The inn at the crossroads was loud that night, filled with the clamor of merchants, hedge knights, and tired farmers. The smoke from the hearth thickened the rafters, blurring the lamplight into a dull haze. A hooded man entered quietly, drawing little notice as he made his way to the farthest corner of the room.
Barristan Selmy sat with his back to the wall, his face half-hidden by cloth. He ordered a pork pie in a low voice and kept his eyes down as the serving girl scurried off. The warmth of the fire could not touch the chill that had settled in him since his dismissal. A moon had passed since the boy-king Joffrey, with his mother's venom dripping from every word, had stripped him of the white cloak that had been his life. Twenty days he had wandered, lingering by the Ruby Ford, staring at the waters where Rhaegar had fallen.
The pie arrived, steaming and fragrant, but his hunger was gone. He pushed it aside, hands folded before him as his thoughts circled like crows.
What if it had been him who had faced Robert that day? The memory gnawed at him, a imaginory battle played out again and again. Robert's strength had been fearsome, his hammer a legend in its own right, but he had his speed, his skills. Would he have fallen as Rhaegar did, crushed breastplate beneath the fury of Robert's warhammer? Or would Robert have found his doom in the cold waters of the Trident?
And what if Arthur had been there—Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, his friend and brother in arms? Barristan had no doubt that Arthur's blade would have changed the tale, perhaps even the fate of kingdoms. But Arthur had been elsewhere, bound by duty to another battle, another charge. Fate had played its cruel trick, and history had been written in Targaryen blood and river stones.
He thought of Joffrey, a cruel boy with Lannister pride dripping from every gesture, already too much like Aerys in his vanity and spite. And Robert, he had been his king, his friend too- much to his shame, but had let the lions feast unchecked, calling the butcheries of Elia's children justice. Dragonspawn, he had called them, as though babes could be guilty of their sire's blood. The sack of King's Landing still haunted him, the aftermath, the burnt houses and the look in the eyes of those smallfolks, who had trusted knights and oaths to mean something.
Barristan clenched his fists. And I, Selmy the Bold, stood by. I wore their cloak. I bent my knee.
The harp prince lingered longest in his thoughts. Rhaegar, with his songs and solemn eyes, with dreams too heavy for any man to bear. He could have been the king they needed—gentle, learned and just. The best of men. But Barristan was not able to save him either. All his vows, all his steel, and what had they amounted to?
A boy-king on the throne, crueler than the father he mocked, if he even was his son.
A weary sigh escaped him. Perhaps there was still one last service left to him. He had heard whispers across the Narrow Sea of the girl—Daenerys, the last dragon, Rhaegar's sister. If she had her brother's heart, if she bore none of her father's madness, perhaps he could shape her reign with what wisdom he had left. Perhaps he could make amends. Or perhaps he would only live long enough to see another Targaryen fall to fire and madness.
But before he could chase the thought further, his ears caught something—a murmur from outside, drifting in through the half-open door. Words, half-lost inside the tavern from drunk laughter and the gaits of horse from outside.
"…the Mountain and his curs… dead… by the hand of Rhaegar's son."
Barristan's blood ran cold. The flagon slipped from his fingers and struck the table with a dull thud. His breath caught, and for a heartbeat the inn vanished, replaced by his prince's last memory in his head.
Rhaegar's… son?
The serving girl blinked at the sudden movement as Barristan rose. He threw a heavy pouch—stamped stags enough for a lord's supper—onto the table without counting and pushed past the crowd. The door banged open as he strode into the night air, humid with the smell of wet grass and woodsmoke.
He seized the fellow by the collar and yanked him off his horse, dragging him hard into the shelter of the trees where moonlight broke through sparsely.
The man stumbled, half-reaching for a dagger, but Barristan slammed him back against the bark of an oak. His hood slipped lower, showing the fury in his eyes.
"Say it again," Barristan hissed, his voice honed sharp with urgency. "What did you speak about Rhaegar's son?"
The soldier froze. He was young still, no more than twenty five, though his eyes bore the weight of roads traveled and battles fought. He studied the knight who held him fast, and though the man's face was hidden, he recognized the voice from when he was in Kings Landing.
"You…" the soldier breathed, his voice trembling not with fear but awe. "Gods… I know you. Ser Barristan. Ser Barristan the Bold."
Barristan's jaw tightened beneath his cowl. He had spent a moon hiding from everyone, from the world that had cast him aside like worn armour. Yet even now, even here, a common soldier could recognize him.
His grip eased a fraction, though his voice did not. "You know me, then you know I will have the truth. Speak plain, before I lose patience."
The soldier swallowed, his eyes darting to the memory that still haunted his mind. "It's no tavern tale, ser. I rode with Lord Beric Dondarrion. We were sent against the Mountain by Lord Eddard Stark, six score strong men but were ambushed at Mummer's Ford. We were all but dead… but then—" He faltered, breath catching. "Then he came. A prince with hair white as snow, eyes red as the heart of a weirwood. He had a wolf like those stories of the Stark Kings of old. He cut down Gregor Clegane himself, I swear it on my blood."
Barristan's heart thundered in his chest, but he said nothing.
The soldier pressed on, words spilling now, as if unburdening himself. "He told us his name. Aemon Tragaryen. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I saw him with my own eyes, ser. We all did. He carries Dark Sister, the blade of Visenya herself. The gods Old and New bear witness, it was him who saved us."
The forest held its breath.
Barristan released the man at last, stepping back a pace, his hand falling from the soldier's collar. The knight's face remained in his cowl, but his eyes—old, heavy with years of service and shame—burned with something new.
"Aemon…" he whispered, as though speaking to a ghost. "Rhaegar's blood still walks Westeros."
The soldier straightened, rubbing at his throat, still shaken yet resolute. "Not just walks, ser. He fights. And all of us would follow him, if he called. Perhaps even die for him."