The boy's name was Hagon Adarys, the only grandson of Lucerys Adarys—wealthy beyond measure and powerful beyond reason.
Old Lucerys led the Emerald Sea Brotherhood, a merchant guild in Volantis that made its fortune trading with distant lands.
Like most great merchant princes of that city, Lucerys belonged to the Elephant Party. On that fateful day he had even joined his clients in pressuring Daenerys and Viserys to sign a peace treaty.
That was exactly why Viserys had decided to teach the old elephant a lesson. He seized the man's grandson and heir and made the boy his personal squire.
The decision was not without controversy, and most of that controversy centered on young Hagon himself.
The fourteen-year-old never dared complain openly, never once asked to go home. Yet he was far from a natural squire. He tried, gods knew he tried, but the work never came easily to him.
It wasn't from malice. Until recently Hagon had been a soft, book-loving fat boy who had never lifted anything heavier than a scroll. He had lived his whole life in luxury inside the greatest palaces of Volantis. Why should the only heir to a merchant empire ever dirty his hands?
So the fighting in the Stepstones had been pure torment for him—carrying his lord's weapons and armor, polishing steel, enduring bad weather and the endless pitching of ships. The boy who had known only silk and servants was suffering.
Still, Hagon had his virtues. He was polite, quick-witted, and desperate to please. In truth, most of his failures weren't really his fault. Some people simply weren't born for war.
In Westeros such an awkward boy would already be black and blue from beatings. Viserys only scolded him, occasionally threatened him with dire punishments, and watched the frightened lad turn pale and obedient.
"You're lucky, Hagon," Viserys said dryly. "You serve a kinder master than most."
The boy hurried to obey every order, terrified and eager at once. How many noble sons in Volantis would kill for the chance to stand at the side of the undefeated Triarch? Yet here was this soft child who would gladly trade the honor for a quiet library.
Still, even the worst clay could be shaped. And keeping the boy close kept Daenerys calm. With Lucerys Adarys's only grandson as a hostage, the most powerful Elephant in the city would think twice before moving against them.
Hagon respectfully announced Ser Barristan Selmy and then scurried back to the table, fumbling with the wine.
"Your Grace, thank you for seeing me," the white-haired old knight said with quiet dignity. "I promise I won't take much of your time…"
Barristan's words were cut short by another of the squire's disasters.
The boy, focused only on pouring wine, grabbed the pitcher without noticing that one of the slave girls had already filled it to the brim. He yanked hard. Hot wine splashed everywhere—mostly across Viserys's sleeve.
"Seven hells!" Viserys snapped. He turned from his clumsy squire to his guest. "Ser Barristan, you've been a knight longer than I've been alive. Tell me—how did you used to deal with clumsy little bastards like this?"
"I'm sorry, my lord…" Hagon stammered, looking so genuinely terrified that Viserys knew at once the spill had been an accident. The boy was soft-hearted, not spiteful. "It won't happen again!"
A faint smile touched the old knight's lips.
"It depends on the boy," Barristan said. "But if you're asking whether I would beat him—no. I never did." He accepted Viserys's silent invitation and sat. "After all, the king who knighted me once served as a squire himself. Who knows what the future holds for lads who spill their lord's wine?"
"Count yourself lucky, Hagon," Viserys said, taking the trembling cup the boy offered. He drained it in one swallow and waved him away. "Go sit in the corner and listen. You don't mind, do you, Ser Barristan?"
"Not at all, Your Grace. Every squire should learn to listen."
Hagon retreated quickly, grateful to be out of sight.
"You came to discuss our next move, I assume?" Viserys said.
"Partly. But not only that, Your Grace." Barristan met his eyes. "I came to ask when you intend to form your own Kingsguard."
The old knight had no idea he had touched the most sensitive subject in Viserys's mind.
He would have to face it eventually. Better now, with this proven loyal knight, than later.
"Who told you I planned to form a Kingsguard at all, Ser Barristan?" Viserys asked quietly.
Barristan, who had ridden in tourneys at ten and survived more battles than most men see in a lifetime, actually looked startled.
"A king must have his own guard," he said once he recovered. "It has been tradition since Aegon the Conqueror. For three hundred years the Kingsguard has protected kings, queens, and royal children—fought for them, advised them, shielded them with their own bodies."
"Recent history suggests the Kingsguard's record needs serious correction," Viserys replied. "Ser Criston Cole defied his dying king and crowned his own choice. Ser Marston Waters abandoned his oath and followed Lord Peake. And the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, personally murdered my father. Those are only the worst offenders. There are plenty more—Ser Lucamore Strong, Ser Terrence Toyne, and all your former brothers now serving the Lannisters. Tell me, Ser Barristan—does a king truly need such a guard?"
He paused. "Speak freely. I want the truth."
"Your Grace, you see only the weeds in the garden and miss the flowers," Barristan answered at once. "Yes, some have dishonored the white cloak. But what of Ser Corlys Velaryon, Ser Joffrey Doggett, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Duncan the Tall? Why do you never speak of them?"
The mention of Prince Aemon struck Viserys like a blade from another life.
To Ser Barristan, Aemon was a living legend. To Viserys, he was the uncle he had once loved—the perfect knight young Daemon Blackfyre had tried so hard to become. Aemon had treated highborn and lowborn with the same courtesy, even the bastard nephew who wanted to outshine him. He had been the true father to both Daemon and Daeron, the example they tried to follow.
And he had died saving a fat pig that belonged to Daemon's own father. That single senseless death had shattered Daemon's faith in the Seven forever. If the gods were truly just, how could they allow such cruelty?
From that day on, Daemon had prayed only to the Warrior—the one god who never lied.
A sudden, violent cough tore Viserys out of the memory. He forced his thoughts back to the present. This island in the Stepstones was stirring too many ghosts.
"I only listed the worst," Viserys said. "There are many more worthy knights. But the point stands—recent history has not been kind to the white cloak."
"Yet in the eyes of your future subjects, a king without a Kingsguard is no true king at all," Barristan said firmly. "The Kingsguard is as much a symbol of royal power as the Iron Throne itself. Farmers, townsfolk, and septons alike expect to see white cloaks beside their king. Without them, many will see you as just another usurper."
Viserys gave a soft, bitter laugh.
"Once, men felt the same way about the Conqueror's crown and Blackfyre. How many followed me simply because I carried that sword? Now no one demands a king must own either. So why should they refuse to accept me as their rightful king simply because I have no seven white knights at my back—especially when I can show them living dragons?"
"Dragons only inspire fear, Your Grace," Barristan said gravely. "Every song about dragons is full of blood and terror. 'Where dragons dance, death dances too'—that's what they sing on the Dornish marches. The people of the Seven Kingdoms do not want to see living dragons again. Westeros is not Volantis. Here dragons are not sacred. They are monsters."