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Dismissed. Dismissed.
The taste of it is harsh. Humiliating. There's no precedent for such disgrace, Ser Barristan Selmy thinks. Criston Cole the Kingmaker flirted with disobedience and Rhaenyra both. And then, of course, slit the throat of Lyman Beesbury, the only man who refused to crown Aegon II, and make a king of the boy that King Viserys passed over. Still, he was not removed. Terrence Toyne was found abed with Bethany Bracken, the fourth Aegon's mistress, and died a traitor in his Kingsguard splendor. Lucamore the Lusty was gelded and sent to the Wall for fathering sixteen children. The latter two men disobeyed and were punished accordingly, if severely; Cole served the king of his choosing.
Between the three of them, only Cole became Lord Commander, just as Barristan did.
He bristles. No longer, thanks to the queen and her cruelty, her son and his spoiling. And the rabble who protect them...
Unworthy. Poor inheritors to an incredible legacy. Mere shadows to greatness. Unfit to wear the white cloak Barristan prized for so long.
Led the attack on Old Wyk during Balon Greyjoy's Rebellion, Barristan writes, nearly finished with the entry into the White Book. He won't allow the boy to steal this honor from him, even if the cloak remains on the floor before the Iron Throne, cast down in anger. Champion of the tourney at King's Landing, in his 57th year. Dismissed by King Joffrey I Baratheon in his 61st year, for reasons of advanced age.
Half of the entry is all that remains of Gerold Hightower. The rest belongs to an old knight, the only living man of a finer time.
He glances around the tower for a final look, feeling old, suddenly. Old as they say.
What am I to do now?
He lingers. An idea brews in a distant kettle, not quite ready to serve. He will stay in the city, for the moment, and attend a closer meal.
They serve Eddard Stark to the crowd outside the Great Sept as if the man is a common thief. It makes Barristan frown, quite unnoticed without the identifying armor of his former post. He follows the ebb and flow of the people of Flea Bottom, listening to their foul words and coarse tongues. Traitor, they spit of Lord Eddard. Meek voices defend him, but by the time Barristan can see the man he has regarded with admiration, these dissents have fallen silent. Brash replacements to the defenders insist Stark is guilty of a great many things. Murdering the beloved Robert. Attempting to smother the new king, Joffrey. Snarling at the queen like a rabid dog. The worst, Barristan notes, is the first. They ought to string up the boar, not the closest friend of the man. This, Barristan muses, feels wrong.
“I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King,” Stark announces, “and I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men.”
Barristan winces as a stone hits Eddard just above his eyes, making a deep gash. Folly. Barristan studies the pulpit with curiosity, as Stark bleeds. Joffrey in Lannister splendor and a new crown—less Baratheon touches than he should have, if the queen intends to maintain that charade—and a sneer on his mouth. The queen in mourning colors but no widow's sorrow in her body. The Hound with a white cloak. Barristan snorts. They found someone even less suited for the Kingsguard than Barristan's former brothers. Lords Varys and Littlefinger, of course. Never ones to miss a spectacle. Barristan watches Petyr Baelish, not missing the man's eyes resting on Lady Sansa.
Lady Sansa. Seven save us, Barristan thinks, alarmed. They have the child watching her father's disgrace.
Stark continues, now that the bells have stopped tolling. A great hush falls over the plaza. The High Septon asks Joffrey what will be done of the traitor. A corrupt glutton asking a spoiled boy for direction. Barristan hopes Aegon and Ser Duncan have cast away their eyes.
“My mother bids me let Lord Eddard take the black, and Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father," Joffrey tells the crowd.
Liar, Barristan curses in silence, vehement. Lady Sansa seems the only one unaware of it. The crowd surges in anticipation, taking its cues from Joffrey, whether they are aware of it or not. Barristan has never forgotten what Ser Arthur Dayne did to defeat the Smiling Knight and the Kingswood Brotherhood; he gained the trust of the smallfolk and listened to their grievances. Smallfolk want to be left alone, Ser Arthur told Barristan, somehow older than his years, even if Barristan had three decades on the man at the time. But, Dayne added, smallfolk are slaves to rumors. They are simple and humble, Barristan learned, well removed from this knowledge between growing up at Harvest Hall, making a name for himself in tourneys, and joining the Kingsguard. Smallfolk aren't learned enough to discern the truth from a lie. Barristan fears this mob is the same—taking a rumor of treason for truth, when the opposite...
The opposite. King Joffrey is smiling, smiling like a cat about to devour a dove. No, Barristan thinks in horror, unable to look away from the new king's gaze on Lady Sansa, reminding Barristan unpleasantly of Aerys after burning a man alive, when Rhaella happened upon him. That look promised only pain and poor Rhaella's sobs. A lion, poised to bloody a wolf with its claws. Who were Robert's squires? Boys. Lannister boys. Tyrek. Lancel. Barristan feels another eager shove from the crowd. They made sure the king was drunk.
“But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!”
The crowd roars, Lady Sansa falls in a dead faint, Queen Cersei's smile disappears, Varys objects, the High Septon begs for an alternative, and Barristan the Bold makes a decision. Shoving his way through the crowd, strong as he as ever been, Barristan reaches the pulpit. Ser Ilyn Payne climbs the steps on the other side, but only Eddard Stark holds his attention, not an old man in a hood. The Kingsguard are distracted, struggling to maintain the perimeter around the king, queen regent, and court officials. Fools, all of you. Ser Barristan Selmy hurries through the gap in the line of gold cloaks, steals the Lady Sansa into his arms, and vanishes, invisible as the days of the Defiance.
Barristan has not made a route ahead of time, so moving Lady Sansa is a lark as deadly as the game of thrones.
He doesn't make a good picture; a cloaked figure, carrying off a high lady. Thinking quickly, Barristan hurries them down Visenya's Hill through a string of almost deserted streets, ever grateful the summons has brought the majority of their residents to the Great Sept. He has little time to work with, but getting caught—two traitors in flight, with the girl's father beheaded only minutes prior—simply will not do. He gets down the Street of the Sisters with no heaving breaths and makes it all the way to the Dragonpit, old heart as steady as ever.
"What..." Lady Sansa mumbles, blinking. Barristan lowers her to a column amongst the ruins, something that can serve as a seat.
"Quiet, child," Barristan tells her, not unkindly. "We are still in danger."
She recoils in fear. Barristan lowers his hood at once, waiting for her recognition before proceeding.
"Ser Barristan," she whispers, voice cracking. The day must be returning to her. "I-I thought..."
"After I was dismissed, I did not know where to go," Barristan admits, feeling a need to be candid. Lady Sansa needs answers now that the her world has changed so irrevocably. He pities her. "There was a summons to the Great Sept. My curiosity got the better of me."
"The sept," she says slowly, brokenly. She covers her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking. "My father."
"Dead, child," Barristan admits, apologetic. "I am sorry for your loss, my lady."
He stands vigil as she cries, unsure of how to comfort her. Shaera enjoyed a happy marriage and only cried in grief; Rhaella cried behind the closed doors of her chambers, amongst her ladies and maids; Cersei was an enigma to all save her twin brother; Barristan never knew Cyrenna Horpe long enough for her to cry in his presence, as he joined the Kingsguard and gave up Harvest Hall to his cousin; Ashara Dayne was nothing more to Barristan than a lady of a song with her haunted, beautiful eyes and a sadder story to accompany them.
Footsteps draw him from his reverie, and startle Sansa out of her tears.
"My lady," Barristan murmurs in worry. "We should go."
"Go?" Sansa repeats, uncomprehending.
"We need to leave the capital," Barristan explains, drawing her gently to her feet. "You should be in Winterfell, with your family."
She nods, nods again, and follows him through the Dragonpit. He holds out a hand to stop her after several minutes of walking, hearing a low laugh and the tail end of a conversation. Embarrassment clouds Ser Barristan after he understands what the speakers talk of. "Stay out of sight," Barristan tells Lady Sansa, who obeys without question. The man's gone by the time Barristan rounds the corner and finds a...washerwoman collecting her payment from the ground. A handful of silver stags. Barristan can do better. "Excuse me," he greets.
The woman looks up. Considers him. "Give me a minute, old man," she jeers, giving him a toothy, lewd smile. "If you can."
"Madam, the only service I require of you is that cloak."
She looks down reflexively, and picks at the collar of the dull brown fabric. "This?"
"I want to buy it."
She nibbles on a stag to prove its authenticity, regarding Barristan with suspicion. "How much?"
"Ten gold dragons," Barristan promises, fishing out the coin to show her. Her eyes widen. More than you've ever seen.
"Done."
The exchange is quick. She bounds off, all the richer. Barristan returns to Sansa, and drapes the roughspun cloak around her.
"Ten dragons for this?" The girl mumbles, skeptical, pushing her arms through the sleeves. She was listening.
"Honey catches more flies than vinegar, my lady," Barristan tells her.
"As you say, ser."
Barristan and Sansa descend the opposite side of the Dragonpit, picking their way down the hill with careful steps. Sansa's cloak conceals her finery but little of her bright hair, prompting Barristan to urge her ever faster in fear of discovery. By his estimation, the Iron Gate is the best way out of the city. The Dragon Gate has the most scrutiny, with the kingsroad and all visitors meeting it before being given entry. The Iron Gate has rusty bars and minimal security, with the majority of gold cloaks working to contain the fervor at the Great Sept.
They pass Eel Alley without a second glance. Barristan has always been loyal, but never stupid. Staying so close is certain death.
A single patrolman on the rampart gets his throat slit—Ser Criston, damn you—after his captain and four fellows are stabbed in the barracks. Barristan opens the portcullis just high enough and rejoins Sansa below, taking her hand to guide her to the Rosby road.
"We'll need to walk to Rosby, my lady," Barristan observes, thinking of the Defiance. He had gone on this very way to rescue Aerys after Lord Tywin was bound to inaction. The memory is as bitter as Barristan's dismissal. "And find horses along the way, if fortune favors us."
"As you say, ser," Lady Sansa says again, no higher than a whisper. She wipes her eyes, free arm encased in Barristan's.
They walk in silence for more than a league. To any passing fisherfolk, mayhaps they look like a grandfather and granddaughter, taking a leisurely stroll. The charade needs adjusting and improvements, sooner rather than later. Sansa's finery will need replacing for simpler clothing, along with their story. Dye? Barristan ponders, looking to the red curls peeking out beneath Sansa's hood with chagrin.
"We will need to dye your hair," Barristan notes. "And find you a name."
He isn't sure what Sansa looks more scared of—the dye or the new identity. She swallows, looking to his shoulder rather than his eyes.
"A name?" She ventures.
"They will look for you. You are the king's betrothed."
"Not anymore," Lady Sansa practically spits, disgusted. "I won't marry Joffrey. They can't make me."
"They can try," Barristan reminds her. The child seems unaware of the lengths of a king's power. "We must be cautious."
In Rosby, among the daub-and-wattle huts and oblivious smallfolk, Barristan finds a pony and a painter.
"Black, if it please you," Barristan requests, overpaying for a supply to last several months. The painter accepts, eagerly.
"I don't need no black, anyway," the boy tells Barristan. "Dorcas in Duskendale likes pretty colors for her castle paintings."
He dyes Sansa's hair with water from a pond in the nearby woods, coating the giveaway Tully look with a black better suited for Robert's bastards. She studies her reflection for a moment, impassive now that her tears have dried and they are mostly away from King's Landing.
Barristan then purchases a pair of old mares from a farmer, concealing amusement. Old, old, old, the three of them, and useful still.
"I hate riding," Lady Sansa admits when Barristan eases her into the saddle and they are on the road again in the late afternoon sun.
"A lady did," Barristan points out, warning her. "Not you."
She pouts but settles without further complaint. "What should I be?" She asks.
"A bastard, or farmer's daughter," Barristan answers, politely pretending not to notice her dismay. "No one looks for a bastard."
He's considered a name for himself, but Whitebeard will need to wait. "I shall be...Arstan. Arstan Waters."
A crownlander bastard's name. Ser Barristan Selmy is as trueborn as any other noble, but with him sinking so low—a dismissal, a blind eye to two bad kings and the worser son of the second for a brief time, the flight from King's Landing with a traitor's daughter—feels apt. A ridiculous contribution to the end of odd Summer. He considers the Stark words with new appreciation. Winter is well on its way.
"Arstan?" She queries with interest. The black dye makes her sharper around the edges.
"My great-nephew."
Lady Sansa mulls it over. "I want to be Cat. Cat Waters."
"Your mother?" Barristan questions, not exactly sold on it. The girl's mother captured Tyrion Lannister. All other Catelyns must wince.
"Yes, ser. I mean," she corrects herself, bemused, "...grandfather. Ser Grandfather?"
Barristan can't help it—he laughs. Sansa's hesitation folds into a sheepish smile.
"Well," she protests. "You're..."
"Old," Barristan supplies, smiling. "Yes, I know."
They stagger through Duskendale and stay for a single night. Barristan's instincts are rarely wrong; the possibility of them being followed is high, once the men at the Iron Gate are discovered, and the whore who gave Sansa her cloak whispers of something unusual in a lover's ear. Anyone in a hurry on the kingsroad is suspicious, even in peacetime. Without a war, outlaws and highwaymen are a scant few, usually dealt with by the nearest lord. Barristan wants to protect Lady Sansa from the newest band of them, the gold cloaks, and the royal family by any means necessary. It feels much like the lingering want for honor that made him pledge fealty to Robert the Usurper. This time, however, Barristan is defending a daughter of a man who lost three Starks to the last war. The man's shade should not lose another.
Lady Sansa takes poorly to life on the road, regardless.
"Pheasant?" She questions, wrinkling her nose, once he has two roasting on a spit. Barristan wishes boars were near.
"Should I let you hunt for our dinner, my lady?"
Lady Sansa blushes. "No, ser," she mutters. "Grandfather."
He makes a show of disapproval, though the smile betrays him. Rhaenys loved this sort of game, and played it with all of Barristan's brothers. Ser Jaime feigned crossness at her in the corridors of the Red Keep when she saw him; Ser Arthur had 'trouble' finding the princess in plain sight. Lord Gerold and Barristan were the worst players; the princess was too sweet to deny anything, even a smile.
"Where are we?" Sansa asks, as is her custom by evenfall.
"Old Stone Bridge" was one of Barristan's first answers. Hayford was another, followed by Sweetport Sound. Tonight, it is the Antlers.
"Antlers," Sansa repeats, as if committing it to memory. To what purpose, Barristan can't say. A song, perhaps?
"Another day's ride will get us to Gods Eye."
"The Green King ruled there."
Lady Sansa is a devotee of songs. Barristan himself was the same in his youth, likening himself to the tales of Ser Duncan's career.
"Better yet," Barristan tells her, distributing the pheasant, "it sits in the riverlands. Your real grandfather rules as its Lord Paramount."
The riverlands are rife with danger. While Jaime Lannister tore the land to pieces with fifteen thousand men, the Mountain slaughtered like the wild dog of his House. Both should have taken the black after the Rebellion, though Barristan had not pushed hard enough for either sentence. Stories of new battles accompany Arstan and Cat on their journey north; luck favors Robb Stark. The Whispering Wood and Battle of the Camps were auspicious victories, even in the old city, but Lord Eddard's death soon after puts them in a grim light. Now, Lord Tywin retreats to Harrenhal while the riverlords crown the Stark boy, reclaiming a title lost to Aegon the Conqueror centuries ago.
"That makes me a princess," Sansa notes. She sounds pleased, but sad. The cost of the title, Barristan supposes. Eddard's death.
"It does, my lady. A princess and an old knight, running right to this new king."
When Arstan and Cat ride into Gods Eye, however, they find another wolf, much closer than the Young one.
"You are not seeing, boy," a Braavosi accent complains through a gap in the trees. "Must I charge at you like a Volantene elephant?"
"No," a voice grumbles. Lady Sansa stills her horse and glances at Barristan, excited as Rhaenys after she received Balerion the cat.
"That sounds like Arya," she whispers. Barristan quiets her with a gesture, and guides their horses into the camp.
It takes a little reconnaissance to discover just who's in charge, but Barristan nearly sings with relief when he realizes the men around them are recruits of the Night's Watch. He vaguely remembers this black brother asking Lord Stark for a peek at the dungeons, where there were plenty of boys and men to choose from as involuntaries to man the Wall. "Stay close to me," Barristan murmurs. Sansa obeys.
"What's this, then?" Yoren greets, sharpening a blade. A threat. Paltry, compared to Maelys, to Toyne, to Lord Blacktyde.
Barristan doesn't react, other than to lower his hood an inch, trusting his reputation to do the rest.
Yoren blinks.
"I'll be damned," he drawls after a beat, amused. He chews a piece of sourleaf, lips red as Rhaegar's rubies. "You're that knight."
Then Yoren's eyes slide to Lady Sansa, and the grin vanishes. He gets to his feet, expressionless.
"It's not safe for her 'round these parts, m'lord. Not with..." The war underway? The Mountain? The Lannisters? Barristan cannot say.
"Not with my sister," Lady Sansa murmurs, not looking at Yoren. Her eyes are fixed on a distant boy, arguing with a dancing master.
Yoren spits, startling Sansa from her reverie.
"Alright," the watchman decides, beckoning Barristan over with a black gloved finger, "you and me? We need to talk."
The situation becomes...complex. He doesn't mind, exactly. No quest is without its difficulties. No honor comes without consequences.
Barristan no longer escorts just one princess to her family. The number has risen to two and they move off the kingsroad.
"I thought they killed you," Lady Arya mumbles into Lady Sansa's neck. The former resembles Stark more than her sister.
"I thought you died," Sansa retorts, more of a sob than a rebuke. She hugs Arya tightly, hiccuping like a drunk.
"A lovely picture," Syrio Forel quips. The boy next to him huffs, sporting a familiar look of annoyance. Kingly, one might say.
"What does this make us?" Gendry asks as Barristan stokes the fire and Syrio skins rabbits with a thin blade. "A couple'a knights?"
Barristan watches in amusement as the lad regrets asking immediately, because Forel has gotten a mischievous look in his eye.
"This man has the honor to be Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos. This man," Forel adds, archly, imperiously, "has the honor to be Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The Bold, as you Westerosi say. This one is curious of you, ser. Most curious."
"If I have to hear that routine one more time..." Gendry grumbles, poking at the cookfire with a sullen look.
"Ask your questions, dancing master," Barristan replies.
"I saved little Arya from that Trant man before the father...passed," Forel says delicately. "Yoren protected this boy from the queen."
"Without me knowing why," Gendry mutters, mutinous. The Braavosi ignores him.
Forel points a blade at Barristan. "Why would you protect little Arya's sister? The king's wife to be? I am...very curious."
Barristan's eyes flit to the girls, who are pretending not to listen. He smiles, thinly.
"Because I could not protect their father," Barristan admits. "Nor their grandfather, nor their uncle." The silence as one Stark burned alive and the other choked himself to death was a disgusting one. A terrible loss, one that Barristan can hardly think of without writhing on the insides with shame. He watched and did nothing. He didn't speak up for lost prince and princess, so savagely murdered. He stayed quiet in discussions of Elia's fate, unwilling to risk scrutiny of his new allegiance. He failed Rhaegar on the Trident, failed Rhaella on Dragonstone, and failed Viserys and Daenerys, who reportedly lived in squalor and begged in the Free Cities until young Daenerys married Khal Drogo. "I would not close my eyes any longer," Barristan continues, regretful, "to the injustices of kings on the Iron Throne."
Lady Sansa's eyes are shining. Arya looks gloomy.
"Just kings?" Forel queries, with a look at Gendry.
"And queens," Barristan concedes. Yoren mentioned the queen's decree for Robert's bastards before sending them off, warning Barristan of the danger. The party of two has swelled to five—Barristan, Sansa, Forel, Arya, and Gendry, all fleeing from King's Landing to safety.
Three old men protecting three young, innocent fugitives from the Crown. Barristan cannot think of a better song.
They round Gods Eye with the urgency of thieves, convinced thoroughly on the danger of the Mountain and Amory Lorch. Yoren's party continued north without them, stubbornly unwilling to abandon the recruits. Barristan's charges and ally Forel dash across the riverlands, giving the horses to the girls and Gendry. Forel makes an ideal partner for evening watch—Barristan steals what little sleep he needs in his advanced age and swaps with Forel just before dawn. He admires this Braavosi; Starks seem to have a habit of gaining loyalty.
"Quicker, boy," Forel demands with a smack to Arya's exposed elbow. "Your arm is gone. So sad."
"Ow!"
Lady Sansa smirks, putting the finishing touches of dye in her hair. Until Riverrun, not Winterfell, Barristan insists on it.
Gendry has his own lessons, courtesy of Barristan. He's clumsy, clearly untrained but is not without promise. They practice with sticks like Forel and Arya, all for the honing of Gendry's reflexes. It's a simple pleasure to teach again; Barristan has missed it over the years.
Most knowledgeable of the area, the four defer to Barristan to lead them. In the interest of maintaining secrecy, they avoid keeps and castles, to Lady Sansa's disappointment. Pinkmaiden fell to Ser Gregor, according to talk by passing smallfolk, so Barristan urges the others onward, away from it. High Heart provides enough rest for the Stark girls, surrounded by familiar weirwoods, but gives Barristan, Forel, and Gendry chills. Acorn Hall is closed to travelers, but they camp nearby, wanting a night of rest before the long push to Riverrun.
"Your brother has tamed the sleeping lion," Forel remarks after Stark crushes Stafford Lannister. "This amuses me."
"Joffrey will be furious," Lady Sansa murmurs, drawing her hood over her curls, already fading to red.
"You're never seeing that liar again," Arya tells her in a voice evidently meant to be comforting. "Who cares what he thinks?"
Many. The warrant for Lady Sansa rises to a thousand golden dragons. Hedge knights and free riders jeer in their cups about finding her.
"I'll kill them," Arya hisses at a nameless inn a day's ride from her uncle's seat, looking utterly venomous.
"I'll help," says Gendry, adamant. Forel clucks his tongue as Lady Sansa sighs, picking over her food without looking up.
"You'll do neither, silly boys. Or must the First Sword instruct you again?"
"No," Arya and Gendry chime together, rewarded with Lady Sansa's secret smile. Barristan makes it bigger with the gift of a lemoncake.
"Thank you, Ser Grandfather," she tells him, pleased. He chuckles, thinking of the bartering it took with the innkeep to get it.
"Of course, little Cat."
The archers of Riverrun notch their bows as the small group reaches the bridge. A craggy face peers down at them, suspicious.
"Who are you?" The Blackfish demands, squinting.
"Arya," Arya yells.
"Gendry," Gendry shouts. The Blackfish shouts back—who the hell is Gendry? Princess Arya collapses laughing.
"Sansa Stark," Sansa pipes up, but has to repeat herself after the wind sings over her.
"Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos," the Braavosi drawls, practically sauntering on the spot. Fool, Barristan thinks fondly.
"Ser Barristan Selmy," Barristan offers, skipping his former title. It's no longer his. Let the Kingslayer have it, the real traitor.
The Blackfish hoots with laughter.
"Lower the bridge," he shouts. "These are the king's sisters!"
King Robb Stark greets his sisters like the boy he is, valiantly struggling to appear unaffected but failing miserably. They pile on each other like pups, laughing delightedly. Lady Catelyn looks relieved at the private audience arranged by the Blackfish, for Robb's sake.
"I cannot..." She pauses, looking very much like her eldest daughter now. "I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, Ser Barristan."
He inclines his head. "It was the honorable thing to do, my lady."
"Ser Barristan is a true knight," Lady Sansa opines, radiant in a new dress. The king smiles at him too, about Gendry's age.
"One can only hope, my lady," Barristan concedes.
Somewhere along the way, Barristan Selmy had lost sight of a knight's values. Obedience and loyalty overshadowed the promises expected of him, the oaths he swore to the White Bull, while King Jaehaerys bestowed the white cloak on his shoulders. A knight—the knight Barristan will die as, dismissed from duty—protects the innocent for the Mother, is just for the Father, and is brave for the Warrior. His failures must be remedied, though delivering the Stark girls to their brother (indubitably changing the war's aims) seems like a good start.
"Ser Barristan," Robb Stark says with all the weight of honor behind the query, "will you join us?"
The roar of the crowd finds Barristan again. Stark's words, all to protect his family. He needs distance. A rest. A new post.
"I fear I cannot, Your Grace."
Forel raises his eyebrows, the Stark girls look crestfallen, Gendry frowns, the king looks shocked, and his mother bewildered.
"I have an old debt to the Targaryens," Barristan admits. "The last war was not kind to them, and young Daenerys needs my protection."
"Daenerys Targaryen?" Robb questions, less coldly than his father would ask. "She's..."
"In Qarth," Forel ventures idly, helpfully. He sidles a look at Ser Barristan. "With her dragons."
"She's the true heir to the Iron Throne, Your Grace," Barristan answers carefully. "I failed to save her family. I will not fail her again."
The king looks at him, thinking. "When you see her," Robb says, just as carefully, "tell her...she has my support."
"Robb," Lady Catelyn mutters.
"The Targaryens were awful to us," her son goes on, blunt. "But if she wants that throne, she can have six kingdoms and a friend."
Barristan has no idea what Daenerys will make of the offer. Renly and Stannis vie for kingship with equal measure, due to clash at any moment; Balon Greyjoy wants his own crown, even if it means scrabbling at the edges of the realm for plunder, apparently forgetting how Robert almost destroyed Pyke, how Barristan himself attacked Old Wyk. And the craven boy with Cersei Lannister whispering in his ear and Lord Tywin's armies at his feet...they cannot be overlooked. Still, it is an offer. A foothold into Westeros, Daenerys's rightful seat.
"I will tell her, Your Grace," says Barristan. He bows to the king, his grateful sisters, and their lady mother.
"Wait!"
Barristan turns at the gates on a fresh horse, spotting Gendry riding out to catch up.
"I'm your squire," the boy proclaims, stubborn as his father but rife with the potential to be exceptional. "You can't go without me."
"What about little Arya?" Barristan inquires, amused when Gendry flushes a bit.
"I'll come back to her. After we get the real queen. Then..." He trails off. Then the boy can marry Arya without issue, Barristan supposes.
Not crowning Ashara Dayne the Queen of Love and Beauty at Harrenhal is one of Barristan's endless regrets. He considers for a moment.
Ser Duncan the Tall had Aegon himself as a squire. Aegon made a great king. Barristan make a great man of Gendry, if he tries.
"You'll address me as ser, or Ser Barristan," Barristan Selmy orders at last, giving the Blackfish a nod to raise the gates.
Gendry grins and obeys, albeit reluctantly, still rife with that directionless anger, one of the trappings of youth and station. In Essos, that will most certainly change, but Barristan feels he best start the boy off early. Other knights have not been kind to him, Barristan realizes. He must do better.
Much better.