The throne room fell into a heavy silence.
The petitioner rose from his knees as ordered and stood waiting in silence for judgment.
A few steps away, the courtiers stood stiffly along both sides, staring at the throne like they were examining some rare and priceless treasure.
At the far end of the hall, Viserys and Daenerys sat upon the twin thrones, their eyes locked on the man before them.
A living legend stood in their presence. That was not something you saw every day.
The Black Knights had welcomed all kinds over the years.
Lords who had once sworn to the red dragon. Landless border knights. Bandits. Men-at-arms. Former slaves. Poachers.
Every sort of man had come seeking opportunity, and every sort had found it.
He had accepted the loyalty of heroes and villains alike. He had taken in commoners and tourney champions, Andals and sons of the Free Cities, landless farmers and noble-born sons.
But today, standing before him, was Ser Barristan Selmy himself.
The Bold. Asking to serve him.
For this, the celebration had been paused. Viserys had come in person to the audience chamber.
The three Triarchs needed to think carefully.
Viserys had heard too many stories about this man.
Ten years old when he first rode in a tourney. A boy who defeated Prince Duncan the Small and Ser Duncan the Tall. One of the youngest Kingsguard in history. The man who ended the Blackfyre line. The hero who pulled a king from the midst of his enemies. The greatest fighter in white cloaks. The warrior who carved through the Golden Company like a hot knife through butter. A courteous, humble knight who treated dukes and farmers the same.
People loved him. They called him a true hero. They held their breath when his name was spoken.
Viserys's own soldiers said it. Travelers and merchants said it.
But he had also heard the other side.
Especially from the Black Knights who had refused to bend the knee to the new dynasty and crossed the sea instead.
Those lords and knights who had suffered for their loyalty to House Targaryen could never speak of Barristan Selmy without bitterness, no matter how many laurels he had won.
In their eyes, he was no different from the Kingslayer.
Just another lackey who had bowed and scraped for the usurper, guarding a tyrant's peace day and night.
An old man who had shamed the white cloak—only slightly better than Jaime Lannister.
Lady Aelinor believed the ideal of Western chivalry had died with Ser Duncan the Tall in the Summerhall.
Many of the exiles quietly agreed.
Viserys swept his gaze across the courtiers and saw the old hatred still burning strong.
Aelinor's mouth twisted with contempt. Ser Tristifer's eyes blazed. Ser Kevan had deliberately placed himself near the door, as far from the petitioner as possible.
Even so, the decision was his alone.
Even Daenerys, seated beside him on the throne, stayed silent. She did not dare break the quiet.
She left him to weigh the old Kingsguard's words in peace.
After the Kingslayer's family had stripped him of the white cloak, the old man had found a smuggler's ship and reached Pentos. From there he had traveled as a merchant's guard, taking fast ships until he finally arrived in Volantis.
He had crossed half the world just to offer his sword to a king worth following.
Or, as Tristifer and Kevan claimed, simply to land a fat, comfortable post.
Aelinor even suspected he might be a spy sent by the Iron Throne.
"Ser Barristan, no one can deny your courage, your honor, or your skill at arms."
Viserys spoke slowly, choosing every word with care.
"Every boy in the Seven Kingdoms dreams of being you. Your bravery deserves every song ever written about it—from Dorne to the Wall, the maesters still record your deeds."
Had he not already given second chances to men far more guilty than this?
Jorah Mormont sat behind him now. Once he had fought for the usurper and the Starks, then fled east to escape the punishment he deserved.
Yet Mormont had earned his trust and become captain of the guard, his most trusted advisor—loyal and tireless.
Then there was Woods, the former Kingswood poacher who had hunted the king's deer and killed gamekeepers. By law he should have hanged. Now he was one of the finest archer captains Viserys had, and a reliable counselor.
And Lorren of the Rains, the liar who had stolen another man's name and tried to seize another man's lands.
Compared to men like that, was Ser Barristan truly beyond redemption?
He was simply an aging knight who had been saved by his enemies, who had been powerless to stop the fall of King's Landing, and who had never taken part in the slaughter of Targaryens.
A warrior of great renown, beloved across Westeros.
It seemed the age when kings could rely on pure heroes was over.
Now he could only work with whatever the gods had left him.
"Yet we all know the truth of your service to the usurper."
Viserys's voice was calm but sharp.
"When your true king needed men most, you commanded the false Kingsguard that protected the man who stole his throne. While my sister and I hid in the Free Cities, you guarded the castle he had taken. You raised the rebel banner on the shores of Pyke instead of fighting for the red dragon on the Stepstones."
With every word, Aelinor's smile deepened and the old warrior's gray head sank lower.
"Many of my ancestors would call you a traitor. Some would have executed you on the spot for daring to appear before them…"
He suddenly raised his right hand, calling for silence.
"But I believe brave souls and good men deserve a chance to prove themselves. I believe every subject who seeks redemption has that right."
The Westerosi exile lifted his head as Viserys gave his final judgment.
"Ser Barristan, you will sail with me to Lys. With your sword and the blood of my enemies, you will prove where your true loyalty lies. If you show yourself worthy of trust, I will name you to my Kingsguard and name you my protector."
A gentle, peaceful smile appeared on the old warrior's face.
His bow was as quick and graceful as age had not yet taken from him, filled with the elegance of a lifetime and the depth of genuine gratitude.
"I ask for nothing more."
Viserys answered the smile with one of his own.
"For now, Ser Barristan… I invite you to stay in my palace and share my table. Come celebrate your king's wedding and rest from the road."
The old man's bow was so swift and elegant that it made more than one young knight green with envy.
…
Every celebration eventually ends. Then comes the real work.
No matter how wildly the rulers of Volantis feasted, reality always reached out with cold fingers and dragged them from their dreams.
Countless casks of wine emptied. Countless platters of food devoured. Countless slave girls left the revels carrying new life inside them. Yet the joy of the wedding slowly faded all the same.
Wymond of Dorne had marched for the disputed lands a week ago. Half the city had turned out to see him off.
Soon Viserys himself would leave the First Daughter.
It was time to settle affairs inside the city.
The next morning, Viserys decided to receive the Dornish first.
They had waited obediently for two full weeks.
He had not confined them, as the Targaryen command required, but in the last few days they had begun complaining openly about the delay.
The moment a messenger from the three Triarchs informed them they would be seen tomorrow, the Dornish women stopped complaining and began preparing.
On paper, Dagos Manwoody had come all this way to sign a new grain-trade agreement.
Barren, mountainous Dorne had always depended on imports from the east. Now, with the Reach hoarding grain because of the war for the Iron Throne, that need had become desperate.
Varys and his spies had no reason to doubt Manwoody's purpose.
House Martell had planned everything perfectly.
Dagos would indeed sign the agreement…
With Triarch Menekos Renigar. With his rank, experience, and authority, he could seal such a commercial contract without issue.
If anyone later asked the Prince of Sunspear, he could look them straight in the eye and say he had never laid eyes on Viserys Targaryen.
He would claim the three Triarchs were too busy preparing for war against the new Triarchy to receive the Prince of Dorne, and that as a loyal vassal he had never sought an audience.
On that point, Prince Doran had been very thorough. He had crafted the perfect excuse to hide the real mission.
But Viserys had more questions about Doran himself.
No one would send bastard nieces to finalize any truly important, serious agreement.
Only a true Martell, one who carried the blood of the ruling prince, could sign something worthy of parchment and ink.
By sending three bastards, Doran was making it clear he had no intention of taking on any new obligations in haste.
Their real task was simply to test the last dragon's strength, remind him that the old alliance still existed, and report back to their uncle.
Nothing more. Just reconnaissance.
But Viserys had other plans.
They were not leaving that easily.
When he and the late Ser William Darry had signed the original pact, he had still been a pitiful orphan wandering foreign lands.
Now the Dornish women would be meeting someone very different from that young mercenary captain.
They would be meeting the ruler of a vast and wealthy Free City.
This would be an entirely different conversation.
Viserys had decided to hold the meeting deep in the inner palace, far from prying ears.
Secret diplomacy never needed grand receptions or open doors.
Besides, denying the Dornish the formal honors of official envoys actually suited him.
He did not want to drag this suspicious relationship out any longer than necessary.
Footsteps sounded outside.
The guards had brought the female envoys to the appointed door and were only waiting for the signal to open it.
"I've delayed long enough."
"Ser Jorah," Viserys said, turning to his guard, "show our guests in."
"At once, my prince."
While the northerner led the Dornish women inside, Viserys settled himself in the soft chair.
For this meeting he had dressed as a Westerosi prince, the bright red dragon embroidered across his chest.
Once, the Dornish had carried that very banner while they hunted and slaughtered his kin.
During the reign of King Baelor, the Dornish had shown their most savage face in the Stormlands.
He could only marvel again at the gods' sense of humor, pushing him toward an alliance with this nest of vipers.
Well then. Time to greet these dear guests.
"So you're the ones who want to buy grain?" he said, making no effort to soften the edge in his voice. "I'm afraid you've come to the wrong palace. The man who signs contracts for Volantis is Triarch Menekos Renigar. You should speak with him.
Of course, I understand. The first time anyone enters the Black Wall, it's easy to get lost…"