The morning light was faint, and a crisp chill hung over the banks of the Blackwater Rush.
Inside Arthur Whent's yellow pavilion, Arthur and his companions offered Ser Barristan Selmy the seat of honor.
This was the sheer influence of a truly legendary knight, backed by old, deep-rooted connections.
Robert Baratheon hadn't spared Barristan solely out of an archaic sense of heroic chivalry.
Robert understood that keeping a legend like Barristan alive—and turning him into a loyal sworn sword—was the ultimate flex of his own terrifying charisma.
In this regard, Robert operated on a completely different level than cold, inhuman calculators like Tywin Lannister or Roose Bolton.
Robert ruled through wild, boisterous magnetism; men wanted to follow him. Eddard Stark lacked that raw, overpowering charisma, commanding loyalty instead through unyielding justice and genuine decency.
Tywin and Bolton, however, ruled exclusively through terror.
They didn't want their peasants to love them; they just needed them to be paralyzed by fear.
A quiet land, a quiet people. That was the doctrine of the Dreadfort, and Casterly Rock operated on much the same principle.
The fact that Ser Barristan had come to visit so quickly was a testament to his protective nature toward the families of his fallen brothers.
The Kingsguard, at its core, was supposed to be a brotherhood.
Ser Barristan knew perfectly well that Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne had been far too deeply entangled in Rhaegar's personal conspiracies. He knew Prince Lewyn kept a paramour.
But they were his brothers. He chose to protect their honor, taking their secrets to the grave.
Now, seeing the young descendant of his fallen brother-in-arms, Barristan felt a deep sense of kinship.
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Arthur wore black clothing accented with gold threading, a black bat with spread wings embroidered over his heart.
Framed by the elegant clothing, Arthur's handsome, sun-kissed features and deep, almost purple eyes radiated the intense, boundless vitality of youth.
The sigil was intimately familiar to Barristan. It was the same black bat that had crowned Ser Oswell's helm.
At Barristan's age, he had absolutely zero interest in the petty squabbles over gold, land, or political power.
The only things that moved him now were honor, and the echoes of the men he had once loved and fought beside.
Barristan Selmy was a profoundly noble man. He had surrendered his claim to his family's seat and forsaken the girl he was betrothed to in order to don the white cloak.
The Kingslayer had also surrendered his inheritance, true, but he had done so because he was successfully manipulated by Cersei.
More importantly, Barristan had kept his vows. He hadn't tied his honor to a woman's skirts or treated his oaths as a joke, unlike the golden lion.
Barristan's eyes swept the interior of Arthur's pavilion. It was practical, efficient, and well-ordered, lacking unnecessary extravagance.
It was exactly how a true knight's tent should look. He approved.
(If he could see the pavilion Renly Baratheon would eventually use for his campaigns, he would have likely suffered a stroke. Renly's tents were furnished like luxury brothels—designed for lounging and flirting, not for war. In terms of sheer, gluttonous materialism, Renly somehow managed to outdo even Robert).
Arthur introduced his companions to the old knight, and Barristan greeted the squires with warm, genuine courtesy.
Barristan never looked down on the smallfolk or the young. It was one of the many reasons he was universally revered.
"I had the profound honor of serving alongside your great-uncle, Ser Oswell, as well as the 'White Bull' Lord Gerold, Prince Lewyn, and Ser Arthur Dayne," Barristan said, a sad smile touching his lips. "Your great-uncle was a fiercely brave man, and you carry his blood. When he named you Arthur, it was in direct tribute to Arthur Dayne."
"It's more than just a tribute, Ser Barristan," Ser Lucas Dayne spoke up, his voice ringing with absolute pride. "This boy possesses a natural talent that rivals my legendary kinsman."
"What?" Barristan was genuinely taken aback.
Arthur Dayne dies at the Tower of Joy, and immediately someone claims they've found a kid with equal talent?
If anyone else had said it, Barristan would have dismissed it as absurd boasting.
But Ser Lucas was a Sword Guardian of Starfall, a master blademaster who had literally helped train the Sword of the Morning himself. He wasn't a man given to idle hyperbole.
If Ser Lucas meant what he said, House Whent had struck pure gold.
"Do you truly believe that?" Barristan asked, his tone shifting from polite to intensely focused.
He wanted to be absolutely sure.
Barristan understood the mechanics of talent better than anyone alive.
You could throw all the gold, premium food, and elite instructors in the world at a boy.
But true, world-shaking martial prowess was determined entirely by the genetic lottery.
Barristan himself was living proof. House Selmy was a respectable house, but they were famous for farming, not fighting. Yet Barristan possessed terrifying natural gifts.
He was the man who cut a bloody path through the Golden Company to slay Maelys the Monstrous in single combat, and the man who infiltrated Duskendale alone to rescue the Mad King.
"I am absolutely certain, Ser," Ser Lucas said, emphasizing every word. "The foundation of a great warrior relies on agility, raw strength, and endurance. Arthur possesses all three in abundance. Furthermore, his recovery rate is unnatural, and his instinct for the blade is something I have never seen before. I am confident that if you watch him, you will agree."
This was the sheer, terrifying power of the [Greenhand] buffs. Arthur was an absolute stat monster.
Strength, speed, stamina, perception, recovery. A flawless pentagon warrior.
At Ser Lucas's nod, Arthur picked up a wooden practice sword. The blade was significantly heavier and broader than what a boy his age should be able to wield, but Arthur was already taller and broader than his peers.
He stepped into the open space of the pavilion and began moving through his forms. Thrust, parry, slash, riposte.
The forms themselves were standard—the exact same drills taught to every squire in the realm. The difference lay in the execution: the blinding speed, the flawless technical precision, the terrifying kinetic power, and the sheer, fluid instinct linking every movement.
Just as Ser Lucas had claimed, Arthur was unnaturally fast and precise.
His footwork was perfectly grounded. He moved with explosive violence, yet never compromised his balance or left an opening.
After completing the sequence, Arthur smoothly sheathed the wooden blade.
In his long life, Barristan Selmy had watched thousands of young knights and squires train.
Out of those thousands, he could count the true, generational prodigies on one hand.
The greatest natural talent Barristan had ever personally witnessed belonged to Jaime Lannister.
(In the original timeline, years from now in Meereen, he would encounter another prodigy: the Basilisk Isles pit fighter, Tumco Lho).
But right now, watching Arthur Whent move, Barristan's eyes lit up with genuine awe.
He nodded slowly, respectfully. "The talent is undeniable. You are looking at the future champion of every tourney in the realm."
A truly legendary warrior elevated their entire house.
The prestige of House Selmy rested entirely on Barristan's shoulders.
The reason House Tully was historically viewed with mild contempt wasn't just their lack of geographic defenses; it was because they rarely produced any truly exceptional, terrifying individuals.
House Tyrell, however, had produced Leo "Longthorn," a transcendent champion who cemented their reputation for generations.
"You will be an extraordinary knight, Arthur. I had wondered what I should bring you as a gift, but seeing you now, there is nothing more fitting than a true blade."
"You honor me, Ser Barristan. Thank you," Arthur smiled warmly.
He could feel Barristan's genuine affection, and he had no intention of rejecting it.
"Your natural gifts are terrifying. But if you will indulge an old man's lecturing, I have a warning for you," Barristan said, his expression turning deadly serious.
"I would be a fool not to listen. Please, Ser," Arthur replied instantly.
Barristan was a living encyclopedia of martial and political history. His experience in the chaos of battle and the deadly politics of the court was unmatched.
"A knight without honor is nothing but a glorified butcher. But more importantly, Arthur, you must never allow your talent to breed arrogance. A true knight must always remain humble, and always remain terrified."
"I have fought in more battles and tourneys than I care to remember. It does not matter how strong a man is, how blindingly fast he is, or how flawless his technique may be. He is still just a man, and every man has a limit. He might win a grueling, impossible duel against a master, only to die the next day in a skirmish with a peasant. A hidden rabbit hole in the grass, a bad piece of meat at dinner, a sudden shift in the wind... any of these can mean your death. You must never forget that," Barristan said earnestly.
"But you're Barristan the Bold! The fearless!" Wylis blurted out, unable to contain himself.
"On the battlefield, a man must be bold, yes. But he must also be paranoid," Barristan corrected him gently.
Barristan practiced what he preached. He wasn't just a brute-force berserker; he was incredibly cunning.
When he infiltrated Duskendale to rescue the Mad King, he didn't charge the gates. He disguised himself as a hooded beggar, scaled the walls in the dead of night, and executed a flawless stealth extraction.
Honor and paranoia.
These were the twin pillars that had kept Barristan alive his entire life.
As he said: A knight has limits, but the path of the sword has no end.
"I will remember your words, Ser Barristan," Arthur said solemnly.
Arthur knew his massive stat advantages meant he could usually just brute-force his way through most problems. Absolute power crushes ten thousand techniques.
But receiving direct, unfiltered wisdom from a living legend was an invaluable treasure.
"Good lad," Barristan smiled, clapping a heavy hand on Arthur's shoulder. "If you ever find yourself struggling with your training, or simply wish to discuss the blade, write to me, or come find me in the Red Keep. I am an old man, and my strength is failing, but my experience is yours if you want it."
"I would like that very much, Ser Barristan," Arthur beamed.
The trip to King's Landing was already a massive success. He had successfully secured a direct line of communication with Barristan Selmy.
Gaining the personal mentorship and protection of the greatest living knight in Westeros was an absolute masterstroke.
Barristan's physical stamina might be slowly waning, but his combat instincts, technical mastery, and unparalleled battlefield experience made him the ultimate cheat code.