” Barristan said. “The cloak is heavy.”
“Then help him bear it.”
Barristan looked away, not because he was craven, but because he did not know how to teach a boy to bear fear. No one had taught him. In his House Selmy, fear was to be mastered or hidden. Questions and doubts were beaten into silence by duty.
“The only thing a knight should fear is failure to keep his oaths,” his father often said. “A knight who cannot do that is no knight at all. I’d sooner welcome death.”
“The boy isn’t frightened,” Barristan said. “He’s bold. Too bold. His form, his attitude, his false sense of righteousness.”
A moment’s pause preceded a whack to Barristan’s middle. Barristan had known the blow was coming. He had sensed it in the shift of Arthur’s feet and felt it in the judgment of narrowed eyes.
Dawn was not in Arthur’s hand, only a wooden training sword procured from gods knows where, but the Dorishman had a way of making any weapon seem chosen by the gods.
Barristan staggered slightly and composed himself, and when he found his footing, he unsheathed his sword in challenge.
“You struck me.”
“I often find that improves a lesson. Perhaps I could be your guiding brother.” The jest in his tone was maddening.
I’ve nothing in common with the boy, but Arthur certainly does.
Besides, Barristan didn’t need a guiding brother, or so he had told himself over the years. He certainly didn’t need guidance from a younger man with less experience, and worse, from a Dornishman.
Twice Barristan drove Arthur back, but insufferable man that he was, Arthur only smiled, eyes alight with the joy of challenge. When Barristan’s strike split Arthur’s training sword in two, out came Dawn, pale as moonlight. The true battle began.
No man could deny Arthur’s skill. Barristan, who had crossed swords with the best and killed the worst, knew that Arthur was the deadliest of Aerys’s seven, but every man had a weakness and Arthur’s was the impatience of youth.
Too quick.
Too eager.
Too confident.
Time and experience had taught Barristan otherwise.
Arthur took a big, powerful swing that would have cut Barristan in two were he any other man. Slipping under the strike, Barristan shouldered his sworn brother in the ribs and spun, whacking the Dornishman with the flat of his blade. Arthur recovered and instead of retreating, came inside Barristan’s guard with a reckless riposte that would have been brilliant if it had not been suicidal.
Barristan caught Arthur by the middle and drove him to the ground. The sound of air being forcibly pushed from Arthur’s lungs reached skyward. For a long moment, Arthur did not speak, he only laid on his back gasping and stunned, but then he smiled, annoying as ever.
“I meant to do that,” he managed.
“What!?” Barristan bent at the waist as his breathing and heart steadied. “For what purpose?”
“To see if he was still in there.”
Barristan stared down at him. “You make no sense.”
Barristan offered him a hand that went ignored as Arthur sprang up unaided, brushing dust from his jerkin as though it had landed there for his amusement.
“At Duskendale, you went alone into a castle full of enemies to rescue a king the realm would have been relieved to lose.”
Barristan stiffened. “He’s our king. I swore sacred vows.”
“Of course.” Something in Arthur’s tone felt judgment more than praise.
Arthur looked toward the Red Keep, where King Aerys sat within, cloaked in shadows, whispers, and wildfire dreams none of them understood.
“When I was a boy,” Arthur said, “I wanted to be Barristan the Bold, the knight who unhorsed Duncan the Tall. The man who slew Maelys the Monstrous. The boy of ten who rode against grown men. Before I took my vows, I watched you ride in three tourneys. You won them all and you did not boast afterward. That impressed me.”
“And now?”
Arthur’s smile softened. “Now I know there are quieter forms of pride.”
Barristan felt the words strike harder than the wooden sword had.
“Jaime is bold because he is young enough to think skill alone will save him,” Arthur said. “You are bold because the realm has spent years telling you that it already has.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” Arthur said. “Yours comes with flattery and songs.”
Barristan looked away.
Arthur’s gaze returned to the tower, to the place where Jaime had disappeared with his white cloak over one arm and that ridiculous lion helm in hand.
“You are both too bold,” Arthur said, “Jaime is bold because he has not yet learned what the cloak will ask him to bury. You are bold because some part of you still refuses to stay buried.”
Barristan went still. “That is not the same thing.”
“No,” Arthur said with a sigh. “His defiance is still young. Yours is simply starved.”
Barristan’s jaw tightened. “You mistake obedience for cowardice.”
“I know obedience can be brave.” Arthur looked at him then. Really looked. “But obedience can send a good man into hiding.”
“I have never hidden.”
“Then come out,” Arthur said.
Barristan scowled and turned to leave. His gaze landed upon the tower where within it Jaime Lannister had gone to polish his absurd lion helm and pretending not to care that none of his new brothers had asked him to the city, or so Barristan assumed. No one invited him either.
“Boys may admire heroes”, Harlan had said. “We require brothers who can hold a line.”